Chapter 87 — Having Fun, While I Can
"You're what?" came John's demanding tone. The man seemed to have only one default setting these days. Irate.
Sherlock inhaled a calming breath before answering. For some reason, he felt a little bit responsible for Mary's absence from John's life.
Beside him, Rose turned her head away. He reached out a hand and ran his knuckle along the smooth skin of her back. She hummed in delight and he longed to brush his lips the full length of her exposed body down to the bunched up sheets about her hips.
He finally said, in reply to John, "Getting in touch with contacts I made during my time abroad."
"In Paris?"
"Yes, in Paris. My chief contact is here. He'll put the word out throughout Europe and Northern Africa which will allow me easy access to areas ordinary people can't get to. For when we need it."
He continued stroking Rose's back, silently willing her to roll over.
"And you didn't think to tell me?"
"I'm telling you now."
"Before you left. I could've come with you. I should be there."
"I have no intention of contacting Mary. And you need to be there. You have your practice, and of course, Rosie."
"Please don't tell me where my responsibilities lie."
Sherlock cared little for the implied threat in John's tone. He could almost see John clenching and unclenching a fist as he paced up and down his and Mary's newly renovated kitchen, stopping occasionally to point angrily at the floor.
"I'll be back shortly."
"When?"
That demanding tone again.
"A day or two." Or three.
"Where do you think she's headed?"
"Based on her movements so far, I'm concluding her travel plans are entirely random."
"But she'll exhaust the limit of her aliases, won't she?"
"Yes, John."
They knew there were only a finite number of identities Mary could assume. Sherlock had examined the contents of the memory stick with a thoroughness he hadn't admitted to the former intelligence agent. John couldn't help himself either, and had briefly glanced over Sherlock's shoulder, before finally tearing himself away. But with Mary's aliases and the locations of her safe havens stored firmly in his Mind Palace, Sherlock knew they would have to wait patiently for a sign that Mary was slowing in her efforts to keep moving.
Rose rolled over and gazed up at Sherlock. A warmth spread through him as he took in her dishevelled hair, flushed cheeks and the beginnings of a smile on her full, red lips.
"And you do think this Ajay character is following her?"
"Most likely."
Sherlock reached out and drew a strand of hair away from Rose's face. Her smile widened.
"I should be there," John said again, with a heavy sigh.
"Nothing you can do," Sherlock said smoothly. Rose shuffled closer, pressing herself up against him. "You'll waste time and energy following her. She'll still be on edge and less likely to listen to reason." Rose smoothed a hand over Sherlock's chest, then nibbled at the soft skin behind his ear, sending delicious ripples of pleasure along his central nervous system. "Listen, John. I have to go." He held out his phone a little, then added, "I'm just about to get cut—" He ended the call, then dropped his phone onto the bedside table.
Entirely inappropriate. Listening to John's voice as his physical desires struggled to awaken.
"Completely disrespectful," he said, curving his body into Rose's.
"Me or John?"
His voice dropped a couple of notches when he replied, "You."
He captured Rose's lips with his and brought a hand up, tangling his fingers in her hair. The sheets were twisted around their lower bodies, so Sherlock urgently shoved them aside. Rose twined her legs around his. Drawing all he could from their kiss, he quietly took stock.
He wasn't quite ready yet. They had just finished a rather energetic session almost twenty minutes ago, after which Sherlock had to make a trip to the bathroom. Upon returning, he slid on his underwear, and just as he was easing back into bed, his phone rang.
It was still too soon. He needed a longer recovery period than this. Surely Rose knew that?
Sherlock left off kissing Rose, and instead began nibbling her jawline to give himself time. In response, she pressed herself closer to him, slipped a hand into the back of his underwear, and ground her pelvis into his.
"You're not ready to go yet," she stated.
"Mmm. No."
Sherlock eased back a little, and Rose drew her wandering hand away.
"That's okay," she said, rolling to her side of the bed. "I need the bathroom anyway."
Sherlock was left staring at the ceiling. Should he ring John back? He had no new information to tell him, which would frustrate John even further.
Sherlock leant forward and propped up another pillow behind his head. They were in no hurry today. It was their day in. He had no compulsion to repeat yesterday's frantic range of activities. He knew he'd disappointed Rose several times with his declaration that he "didn't queue." That ruled out most of the sightseeing she wanted to undertake. But he had made her happy, in the end, hadn't he?
They stood underneath the Eiffel Tower, with Rose awestruck as she gazed upward. Sherlock had his hands folded neatly behind his back, scanning the crowds from behind his shades, assessing their origins and potential criminal intent. A few pickpockets, a man who had taken his mistress on a little romantic holiday to Paris using company funds, a family of whining children; nobody of any real interest.
"It's a bit disconcerting, isn't it?" Rose whispered, nodding toward one of the many armed soldiers patrolling the base of the tourist attraction. "I mean, what if his AK-whatsit goes off accidentally?"
"FAMAS," Sherlock said, correcting her. "And it's not loaded."
"FAMAS?"
"Fusil d'Assaut de la Manufacture d'Armes de Saint-Étienne. Assault rifles, and the magazine's in his pock—. What ?"
Rose's eyes had widened and a tiny gasp escaped her.
"Do you speak French?"
One corner of Sherlock's mouth curved into a smile.
"Oui."
Rose let out a chuckle, her eyes bright with interest.
"Really? Say something else."
Eager to oblige and show off his cleverness, Sherlock took a step closer and cleared his throat.
"Je n'éprouve absolument aucun intérêt à regarder cette gigantesque tour antenne-relais en acier. Ni à faire une croisière sur la Seine ou à contempler fixement un nombre indéfinissable de tableaux et de statues au Louvre."
At Rose's stunned expression, he felt emboldened having told her exactly what activities he didn't want to participate in—in his usual blunt style. But he felt warmed by her undivided attention, specifically, the glisten in her eyes that told him of her admiration and respect. Should he tell her what he actually did want?
"Tout ce que je veux c'est te faire rire et sourire..." He paused, a tiny smile spreading across his face at his honest admission. To make her laugh and smile. The feeling came from his heart and his chest swelled with the sudden freedom to go all out. It was like speaking from behind the safety barriers. He reached for Rose's hand and continued in a lower voice. "… et tenir ta main…" With his free hand, he gently placed the flat of his palm over her belly. "Et sentir les coups de notre fille." Our daughter. He felt a warmth spread across his cheeks.
His next words should've been easy. He'd said them in English more times than he could count nowadays. But again, this was something he'd never said in French. To anybody.
"Je t'aime…"
Sherlock paused for emphasis, gazing deeply into Rose's eyes, which had darkened considerably. Surely she could understand that?
"…et je veux passer le reste de ma vie avec toi," he gushed. "Juste nous deux."
Dear God, he thought. He'd never admitted that to himself before. Wanting to spend the rest of his life with Rose? Just the two of them? The thought terrified him. How could he think that far into the future? And now he'd breathed life into the admission by speaking it out loud. In French, though. Rose wouldn't have a clue what he had just said. But a life without her was something he'd never contemplate either.
He could feel her steady breath, as if she was straining to hear, to understand.
But it wasn't just the two of them, was it? Sherlock's eyes flicked to Rose's abdomen and he felt the need to correct his last statement.
"Non," he said, with a slight shake of his head. "Nous trois."
The three of us.
Rose didn't react until it was evident Sherlock had no more to add.
"What… did you say?" she asked faintly, gazing up at him with moist eyes. She wasn't daring to breathe. She must've understood the gist of it, surely.
But Sherlock's throat still felt rough and raw from his admission.
"Something romantic," he rasped, then he gave a light cough to clear his throat.
"So tell me in English."
Sherlock straightened up and released Rose. "Chips," he said. "I'm a bit peckish." He turned, then began strolling away from her. Calling back, he added, "Come on. Let's go and find some chips."
"Sherlock. Wait! That's not what you said." He stopped and turned around. "And aren't we going up?" she asked, pulling up in front of him and pointing to the structure that still loomed above them.
"I don't queue, Rose."
The rest of their exchange was fairly painful, and Sherlock was disappointed it couldn't have been conducted in French. How eloquent the Romance languages were when you were in a spot of bother!
Sherlock finally managed to negotiate. He would at least share an icecream and sit on the lawn in front of the Eiffel Tower. He would pose for a selfie with Rose, not just here, but also on the balcony of their hotel room with the Eiffel Tower in the background at night when it was lit up. Rose would get her guided tour of the Eiffel Tower the day after next, with Justine and Bob. They could take her to the Louvre, if she wanted, or the Musée d'Orsay, or wherever. She could queue to her heart's content at all the things they could readily see on Google images.
"It's not the same," she'd argued.
"Yes, you're right. At least on Google images you don't have other people breathing around you, jostling for a better view, bashing into you with their backpacks and recently purchased selfie sticks."
"Other people breathing bothers you?"
"Yes. You know I prefer dead people, Rose. I wouldn't have any cases, otherwise."
Sherlock was grateful for the time spent doing nothing for a few minutes. But he didn't admit that to Rose. He had begrudgingly taken a seat beside her on the grass, scowled at the passersby, then lay down with his head in her lap when she invited him to. He had the feeling she wanted to stop him muttering his discontent under his breath. He closed his eyes and imagined they were somewhere else. Bit hard. People still made noises.
But Rose carded her fingers through his hair and occasionally fed him icecream. And that wasn't entirely unpleasant.
He heard her phone camera shutter click, and he opened one eye to a squint.
"How many photos are you going to take of us?"
"They're for our daughter," Rose said, reviewing the photo she'd just snapped. "This is mummy and daddy when we were courting."
"Courting," Sherlock repeated derisively, filing away the words 'mummy and daddy' for later analysis. "I think our courting days aren't something that should be documented. Imagine if we had actually taken photos back then. Entirely inappropriate."
Sherlock abruptly stopped his rambling. Photos… Photos of Rose… Photos of Rose in compromising positions. Not with him! Rose and John Garvie. Jesus Christ! Every single snap Garvie had taken and had stored in his old camera phone slammed into Sherlock's mind. He was sure he'd deleted them permanently from his hard drive. He hoped Rose hadn't noticed his half-grimace.
"Which is why I'm making up a new history for us," she said.
Evidently, she hadn't.
"Mm," Sherlock remarked, closing his eyes again. He needed this conversation to end now.
"It's a pity we didn't take photos that time at the top of Big Ben," Rose continued. "That was so lovely of you to take me there that night. For my birthday." She sighed wistfully, then added in a voice barely above a whisper, "I loved you back then, you know. Even before I told you."
The air around them became stilled, which served to amplify the ambient sounds of the tourists and locals surrounding them. Sherlock braved opening his eyes.
Rose was looking toward the tower, her eyes pooling with tears. She wiped at one with a knuckle, before she looked down and saw Sherlock staring at her. She gave him an embarrassed smile.
"What does it matter now?" she said.
Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat.
"I…" he began, not really knowing what he was about to say. "I think… I loved you, too." He cleared his throat and added, "Back then. Didn't understand the emotion. Would never have admitted it anyway."
Rose huffed a laugh, before she reached out and ran her fingers through his hair again. She bent forward a little, then stopped, her eyes sparkling in amusement.
"I can't actually move any closer," she said with a laugh. "This is as far as my belly will let me go."
"Thank Christ for that!" Sherlock exclaimed in mock annoyance. "Were you going to kiss me in public? I do have a reputation to maintain."
"Oh, get off me, you horrid man."
The time for leisure had ended. Rose set a breakneck pace wanting to check out a few other things. A stroll along the Champs-Élysées for one. It seemed the day in the future Sherlock had enticed her with—her day out with the Wilsons—wasn't enough to get her to slow down today. She wanted to experience a myriad of places with Sherlock.
Finally, they returned to their hotel. Sherlock kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the sofa. It wasn't because his feet ached, or his legs felt heavy—quite the contrary. The Consulting Detective from London was quite used to covering miles on foot in pursuit of some clue or suspect or losing his brother's spies. The good old days! But his mind was weary. This wasn't how he had ever experienced Paris. And he'd been here quite a few times over the years.
They ate in, made love, and posed for a selfie on the balcony. Fortunately, Rose kept to her word that they'd spend the next day lolling about their hotel room.
"I suppose we should make the most of it," Rose had remarked. "I expect you paid an arm and a leg for it."
Yes, he had. And quite a bit of torso, too.
As Sherlock lay flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if another erection would make an appearance any time soon, Rose returned from the bathroom, with the hotel-issued bathrobe loosely hanging from her shoulders. She gazed down at him, a look of amusement on her face.
Dragging his eyes from her face to her exposed curves, Sherlock felt a stirring.
"If you want to do anything naughty, I'm just about ready," he said. "Visual stimulation," he announced, smiling proudly.
"Oh," Rose said, clutching the robe closed and taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside him. She smoothed the flat of her palm over his chest and tilted her head as if thinking about something.
"What?"
"Well.. I just thought you should ring John back." After Sherlock exhaled noisily, Rose continued. "I think he really needs you. Why don't you ring him while I organise lunch? It's probably in poor taste you telling him you're in Paris to organise contacts and things, when all you're really doing is having sex with your secret girlfriend. He's so worried about Mary."
Sherlock's erection remained at half-mast, as if there was some kind of mechanical fault.
"No, I really do have people to contact who will help ease our way into inaccessible places," he told Rose. "Now, can we please—"
"Wait. So, this trip wasn't just about a romantic getaway to Paris?"
"Not… exclusively."
"You had other plans all along?"
"Look, Rose," Sherlock said, sighing in exasperation. "If you wanted a trip to Rome, I have contacts there. If you fancied skiing in the Alps: again, contacts. I would've got in touch with somebody, somewhere. In London, I make my needs known via my homeless network. This is an international case. You'll hardly notice me going about my business. One of the truly remarkable things about me, Rose, is my ability to multi-task."
"Is it?"
"For example. I bet I could organise lunch and give you an orgasm at the same time."
Rose's eyes widened and she studied Sherlock's face for a moment, perhaps searching for the truth and conviction behind his words. Of course he could do this. He'd become quite adept at texting while not looking at his phone's screen. And it wasn't his fingers he needed to use to pleasure Rose. Child's play really!
He watched her for signs of annoyance or ridicule, but her eyes were bright with enthusiasm and she began to giggle. Should he take this response as consent?
"In a moment, perhaps," she said, quelling her laughter. She reached for him and lightly cupped her hand to his cheek. She pressed light kisses to his lips, then whispered, "Je t'aime…"
Rose drew back and Sherlock smiled broadly in acknowledgement. So she had understood, at least that phrase. And why not? It was probably universally recognised. However, his smile faltered when Rose continued with, "Et je veux passer le reste de ma vie avec toi, aussi. Juste nous trois."
.
Author's Note:
Thank you to chatonjoli for the French translation, and also congratulations on writing the 1000th review on my story! In fact, thank you to anyone who has ever reviewed and contributed to such a wonderful collection of comments since I started writing this story almost four years ago. Yes. Four! I can hardly believe it!
Here is the translation into English of Sherlock's little French declaration to Rose:
"I have absolutely no interest in looking at this gigantic wrought iron mobile phone tower. Nor do I want to take a cruise along the Seine or stare at an unending number of portraits and statues at the Louvre… All I want is to make you laugh and smile… hold your hand, and…feel our daughter kick… I love you… And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Just the two of us…No… The three of us."
And, of course, Rose echoes his words to him, "I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you, too. Just the three of us."
Now, the question is: did she know what she was saying, and therefore did she understand everything Sherlock said to her underneath the Eiffel Tower?
