Chapter 88 — Normal and Fine Are Relative Terms
Rose stared at Sherlock in disbelief.
"You're what?"
But as he began his lengthy explanation about how difficult it was to predict where Mary Watson was going to be on any given day, Rose slowly turned her back on him, folding her arms in front of her as she drew closer to the windows and away from him.
He was leaving her. For Marrakech. In two hours.
And she'd just arrived here. London. Finally together again after being apart for so long.
"…and the direction she's heading," Sherlock was saying, talking a mile a minute, "can only be towards Marrakech. She's leaving Algeria. Morocco was the only other North African destination she had on the memory stick, apart from Algiers. We've got a chance, Rose. All the other…"
His voice faded into the background. She'd heard this once before. She knew it was important—escorting Mary home. They had to get the timing just right—arriving at whatever address Mary had documented as a safe house, for whichever location they thought she was headed to, and they had to get there before Mary did.
The last time Sherlock had left to pursue Mary, approximately one month after their trip to Paris, he was in Edinburgh. He'd only just arrived. They had spent one day together, before Sherlock received word that Mary was travelling across Iran. Later, via phone from London, he told Rose he and John had ended up waiting at a four hundred year old fortress, along the Silk Road, in the Dasht-e Kavir, Iran's central desert. When they finally got through to Craig via a satellite phone, he'd told them Mary had doubled back to Qom. The bus that had taken them there was only returning to Tehran, so they couldn't pursue Mary from where they were positioned.
Because of the failure of that trip, Sherlock hadn't wanted to leave London again.
To his credit, he phoned her almost every night. And to Rose's embarrassment and regret, some of those calls were emotionally charged on her part. She knew he was being very patient with her, never wanting to reach the end of the night not having made peace. He would ring her back half a dozen times if she had abruptly hung up on him in tears. He didn't give up until she answered. He always spoke so warmly and tenderly. She felt ashamed. And Rose would be okay again for the better part of a week, chatting to him about the cases he had in between, while telling him about her studies, her friends, and what Bob and Justine were up to. The evenings were always the worst, where she felt especially bereft, and sometimes something external would set her off. And there was an endless supply of things to upset her.
The hot water shut off one morning; on another day, one of the window frames had warped and splintered and the rain dripped in; the smoke alarm beeped randomly; she banged her finger when closing the fucking stupid kitchen drawer; she'd sent Bob and Justine away for the weekend because she wanted to be alone and then a fuse tripped and she couldn't figure out what had overloaded the circuit.
"But it doesn't matter because I called Ade."
She hated herself for complaining to him, and for that time specifically, telling Sherlock she'd contacted Adrian. There was a full three seconds of silence before Sherlock remarked, "I'm glad it's all sorted then."
Should she have told him she only wanted to quiz Ade about her dad? Not that he could tell her anything positive about him on each occasion she'd spoken to him. They'd had coffee a couple of times during Sherlock's absence. Ade's response was always the same. Her dad was keeping busy in the garden.
During one particularly teary skype call, Sherlock had shouted at her—the only time he had lost his patience with her irrational mood swings.
"Don't hang up on me!"
She froze at the ferocity of his command, but he quickly recomposed himself. He leant closer and spoke directly into his laptop's camera.
"Rose… just… just listen to me for a minute. I know you're stressed. I know you have an important essay due tomorrow, and I know you're upset I wasn't there for the... baby shower. But I want you to hear me out. All of it, without interrupting."
Rose's tears that night remained pooled but unshed while he spoke.
"You've only got three weeks left of your course. Now, we agreed you'd finish up after that. No more studying or late nights spent counselling. You'll be thirty-two weeks by then. So when I said, 'Come to London,' I didn't mean just for the weekend. I want you to live here. For a bit. I've been looking for a flat, and I think I've found one in a quiet area, lots of parkland. It's secure. I think you know the area. It's only fifteen minutes by foot from Baker Street."
He had braved a tiny smile, and she couldn't help but give him a feeble one in return, unable to respond verbally.
"You can have the baby here, in London, and I'll be with you," he went on. "And after our baby's born, we can be together, as a... as a... family. I'll be there. I'll be in and out, but I'll be there. Here. With you. London makes this possible, Rose. And when you're ready to go back to studying in a few months' time or a year or whenever, you can go back to Edinburgh... or stay here. Whatever you want to do. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just don't just dismiss this out of hand. Think about it."
Rose composed herself long enough to tell him she would honestly think about it; it had taken her a day. The answer was simple, really. She knew, in her heart, what she had to do.
She'd kept it together—mostly—for three weeks while finishing her studies in Scotland. She felt as if she'd been holding her breath the entire time. Her friends threw her a farewell dinner, then she spent one Saturday packing her belongings. The furniture was to stay. It was still their home, after all. She left for London early on a Sunday morning, accompanied by the Wilsons.
"Rose."
She didn't respond. How to get through one more hiccup without losing it? Without snapping at him, or dissolving into a sobbing mess?
Suddenly he was there, arms banding around her, embracing her from behind.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, nuzzling into her neck. "We won't be long. I promise. There and back. Two or three nights at the most."
Tension left her body in waves. His physical connection warmed her. This was what was missing during their tense skype calls. She leant back into him, and inhaled his cologne.
"It's rubbish timing," he added.
"No," Rose croaked. "I'm sorry. I'm behaving selfishly again."
Sherlock tightened his hold.
"No, you're not. You've been very patient with me." He gently turned Rose around to face him. "We'll get this right, one day," he added. "I'll be back before you know it, and then you'll be kicking me out the door, sick of the sight of me."
Like that could ever happen, she thought.
"I love you," she whispered.
Sherlock bowed his head, until his forehead touched hers.
"I love you, too." He held her in his arms for a moment, before he said, "Can we start again?"
Rose slowly nodded her acquiescence.
"Hello, Rose," Sherlock said. "Welcome back."
"Not 'ammo' as in 'ammunition' but 'amo' meaning…"
His brother was silent for a moment, before replying, "You'd better be right, Sherlock."
Sherlock ended the call, hoping for the same, otherwise Mycroft was going to be in a spot of bother with Lady Smallwood. But it had to be her. The codename fit.
He left the room for the terrace overlooking the courtyard, escaping the stifling heat. He had one more phone call to make, before joining John and Mary in the medina.
"Hello."
She sounded tired.
"How are you?" he asked.
"I'm fine," Rose replied. "I'm having dinner with Billy."
Sherlock's heart twinged with an ache he didn't know how to alleviate. He was glad Rose was occupied and in the company of a good friend. Seeing John and Mary together—the pained expression on John's face—made him realise just how difficult it was when their two worlds collided. Domesticity and gun play were not the best bedfellows, at least in the Watson household. Was he wrong to have asked Rose to London?
"…and he says 'hello', by the way," Rose added, with a hint of laughter in her voice. "And how are you? How's Mary? Did you find her?"
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"All fine here," he said. "We'll be back in the morning…"
"Oh, good."
"But I have a meeting first thing," he swiftly added. "Government busybodies. You know how it is. Tying up loose ends."
He tried to sound casual, but his insides twisted. If this betrayal of Mary and the rest of the AGRA freelance agents originated from the higher echelons of government, would she ever truly be safe? But he was on the case, wasn't he? It was his responsibility, as always, to keep those he cared about safe from harm. He had to be a witness to Mycroft's interrogation of Lady Smallwood.
"Well, I'll see you when you get here," Rose said, her voice light and pleasant. "Justine and I are going shopping for cots tomorrow… finally!"
A smile tugged at one corner of Sherlock's mouth at Rose's enthusiasm. It was a welcome relief from the tension of the past few hours. He knew she'd been baulking at buying furniture to fit out the nursery while in Edinburgh. Perhaps that had been a good thing, since she'd now moved to London.
"…thinking of a cot bed, because it'll convert to a junior bed when she's older…"
Sherlock let Rose's words wash over him. Their life together seemed half a world away. At the other end of the terrace, hotel staff were setting tables for dinner. Before he'd left for Morocco, he and Rose had snuggled together on the tiny two-seater in the sitting room of her new residence in St George's Fields and Rose had brought up the subject of baby names.
"I've thought of a girl's name, but we need to come up with a boy's name, too, just in case," she'd said.
"Highly unnecessary."
"I know what you saw, but there's always a chance that—"
"No chance, Rose."
"Well, it won't hurt to—"
"Tell me what you've got."
She studied his eyes and then clasped his hand.
"Can I just start by saying that this name was my grandmother's name?"
"Can you just start?" he said, his eyes glistening with warmth. "No, you may not begin with a preamble. Tell me the name."
"My mother's mother," Rose said defiantly. Sherlock sighed in mock irritation. "And I have the feeling she was the black sheep of the family… well, apart from me. Which is why I feel connected to her."
"And?"
"There must've been something scandalous around the time my mother was born. I mean, she was born in Scotland, but they moved to England shortly afterwards. And if there was a scandal, then I feel for her. My grandmother, I mean."
"And her name was?"
"And I also want to say…" Rose smiled sheepishly at Sherlock's eye roll. "I know this was the name of one of your girlfriends."
"I've never had a girlfriend."
"I know, but… she was somebody special. Your first kiss, or something, so…"
Sherlock had knitted his brows together.
"How do you know this?"
"Don't you remember?"
"Remember what?" His first kiss was some obscure memory from a bygone era. When would he ever have been in a position to tell Rose about that?
"When we were stoned that time. And hiding underneath the blanket in the armchair."
Sherlock's mouth had fallen open a little and a flush crept across his cheeks. Had he told her about…
"Grace," Rose said tentatively.
"Grace."
She smiled broadly and waited for his reaction. All he could do was shrug lightly.
"I don't want it to be weird," Rose said, "as if our daughter's named after your old girlfriend."
"It won't be any more weird than John naming his daughter after my actual old girlfriend. That's you, by the way. Well… you were at the time. And no, since Rosie isn't named after you, it's not weird at all. And anyway," he said, squeezing Rose's hand. "If our daughter's named after your grandmother—who sounds awesome, if she was anything like you—that's perfectly fine with me."
Rose had slipped her arms around Sherlock's neck and had kissed his cheek.
"And now for a boy's name…" she whispered.
Sherlock smiled to himself at the memory. The hotel staff bustled about him, so he moved to the far corner of the terrace. Through the phone, Rose was still describing nursery furniture to him in-depth. He thought she was talking about a change table that converted into a chest of drawers. Wonders would never cease.
"… and it's all white, so it's suitable for a boy or a girl. I think it should go with the polished floorboards, but we can buy a rug, too."
"Sounds…fine."
They were silent for a moment and Sherlock looked about him noting that the nearest staff member was now out of earshot. Hearing Rose speak so enthusiastically about something in their future, when John and Mary were having a difficult time of it, made his chest swell. The emotion had bubbled from within, and he found he had to let it out.
"I love you," he said in a low voice, but a feeling of unease still settled in. He kicked himself for bringing down the mood.
Rose didn't immediately reply, and he wondered if she sensed his anxiety. She was always so perceptive when it came to his emotions.
But anxiety? Is that what this was?
"I love you, too." She seemed to whisper it, and then Sherlock realised she would've still been in Billy's company.
"Look, Rose. I have to go. John and Mary are probably waiting for me in the marketplace. Things are a bit… awkward between them. Stuff to sort out… but I'm sure they'll welcome me as a brief distraction."
"You could never be just a brief distraction."
He huffed a small laugh, grateful that Rose's spirits had returned to normal. They said their goodbyes, and Sherlock left the terrace for his room. He removed his jacket and folded it over his arm, as it tended to get quite warm in the souks, but quite cool when the sun disappeared. He'd stayed in Marrakech briefly during his two year stint abroad and was quite familiar with the area. He and Mary had discussed the best café to go to, with rooftop views of the hustle and bustle that was the Jemaa el Fna.
With his sleeves rolled up and having discarded his watch, Sherlock left the riad and confidently found his own way through the narrow streets of the medina. He waved away any offers of help, replying in fluent Arabic that he knew the way to the souk, thank you very much.
He found Mary and John upstairs at Le Grand Balcon du Café Glacier. John visibly relaxed when Sherlock approached and Mary gave him a relieved smile.
"What did I miss?" Sherlock said, nodding his head toward the square.
"The setting sun," John said, sighing heavily, before taking one last swig of his coffee. He got to his feet and said, "Little boys' room," by way of an explanation.
They watched him go, then Sherlock ordered himself a drink—a mint tea, at Mary's suggestion, not that he had any intention of drinking it after critically eyeing the handful of mint leaves in Mary's.
"How is he?" Sherlock said, tipping his head in the direction John had disappeared.
"He's fine," Mary replied with a rueful smile. "We're back to normal, which means we're barely talking to each other."
Sherlock leant forward on his elbows and said, "I'm sorry about Ajay."
Mary sighed and directed her gaze towards the square.
"I want to find out who betrayed you," Sherlock said, immediately recapturing Mary's attention.
"Yes, I thought you wouldn't let this go."
"How could I?"
"I don't want you to pursue this, Sherlock. It's not your job. These are people I don't want you to mess with. Leave it with me."
"Mary, I can't do that. My vow—"
"Should be directed towards your own family now."
"My—?"
"Rose. And your baby."
Rose's name sounded oddly out of context coming from Mary in this setting. It was his turn to stare out onto the souk, with its stall vendors and tourists conducting their obligatory ritual of bartering, while he gathered his thoughts. Mary reached out a hand and gently placed it on his arm.
"Why didn't you tell us?"
"I did."
"When?"
Sherlock quirked a sly smile.
"I told you about my secret pregnant girlfriend in the North. I was going to take Rosie to meet her."
Mary gaped before snorting out a laugh, prompting Sherlock to chuckle along with her. It was good to see Mary less tense. She had lost quite a few pounds over the last couple of months, with her normally pale complexion sun-hardened from her trek across Europe.
"No, but seriously," she said, after she'd recomposed herself. Her eyes were glistening with interest, reminding Sherlock that he could always count on Mary's support and discretion. Why hadn't he confided in her earlier?
"The timing just seemed off. There was always… something happening."
"Like now, you mean?" Mary offered.
Sherlock inhaled deeply. His eyes flicked towards the corridor leading to the bathrooms.
"Do you think I should tell him now?"
"Definitely not."
At that moment, John emerged from the facilities.
"Well, if you're sure," Sherlock said, reaching for the tea that had been placed in front of him earlier. He took a sip and grimaced.
John sank back into the wrought iron seat, the weight of the world still on his shoulders.
"You missed the snake charmer," Sherlock said, smiling pleasantly at John.
"I'm sure there's half a dozen more about the place."
They all took that moment to cast their eyes over the spectacle down below. The sun had well and truly set by now, and the market square glowed in the light of hundreds of gas lanterns.
"Should we order?" John asked, breaking the silence.
The trio lifted their individual menus. Sherlock knew that they, like him, had no appetite. But still, they all scanned the food offerings as if their lives depended on it. Finally they ordered vegie couscous and a vegie tagine, plus a few vegie kofta skewers. Sherlock was appalled by the lack of meat, so he hastily ordered a couple of beef skewers with chips on the side as well.
With the food in front of them and the entertainment in the square providing a distraction, they didn't have to talk about anything more serious than Mrs Hudson's trip to Corfu with Mr Chatterjee and whether or not the acrobats performing below were going to topple over.
Leaning back in his chair and feeling sickeningly full, Sherlock remarked, "I once was involved in a motorbike chase around this square. Almost collided with a donkey."
Mary chuckled and stared thoughtfully at the blackened sky.
"Me, too," she said, distractedly, prompting a deep rumble of a laugh from Sherlock.
She suddenly turned to face him.
"Hang on," she said, her brow furrowed. "When was this?"
"While I was breaking up Moriarty's network. The end of winter, 2013."
"Ah, see," John said pointedly, "You were with me in London during that time, so I don't think Sherlock was chasing you."
"No. I was the one being chased," Sherlock said. "And Mary may have been living a secret double life," he added with a sly smile.
A tiny laugh escaped Mary, but John looked away awkwardly and coughed. Perhaps it was too soon to be joking about his wife's former life, Sherlock thought. But why was his friend tugging at his collar as if he had something to feel guilty about?
John suddenly rose and stretched his arms a bit.
"Well, I think I have to walk this off before I turn in."
"Yes. Good idea," Mary said, hastily rising.
"No, no, you stay," John said, vaguely indicating the table. "I'm knackered. Why don't you… buy something for Rosie?" He nodded toward the bustling square, before turning from them.
Mary watched his departure, a mixture of hurt and bewilderment crossing her face. She quickly recomposed herself and gave Sherlock a weak smile.
"S'pose I should," she said, as Sherlock left his seat and slowly pulled on his jacket. "Make up for abandoning her, not that she would've noticed."
Sherlock gave Mary a reassuring smile.
"Something for Rosie, then."
As they exited the café, Mary turned to Sherlock and said, "You have someone else to buy for now, not just your God-daughter. You've got Rose… and your ba—"
"My daughter."
As Mary's eyes moistened, Sherlock felt a sudden swell of pride having said the word out loud.
"Oh, Sherlock," she said, reaching for his arm. Giving it an affectionate rub, she said, "You're having a baby girl, too."
Sherlock beamed at Mary, unable to speak, because his own awe was reflected in Mary's eyes.
"Oh, God," she said. "Another Holmes and Watson. Girls. God help us."
Sherlock was about to laugh, but Mary's face seemed to crumble. She turned away from him, and gently sobbed into her hand.
"Mary?"
"No." She shook her head.
Sherlock didn't know what to do at first. He'd never seen Mary look so defeated. Even in his bolt hole, before her flight to Europe, she had only shown a brief moment of uncertainty.
"I'm such a… horrible mother," she said, sniffling.
Sherlock gently took Mary by her shoulders.
"No, you're not," he said firmly. "Look at what you've done here. You've taken the danger away from your family. You've sacrificed being with her for her own safety. This is what we do, Mary. You and I. We do what we can for the people we love. We make the sacrifices."
"No," Mary said. "I sometimes think John would've been better off without me."
"You're wrong there. I happen to know John Watson, and he was rubbish without you."
Mary sobbed out a laugh, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Sherlock waited a moment while she composed herself.
"Come on," Sherlock said eventually, turning from Mary and offering his arm. "Let's go and buy our girls something atrocious."
.
Author's Note:
Thanks for reading! We're getting to the sticky end now. Please let me know if you're still out there and reading! I could do with the encouragement to plough through this difficult period for them. I hope you enjoyed the extra scenes in Morocco with Sherlock and Mary. Please do review. X
