Chapter 89 — Let's Talk About Mary, First
Rose felt Sherlock slip into bed behind her in the early hours of the morning. She sighed against him and fell back asleep.
When sunlight peeked through the window slits, she was relieved to find him still in bed. She snuggled closer to him, pressing up against his back, before slipping her hands underneath his pyjama shirt and caressing his torso. Sherlock hummed in satisfaction, but didn't move. Rose wasn't sure whether to continue, or if Sherlock needed his sleep. She didn't know how long into the night he had been working, nor how much sleep he had received abroad.
His landlady was in Corfu until Saturday, Sherlock had told her, so it was fine for Rose to enter the flat by herself. She'd journeyed by tube, with Bob as her escort. He'd seen her safely to Baker Street before saying goodnight. The journey by day wouldn't have required protection, but after 11pm, the Wilsons insisted Rose not travel alone. And entering Sherlock's Baker Street residence wasn't an option for her during the day.
Rose hadn't seen Sherlock since his return from Morocco. After visiting a government office, he said he needed to see Craig, his hacker, and they'd be working late into the night. Rose thought she'd ease his burden with the suggestion she spend the night in his flat, an offer which had surprised him.
"No, keep doing that," he murmured after Rose withdrew her hand.
His body was so warm that Rose curled herself around him as she continued to smooth the flat of her palm across his chest and stomach. She breathed in his familiar cologne and soap and felt content for the first time in ages. Sherlock rumbled a laugh she initially felt before she heard.
"What?" she asked.
"I felt that."
"Felt what?"
"A kick."
Rose moved aside, allowing Sherlock to turn over.
"Lie back," he said, gently easing Rose's sleeping t-shirt upwards.
They waited, Rose intermittently holding her breath while Sherlock—his hair tousled from sleep—smoothed his hand over her belly, searching for the best spot.
"Oh!" Rose exclaimed.
Sherlock chuckled. He'd felt it! Bending low over her abdomen, he murmured something she didn't catch, then pressed a soft kiss to her bare skin.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"I wasn't talking to you."
He looked up at her with bright, keen eyes, his mouth stretching into a smile. Her heart melted to see him looking so happy and relaxed in her company. Their company.
Sherlock drew up beside her, planted a soft kiss on her lips, and said, "Hello, Rose."
She wasn't ready to let him get away with such a quick salutation. Not now that she was in his bed again. She pulled him closer, discarding the need to verbally return his greeting, and instead, captured his lips with hers. He tasted the same as he always did with a hint of tobacco. So, he hadn't really quit smoking. His lips had already parted as if in invitation and he took care to deepen the kiss she had started, drawing out her desires with clever and tender skill.
But before Rose had received exactly what she wanted, Sherlock eased out of their kiss.
"I have to go," he said, hovering over her, before leaving the bed completely.
"What?" Rose said, breathlessly. She looked up at him, a quiet panic filling her heart.
"Craig," Sherlock said, tugging his pyjama shirt over his head and turning from Rose. "I left him running a programme that'll search the message logs from six years ago on anything relating to AGRA." He had tossed his t-shirt onto a chair, and was rounding the bed as he spoke, making his way to his dresser. "He has to keep changing his method of access so his attempts can remain undetected."
Rose's brow wrinkled as she watched Sherlock tug open the top drawer and retrieve a pair of boxer trunks.
"Why can't you ring him for an update?" she asked.
"Surveillance. GCHQ or whoever. You never know who may be listening."
Sherlock finished dressing in silence as Rose slid deeper underneath the covers and pouted.
"Are you going to stay in bed all morning?" he said, a few minutes later, fully dressed and looming over her.
"I'll attempt to," she said.
Sherlock chuckled a deep rumbling laugh before pressing a quick kiss to Rose's forehead. She sank fully underneath the covers, listened for the door clicking shut, and exhaled in heavy disappointment.
Rose jumped a little, her breath catching in her throat. She didn't know what to do about the sharp raps on the living room door. And the unexpected visitor had tried the door knob. Should she pretend she wasn't in? But surely they could only have been made by someone who had access to enter 221 from the street.
"Sherlock?" called a voice from out on the landing.
Wait. Was that…?
A baby started a hiccupping cry almost immediately.
"It's all right," Rose heard the familiar female voice coo.
It is. It's… Mary.
"Sherlock!" Mary called again as she knocked on the door a few more times.
Rose's skin prickled and she strained to hear if there were any other voices apart from Mary's over the baby's cry.
"Sorry, darling," Mary said softly.
Rose left her tea preparation and stood at the kitchen door to the landing, listening. She readjusted her dressing gown and sighed at her indecisive behaviour.
I'm pretty sure there's no one else out there.
After Rose unlocked the door and opened it, Mary twisted around, her face lighting up.
"Well, that explains the locked doors," she said as she approached Rose.
"Hi," Rose said, forcing a smile to her face.
Her heart heaved at the sight of Rosie and her tear-stained face, nestled in Mary's arms.
"I thought Sherlock was dissecting something Mrs Hudson wouldn't approve of," Mary said with a rueful smile.
"No, it's just that I… Please, come in." Rose opened the door wider, stepping aside to allow Mary to enter. "Sherlock isn't here."
Mary tutted and visibly drooped as she crossed the threshold. Rosie continued with her protesting.
"Dammit. Molly's at work this morning. Mrs Hudson's abroad. John's out, finally, and I just need to do something while he's not home, but I can't when Rosie's like this. She's… teething." Mary paused to gently rub her daughter's back as she fixed her with a sympathetic smile. "She's only sleeping for a few minutes at a time unless I continually rock her. Will Sherlock be long?"
"Ah… he shouldn't be," Rose said, closing the door behind them. "I was…" She waved a hand toward the bedroom at the back of the kitchen. "I… slept in. A bit. He could be back any minute now, but you know Sherlock. Do you want me to ring him?"
"No, no. Not if he's busy."
Mary continued on into the living area, holding Rosie over her shoulder and alternately patting and rubbing her back.
Rose crossed the kitchen and regarded the pair for a moment. Although she and Mary had socialised together over coffee a few times last year, the revelation that the wife and mother of one was actually a highly-skilled assassin and had put a bullet through Sherlock only served to put Rose on edge.
"Could… I get you a cup of tea?" Rose asked.
Mary seemed to contemplate her answer for a few seconds before replying with a weary, "Yes. Thanks. That would be lovely. I may as well forget about my plans for the moment."
Rose turned from her and flicked the switch on the kettle again. She wondered what Mary's plans were and why she had to carry them out in John's absence. But who knew why retired assassins did anything. As she retrieved a second cup from the overhead cupboard, Rose considered Mary's situation. This was a familiar scenario, though. There were many times Rose was a witness to single mothers and their dilemma about what to do with their infants when they had to work or attend a counselling session or just find time for themselves to have a quiet cuppa.
Mary continued patting and soothing her irritable daughter.
"You know what?" Rose began. "I could just…"
"What?" Mary asked. A little too eagerly, Rose thought. As if she already knew what Rose was going to offer.
"I could look after her… until Sherlock gets back."
"Could you?"
"And I'm sure he's not too far away," she added with a brief smile.
"Oh, Rose. That would be…"
"It's no problem at all. I'm not doing anything else this morning and… I've looked after a few babies, now and again."
One baby, specifically—dear, sweet Jack—who had been abandoned so many times by his drugged-out, prostitute mother. But who was Rose to judge?
"I won't need long," Mary said, approaching Rose. "Honestly. An hour at the most."
"We'll be fine." Rose reached for Sherlock's goddaughter. "Hello," she said, looking down and holding the infant to her side. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Really, Rose. I appreciate this more than I can say."
Mary lightly touched Rose's arm, before turning from her and quickly scanning the room. Rose could detect a sense of urgency about her.
"Oh, the landing," Mary muttered.
Rose watched as Mary strode through to the kitchen.
"I've got a bottle for her," she called out as she entered the stairwell.
In Rose's arms, Rosie hiccupped a protest again.
"Shh," Rose said gently, holding the baby close.
Mary called out that she was putting the bottle in the fridge and that Rosie probably didn't need it, but it was there just in case.
"She'll be fine," Rose said. To Rosie, she added, "You just need a nap, don't you?"
Mary strode back through to the living room and dropped the nappy bag at the foot of Rose's armchair. She heaved a deep sigh as she did so, and Rose wondered if she was telling herself to slow down.
"Bye, darling," Mary said to Rosie, bending a little to fix a kiss on top of her daughter's head. Then she mouthed a 'thank you' to Rose, before swiftly leaving the flat.
Rose was surprised to feel the tension leaving her body, even though she had a fussing baby in her arms. It should've come as no surprise, she thought, that being in the company of Mary would cause her a certain degree of discomfort and stress; the woman had not only almost fatally wounded her boyfriend, but had also pointed a gun at her.
"Let's get you changed, first," she said to Rosie.
She tried a few things—a fresh nappy, gently rocking the baby girl in the kitchen—before finally settling on the bottle. When she found Rosie sleepily content, she took to holding her over one shoulder and slowly swaying in Sherlock's bedroom, where she could make the room quite dark. But Rosie still fussed intermittently.
"No, that won't do," came a deep, velvety voice from the doorway.
Rose took a sharp intake of breath, and upon turning, found Sherlock casually leaning against the doorframe.
"Oh, God, Sherlock," Rose said in a voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't hear you come in."
He smiled broadly at her, then left his post.
"When all evidence pointed to the presence of our young visitor here, I decided to proceed in a stealth-like manner along the passageway. Hello, Rosie." Sherlock bent over Rose's shoulder and planted a kiss on top of the infant's head.
"Of course you did."
"And hello, Rose," he said with equal affection, before planting a swift kiss on Rose's cheek.
Sherlock shed his jacket, and said, "It's fairly obvious what she needs."
"What?"
He grabbed his dressing gown from the chair along the wall and announced, "Me."
"I've nearly got her to sleep."
"Nope," he said, pulling on his gown. "That's not going to last long."
"We're fine here, Sherlock."
As if on cue, Rosie drew her legs up and emitted a discontented squawk.
"There. You see? Tummy ache and teething. Hand her over."
"Your voice woke her up."
"Nonsense. She likes to hear me think out loud. She can hear her godfather's voice, but you're holding her incorrectly. In her mind, nothing is right with the world. Hand over the baby, Rose. We've got work to do."
Although she knew she almost had Rosie asleep, the muscles in Rose's neck and shoulder had been protesting for the last half hour or so. She gently passed the infant to Sherlock.
"What do you mean, 'we'?"
"Rosie and I," he replied, before swishing out of the room, his dressing gown billowing in his wake. "Why don't you finish making that tea you started," he called back, "approximately forty minutes ago, going by the external temperature of the kettle."
Rose sighed and exited the bedroom, gently massaging her shoulder on the way to the kitchen. She wondered if this was what their life would be like once they were parents—Sherlock swooping in to save the day, with obvious solutions to whatever ailed their child. The curious thing was, Sherlock didn't even ask why Rosie had been left in Rose's care. Perhaps Mary had already contacted him.
The next half an hour was spent with Rose quietly sipping her tea in her chair by the fire, reading "Psychology Today" articles on her iPad. She even had time to finally change out of her sleepwear. Now and again, she'd watch Sherlock pace up and down the rug with Rosie over his shoulder. She'd look up when he muttered things, such as "Mycroft's certain it wasn't Lady Smallwood," and "How did they know her codename?" Rose even bit back a laugh when Rosie squawked and Sherlock replied with, "Yes, I know. It doesn't make any sense."
Rose knew he wasn't talking to her, as he hadn't demanded she pay him any attention when she had her eyes fixed on her screen. But was he really using his goddaughter as a sounding board?
"The orders given to the intelligence agents were never recorded," he said, standing stock still with his back to Rose. "They're too top secret, as is all communication from within that level of government. My meeting with them wasn't even minuted. I'm clearly missing something."
"She's asleep," Rose said, observing baby Rosie over Sherlock's shoulder.
"Oh. Good," he said. "I need to think."
"Do you want me to take her?" Rose said, getting to her feet.
"No. You'll only wake her."
Sherlock took Rosie to the sofa and proceeded to settle himself down on it.
"I need to go deep," he said. "But not… that deep."
Rose approached him in case he needed help repositioning Rosie.
"Are you sure you don't want me to take her?"
"We're fine, Rose. This is how we solved the mystery of the missing bassoon player."
"By sleeping?"
"Not sleeping. I'm delving into my Mind Palace. I'm sure I've missed something."
If he was capable of solving crimes by 'not sleeping', then Sherlock Holmes would've solved not only the Jack the Ripper murders, but also the mysterious abandonment of the Mary Celeste, Rose thought, judging by his 'not sleeping' snores. He really didn't get enough sleep the night before, she concluded.
She left them alone while she continued to read, intermittently looking up in interest whenever Rosie coughed the beginnings of a cry and Sherlock's hand would automatically pat the infant's back a couple of times. This method appeared to work well for almost an hour before Mary eased open the living room door. She spied Rose and gestured for her to stay quiet. With a tilt of her head, Mary indicated the kitchen.
Rose followed Mary to the passageway at the back of the flat. Stopping outside the bathroom, Mary said, in a low voice, "I really need a favour from you… well, another favour."
"Oh… okay."
"Don't say yes, until you've heard what I want. I could ask Mrs Hudson or Molly, but you've been a bit distant from me… yes, I've noticed, Rose. And it's okay. I think it's even better this way. Perhaps you won't have an emotional response to what I'm asking of you."
Rose felt herself flush. Of course Mary had noticed Rose's discomfort in her presence. The woman was as sharp-eyed as Sherlock.
"I'm sorry," Rose said. "It's just…"
"It's fine, Rose. Really. I shot Sherlock. I know that sends all kinds of messages about what type of person I am. But I had good reason."
"I know about your reasons. I'd like to know if you're sorry."
The words were out of Rose's mouth before she thought to censor them. Clearly Mary had something else on her mind at the moment, other than have Rose dredge up the (recent) past. But Rose didn't want to let this go. If there was an opportunity for clearing the air between them, now was it—before she consented to doing any more favours for Mary.
Mary appeared momentarily thrown by Rose's remark and she gaped a little before her features softened.
"I… am. I truly am."
"Have you apologised to Sherlock?"
Mary had to consider her response. Rose offered no apologies of her own for her question and her gaze remained fixed on Mary.
"No. I don't believe I have. Not in so many words." Mary gave Rose a sheepish smile. "Not in any words, actually. I think I apologised just after I pulled the trigger. I doubt he really registered it at the time."
Mary's light-hearted remark had no effect on Rose. Mary, on the other hand, grew serious.
"Yes. Yes, I will," she said, finally. "I'll tell Sherlock I'm sorry. I can see it's important to you."
"No. It's important to you and Sherlock. And your friendship," Rose said. "Look, I know Sherlock has these experiences and he just moves on to the next thing, never considering the consequences of his actions, or anyone else's, for that matter. I'd like him to pause now and again. I'd like him to know that shooting somebody you care about is not a normal occurrence. And being unapologetic about it…"
Rose hadn't admitted her concerns to anyone before. But quite often, in the past, she felt there would come a day when all of Sherlock's horrific experiences would come crashing down around him. And that wasn't limited to only the ones she knew of, starting with his fake suicide. She concluded he had lived an entire lifetime full of drama and upheavals that he didn't know how to process. Except to bury everything in that damn Mind Palace of his. And it didn't help that he had friends like Mary and John who enabled his slightly skewed view of the world.
"Of course, Rose," Mary conceded. "I'll apologise to Sherlock, for both our sakes."
"Then I'll help you with whatever you want."
"You don't know what it is, yet."
"As long as I don't have to break the law…"
A relieved smile spread across Mary's face and she reached into her jacket pocket. Holding out a key with a card attached, Mary said, "This is a key for a safety deposit box I've opened at a bank on the Strand. The details are on the card."
Feeling curious, Rose reached out and accepted both items before Mary continued.
"I've listed you as an authorised person, so you won't have any trouble opening it. Just take some I.D. with you."
"And what—"
"I've stored two packages inside," Mary went on. "One for Sherlock and one for John."
"So… why…."
"Rose. If the worst should happen…"
Rose could feel blood leeching from her face. The worst? Why were they talking about this? What was Mary planning?
"If… if anything happens to me…"
"Mary…"
"Rose, please. Try to understand the life I've led before. There are consequences."
Mary's statement went straight to Rose's heart. A past life? Consequences? She knew that concept only too well, and it filled her with dread. She gave Mary a tiny nod in acknowledgement.
"There'll be a funeral, I imagine," Mary said, braving a smile. "But before that, with any violent death, there's bound to be a coronial inquiry." She gave a light shrug. How could she speak so casually about this? Rose thought. "A bit of drama perhaps," Mary went on. "Sherlock will be pleased. But after all that… after all the mundane preparations and procedures the bereaved have to go through, there'll come a point where they'll have to go back to their normal lives, and that's… that's where John…" Mary's voice ran ragged, causing Rose's heart to stutter. "John," Mary tried again, forcing a smile to her face even though her eyes began to glisten. "John will need Sherlock. And Sherlock…"
"Sherlock will have me," Rose said.
"Yes. He will, Rose. I don't doubt that. But what you've got to understand is that they are unique. Our boys. And their friendship is a little unconventional."
"But the grieving process for most—"
"No, Rose. Listen for a minute." Mary drew in a steadying breath before continuing. "I've recorded a message for Sherlock. For Sherlock's ears only. I know how he thinks and how John reacts. Short of being there myself and knocking their thick heads together, this is the best solution I can think of."
Rose gave a vague nod of understanding. But she didn't know where all this was leading.
"Please send the parcel to Sherlock after all the boring stuff's done."
"And John's parcel?" Rose asked.
"Send it much later," Mary replied. "I didn't put an address on it, because I've no idea where he'll end up living. He and Rosie. But you'll know. Only send it when you think he's got it together. I'm sure he'll have a wobble now and again, but at least he'll have that message from me when he's ready to hear it."
Mary paused to wipe away an unshed tear.
"And Rosie?" Rose asked.
"Rosie?"
"Do you have a message for her?"
Mary slowly shook her head.
"I thought long and hard about whether or not to make a recording for her. God knows how many rules I'd like to put in a place for a sixteen-year-old girl. I know what I was like. Christ, John'll have his work cut out for him if she's anything like me. They both will won't they?" Mary's eyes dropped meaningfully to Rose's abdomen. "Sherlock as a dad of a teenage girl."
Rose couldn't help but give a low chuckle at the thought, even though this conversation felt a bit surreal. She also knew how much grief she gave her own parents at the age of sixteen.
"Boyfriends?" she ventured.
"Deduced within an inch of their lives," Mary said, laughingly. "Oh, God. The poor things. And John. He's very handy with a gun."
As Rose's smile faltered, Mary quickly added, "Sorry. Bad joke." She gave Rose a reassuring smile. "But in all seriousness, I can't imagine Rosie not wondering why her mother, who had no obvious signs of illness, would want to pre-record a message for her. And I don't want her to know, ever, what I did for a living."
A small lump formed in Rose's throat. It was only now she was beginning to realise just how similar a situation she and Mary were in.
A warm smile grew on Mary's face, her eyes rounded with affection.
"And neither do you, do you?"
Rose looked away, her eyes beginning to sting.
"Does anybody else know?" Mary asked.
"My family," Rose replied, with a rueful smile.
"And?"
"And I'm over 400 miles away from them, about to have a baby."
Mary regarded Rose for a moment, her expression unreadable, before she spoke again.
"And what would you do to keep your past a secret from the rest of the world? What lengths would you go to?"
Rose's breath shuddered on the way out, and she gave a light shrug.
"Because it will come out, one day, Rose. And you need to prepare yourself for that. What's that saying? 'Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst'? Sherlock Holmes is the father of your child. You might be prepared to live a life in secret, and Sherlock's more than capable of leading a double life. But what about your daughter? Can you ask the same of a small child? No doubt she'll know who her father is. How famous he is. The press love Sherlock Holmes. He's got his fair share of fans and critics all over Britain, and maybe beyond. Have you thought about what that could mean—"
"I've thought about it a lot, actually. But I'd never want our daughter to know her mother used to sell her body for sex. Or that her father once paid for it. Never."
"And that's what I'm asking, Rose. What would you do to stop that getting out? Would you shoot a man?"
Rose didn't have an answer to Mary's question. To take another life was an extreme reaction to a difficult problem. But when pushed, how far could the average person go? How far would she go to protect her secret and those she loved?
"Somebody out there knows about my past," Mary continued. "And Sherlock's stirring things up. It's only a matter of time—"
"Sherlock wouldn't do anything stupid."
"Sherlock may not be prepared to do what's necessary. Not after last time."
Rose furrowed her brow. She didn't understand Mary's remark. What did that mean, 'not after last time'?
"So I need to get to them before Sherlock does. It's my responsibility, not his. And these… these video messages are important to me. It's like a soldier on the battlefield writing a letter to send to their loved ones, in case they never make it home. That's all."
"You don't have to make it your own private war," Rose said.
"I'm hoping for the best," Mary said with a smile. "And preparing for the worst. I think you should do the same."
Mary straightened up, wiped at her eyes one more time, then said, "Time to wake up our sleeping beauties."
Mary didn't stay too long after easing her daughter out of Sherlock's arms. Naturally, the Consulting Detective was instantly awake. But Mary kissed him on the forehead, gave Rose a hug, pausing to whisper another 'thank you' in her ear, and rapidly vacated the flat with the excuse that she wanted to get home before John did.
Sherlock stretched and yawned, then enveloped Rose in a tight bear hug.
"Christ, I need some fresh air," he said.
"Which is code for 'I need a cigarette'."
Sherlock chuckled and released Rose.
"Only when I'm on a case," he said, leaving the room for the kitchen.
"You haven't solved it then?" Rose called out to him.
"Unfortunately, I fell asleep."
Really? Rose thought to herself. I didn't notice.
As she retrieved her tea cup from the side table and brought it into the kitchen, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, pulling on his jacket.
"I won't be long," he said. "Why don't you come with me? We can walk along the Thames."
"It's still light out."
"I'll meet you somewhere after dark."
Rose slowly filled the cup with water from the sink and thought about his proposition.
"We can't really do that, Sherlock. You know that."
He came up behind her, and slipped his arms around Rose's waist.
Gently nuzzling into her neck, he said, "Then I'll bring chips home."
"That's more like it," Rose said with a light chuckle. "And a salad on the side." She left the cup in the sink and turned around in Sherlock's arms. "But know this, Sherlock Holmes," she said, lightly patting his chest. "If you're not home by 8pm, I'm going back to my flat."
"Why?"
"Because I need to eat. I'm pregnant, remember? And there's no food here."
"My apologies. I'll do the shopping tomorrow."
"Mrs Hudson's back tomorrow. I think that's why you were stalling."
Sherlock's grin stretched wide. Guilty as charged, it seemed to say.
"So, if you're not here by—" Rose began.
"I'll find you at St George's Fields."
"Exactly. Or I might go out partying with my friends from Roches. It's Friday, after all, and I know where to find them."
"Mm," Sherlock said, dubiously. "Is that an incentive to get me back home quickly?"
"No." She searched his eyes for evidence of comprehension. "But I'm here now, in London, so it's easier for us to spend time together, when we can. I don't expect you to spend every waking minute with me, but I'm not studying or working anymore, and I do have friends here. I'm not going to spend Friday night at home alone when you're out working. How sad would that be?"
"I don't know. Is it?"
"Yes. For me it is. So, I'll see you later. Either here, before eight, or at my place much later."
Sherlock hesitated before answering, his brow furrowed.
"Okay."
He pressed his lips to hers, delivering a sweet and tender kiss, before drawing back.
"I love you," he said. "And don't think for one second that I take for granted you moving back to London."
"I know, and I love you, too."
"I'm just worried you're going to go off and find a hundred different charities to volunteer at."
"I won't."
"And what was that about today?" he said, indicating the bedroom with a tilt of his head.
"What? Rosie? Mary came here looking for you. I thought I'd help out in your absence."
"Mm."
"What?"
Sherlock loosened his hold on Rose and stepped back.
"That's just it. I don't want John and Mary thinking the three of us can go out on a case, leaving you here holding the baby. Both babies."
"I know. It won't happen. Mary just wanted to do something and you weren't here."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, a sure sign he was attempting to hone in on the truth.
"She wanted to do what?"
Rose shrugged.
"I don't…. something for her case, I guess."
"Yes, you see," Sherlock said, striding away from Rose and entering the living room. Rose left the kitchen to follow him. "I have to solve this case before Mary does." Sherlock grabbed his coat from the back of the door and drew it on as he spoke. "Otherwise, she may do something even Mycroft can't help her with. And after the last time, his little committee may be a bit hesitant to turn a blind eye."
"Last time? What are you talking about?"
"Must dash. Don't wait up!"
.
Author's Note:
No prizes for guessing what happens next ):
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
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