Chapter 91 — I Needed a Hug
This was the longest they had ever embraced without saying anything, Rose thought. She kept her arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck for as long as he was holding her. After a while, he straightened up, released her and turned away with an accompanying sniff. He stood with his back to her as if to recompose himself.
Rose couldn't stand the silence any longer.
"Do you want to talk abou—"
"Mary's dead."
His words didn't register at first. They swam around her head, not settling.
"What?"
It was more of a gasp from Rose, than a posed question. And there was no point to it. Not really. She heard him perfectly well. A spike of adrenalin shot through her. This wasn't real, surely.
There didn't seem to be enough of an explanation. Something that had upset him so deeply should've required more words than that. But Rose's skin began to prickle all the same. Sherlock didn't turn around. His gaze was fixed toward one corner of the room, where nothing of significance sat, except a lamp, and it wasn't even lit.
"H-how?"
Not Mary. Rose had just spoken to her that morning. How does someone die so soon after taking their baby home from the babysitter's? The baby that wasn't sixteen yet. The baby that was supposed to grow up and become a pain in the backside to their mother?
"She was shot."
Sherlock slowly bowed his head, and still he didn't turn around to face her. From the movement of his shoulders, she could tell he was drawing in a couple of deep breaths. But there was a buzzing in her own ears, probably from the stillness of the room. Maybe because mere words shouldn't carry so much weight.
Shot.
"Somebody… a woman…" He waved a hand as he spoke, as if to dismiss his own words. "The traitor…secretary…"
"What?"
He didn't speak again.
But this was an odd way to carry out a conversation, Rose thought. Him with his back to her. Not when this conversation was important.
Rose moved where she could at least see Sherlock's profile, her limbs stiff and heavy as if wading through water.
"What happened?"
Keep calm. You know how to do this.
Sherlock didn't move, so Rose walked up to him and slipped her hand in his. He immediately recoiled and pulled his hand away.
"Sor—" she began.
"It's my fault," he said, his voice crackling a little. He moved away from Rose to the other side of the room.
His fault? Words that appeared to be a burden to him.
"What happened?" she asked again.
No… be patient with him, she scolded herself. He'll tell you in his own time.
What are you doing? came another voice—still her own, though in opposition.
Sherlock was numb—Rose could see that now—while her own mind failed to grasp what was real. She hated that she had fallen into a familiar role, as if this was a case study and she had to demonstrate competencies in trauma and grief counselling. She didn't have time to be another victim of grief. She had Sherlock to think of. He needed her.
And now you're in denial, Rose?
No. Not denial. Selective inattention.
"I provoked her," Sherlock said.
"Provoked… Mary?"
He seemed unable to speak again, so Rose prompted him with, "Tell me where you were, Sherlock."
Stop this. This isn't your job.
"London Aquarium…. Sharks." He shook his head lightly, as if to clear it. "Security Services… told me where she was... Smallwood's… secretary."
"And who else was there with you?"
He's talking now, Rose reasoned with herself. Especially when I say his name. He's numb. He's been wandering around over-thinking, and now he needs to be encouraged to say the words out loud and know that he's being heard.
Stop this, Rose. You're not taking notes on Sherlock's counselling session.
No! This just happened! He may be in shock and not able to take the next step. Perhaps someone in authority still needs to do something.
"Sherlock…" You need to stop and process this yourself! "…is there someone I can call for you? The police? … Your… brother?"
Sherlock slowly turned to her, his brow furrowed.
"No," he replied. "They were there. They're on it."
Rose gave Sherlock an encouraging nod, but he averted his gaze again. She could see his mind was still racing. He was staring, unseeing, into space, his eyes moving rapidly like they did when he was deep in thought.
"What can I do for you?" she asked.
For him? What about you? Mary's dead, Rose!
"R-right now?" Rose went on. "What can I get you?"
He seemed to come out of his trance, and stared at her, puzzled.
"What?"
"A cup of tea?"
Mary's dead, you stupid tart!
"Tea?" he repeated.
"Or… s-something," she said, beginning to falter.
"Cigarettes," he said tonelessly. "I've almost run out."
Cigarettes! She could do that. Mary's dead and I can fetch cigarettes!
Sherlock crossed the room and unlatched the door to the tiny porch that overlooked the gardens. The flat he'd so thoughtfully picked for her contained easy access to a beautifully landscaped common area. Over two acres! Because he cared. Because he was going to be a wonderful father.
After slipping outside, Sherlock shut the door behind him. The crisp air that had snaked its way inside jolted Rose into moving.
Cigarettes. Where could she get them from at this time of night? It was almost midnight. By special delivery? Of course. Rose knew all about special deliveries, thanks to John Garvie.
John Garvie! Remember that sick perv? He could get anything delivered because he knew who to call. Food, booze, fags, coke.
Sex.
Rose clenched her jaw as she crossed the floor to the armchair where she'd dumped her jacket. Furious with her own conscious mind, Rose snatched out her phone. A quick search on Google through a haze of anger found a handful of delivery services, none standing out more than the others.
Rose dialled the first number, her mind rapidly listing what Sherlock could want. Alcohol, cigarettes…
Sex!
She swiftly ended the call, suddenly needing to gasp for air. She couldn't do this. Mary had died. Baby Rosie was going to grow up without a mother.
No, you're going to grow up without a mother, Rose!
Rosie wouldn't even have any memories of Mary. Her mother didn't record a message for her. What were Mary's last words to Rosie? Possibly, 'hush now, go to sleep?'
Better than, 'You're no longer our daughter.'
Shut up!
A sharp object thrust into Rose's heart and her head swam. She sank down onto the sofa and bowed her head. She couldn't do this. She needed to dial another number.
"Hello, love!"
"I… I…" Her breath shuddered on the way out and she realised she couldn't suck in enough air to form any more words.
There was a pause before Justine said, "We'll be there in a jiffy."
After a couple of gulps of air, Rose's head cleared enough to realise she'd better get to the door now before Bob broke it down. Her security detail was seconds away, having taken up residence in the flat next door.
Rose made a bid for the entrance. She could hear keys jangling in the lock. Of course Sherlock had given them a set of keys! But bloody hell, they were fast!
The door swiftly swung inwards, thankfully before Rose reached it, otherwise she would've been smashed in the face with the force of it.
"I'm… fine," she said to Justine's expression of concern.
Justine pulled her keys out of the lock, her eyes rapidly taking in the rest of the room.
"Christ!" came Sherlock's exclamation from the patio.
Rose gasped and turned toward the patio door.
"It's okay, love," Justine said, lightly placing a hand on Rose's shoulder. "That'll be Bob. He must've startled Sherlock."
At the same time, Rose heard Bob say, "Y'all right?" to Sherlock.
The patio door opened and Bob peered in.
"All right?" he repeated to the room at large.
"Yes, sorry," Rose said pitifully. "It's…"
The dark silhouette that was Sherlock turned around and studied her over Bob's shoulder. His face was visible in the light emanating through the door. Rose saw his eyes drop to the phone she held in her hand and his brow furrowed. He gave a light shake of his head, and turned away again to draw on his cigarette. Obviously he'd already deduced what had happened in just one glance.
"I… I'm sorry," Rose began, a flush creeping across her cheeks as Bob entered and closed the door behind him. "It's stupid. Sherlock just needs… cigarettes. And I…"
"It's all right, love," Justine said softly. She directed Rose toward the sofa. "Bob can go out for cigarettes. You sit down a minute."
"Ah, yeah, 'course," Bob said, his expression quickly morphing from one of mild incredulity to one of acquiescence, as he shoved something into the back of his trouser waistband.
"It's just that… someone died," Rose gushed. "A friend… just… earlier."
"I understand," Justine soothed. Throwing a quick glance up at Bob, she said sharply, "Crispins! They're open late! Just go through the mews."
"I know," he replied.
Through tears, Rose tried to apologise once more and told Justine about Mary getting shot and how she felt so helpless that she couldn't do anything for Sherlock.
"You just need to breathe for a moment and I'll fix you a cuppa tea. Don't worry about Sherlock right now. He's coping in his own way. You have to look out for number one!"
The scaffolding Rose had so carefully put in place to prop her up collapsed beneath her. The pain came in waves. Justine comforted her, as great heaving sobs wracked through her. She said all the right words, Rose noted. She appreciated the woman's efforts, but it still didn't help alleviate her own sense of failure at not helping Sherlock. Although, he was outside smoking his last cigarette, and doing a fine job of getting on by himself.
And Mary? Mary was dead…
And where did that leave baby Rosie…
And John…
By the time Bob returned, Justine had placed a cup of tea in front of Rose. She held it for comfort; it warmed her hands but not her heart as a thousand thoughts flitted through Rose's mind. She was vaguely aware of Bob joining Sherlock on the patio holding more than a packet of cigarettes. Oh. A bottle of scotch whiskey and a couple of glasses. Good for them. What she wouldn't do for a toke right now—to blissfully float away on a cloud of skunk from Amsterdam.
"I don't know what happened, exactly," Rose told Justine. "Sherlock won't speak to me."
"Just give him a minute, love."
"But he's had hours!"
"And now he's having a quiet drink with Bob. He'll be fine shortly. You'll see."
Justine was worth her weight in gold, Rose thought. A cup of tea later and advice on letting people talk about things in their own time—and Rose knew this!—had her feeling marginally better.
And a good cry was a great emotional release.
Justine went out onto the patio to "see how the lads are getting on" so Rose gathered the tea things and went into the kitchen to recalibrate her own mental state in solitude. She started unloading the dishwasher when Justine came back in.
"We'll head off, love," she said to Rose. "He'll be back in shortly," she added, with a tilt of her head toward the kitchen window.
Rose assumed Justine was referring to Sherlock and she smiled appreciatively. Justine gave Rose a hug, and insisted she call if they needed anything else.
"And maybe we'll devise a code word for needing to come 'armed' or 'unarmed'," Justine said with a wry chuckle.
Rose thanked the Wilsons for coming over, apologising to them once more. She returned to the kitchen to finish emptying the dishwasher in an attempt to keep busy and distracted.
A dark shadow filled the doorway, prompting Rose to look up in surprise.
"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked.
Rose nodded, and attempted to give Sherlock a half-smile. She was relieved to see he'd at least removed his Belstaff. Hopefully that meant the end of him standing outside in the cold and smoking.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Rose's heart twinged at the rawness in his voice.
"You've got nothing to be sorry about," she said, moving towards him. "It's horrible. It really is." She reached for him and drew him into a hug, which Sherlock returned by gently rubbing her back.
"It's late," he said, easing back. "You must be tired. Why don't you go to bed? I'll finish up here."
"There's nothing left to do." Rose studied Sherlock's glassy eyes and hoped his session or chat or whatever it was with Bob had relaxed him a bit. "You should come to bed as well."
He tried to give Rose a reassuring smile, but it didn't quite meet his eyes.
"I'll be there in a minute," he said.
He pressed a quick kiss to Rose's lips. Whiskey and tobacco.
Rose turned and left the kitchen. She wanted to take Sherlock by the hand and lead him to bed, but she had to force herself to give him the peace and solitude he probably sought.
It had been a long night and she wished she hadn't spent so much time at the pub. Would it really have made a difference to Sherlock if she'd been home, though?
Feeling exhausted, she peeled off her evening clothes and turned on the hot water in the shower. Leaving it to heat up, she brushed her teeth and removed her makeup, all the while thinking she'd go back out to the living area to make sure Sherlock came to bed.
Shower first, though, she thought, stifling a yawn.
She spent far too long under the hot water. Steam had filled the bathroom. Tilting her head back, she let the water cascade over her face and hair, rinsing out the last of the conditioner.
"Rose."
His voice echoed throughout the room and Rose had to wipe the side of the shower screen to see him.
Sherlock stood in the doorway, still dressed in his white button-up shirt and trousers.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Are you going to be much longer?"
"Sorry. No. Just finishing."
"No… it's… all right. Take your time."
He went to back out of the bathroom, but Rose called to him.
"Do you want to come in? I'll add more cold water. I know you don't like it as hot as I do."
Sherlock didn't answer, but reached for the button on his left cuff as he re-entered the bedroom. She'd take that as a 'yes' then. Keeping to her promise, she added a touch of cold water and steadily turned down the hot.
Sherlock eventually appeared through the steamy mist and wordlessly entered the shower stall. Rose stood aside to allow him full access underneath the shower nozzle, but he tilted his head back, only briefly wetting his face and hair, before he lowered it again and blinked against the water running into his eyes. He drew Rose toward him. She had wanted to massage shampoo into his curls and lather his skin with his special soap, easing the tension out of him that way. But before she made an attempt to do that, Sherlock gently cupped her face in his hands and kissed her softly at first before easing her lips apart with a swipe of his tongue.
Desire and longing drizzled through her as his tongue teased hers, slowly, deeply and thoroughly, mixing his whiskey with her mint toothpaste. She felt the warmth and need in his kiss and she melted into him. The shower continued to hammer them, the spray a dull roar in her ears.
Sherlock's mouth left hers, slipping down to nibble at her throat as he banded her tightly to him. Rose cupped a hand around his nape and lifted her chin to expose more of her neck, clamping her eyes shut against the spray. One hand drifted up and down her spine, as the other sought her breast. She felt his own arousal against her and she slid her hand between them. Suddenly his mouth was on hers again, his hands cupping her face before finally drawing her away.
Sherlock turned off both taps then regarded Rose, creases appearing in his brow. He'd clenched his jaw, making his cheek bones more prominent as water continued to trickle from his hair over the sharp contours of his face. Rose reached up and smoothed a strand of damp hair away from his forehead.
His mouth turned down at the edges, so Rose slipped her hand in his and led him out of the shower. She gave them both a cursory rub down with a towel, then took Sherlock again by the hand to the bedroom.
The lights had already been dimmed, the bedcovers turned down. By Sherlock? A tiny detail, but it reassured Rose that he was going to be okay. Preparing for the future—even a gesture as small as this—was a positive sign.
They paused by the bed when he took her in his arms once more and brushed his lips over hers.
Her lips tingled beneath his. She edged him toward the bed, where he took the hint and eased them both onto it, allowing Rose to stretch herself over him. With a barely stifled moan, she took him into her. She delighted in hearing his own contented sigh and set an almost torturous, deliciously slow pace.
Sherlock's eyes locked on hers as he lightly held her hips. The passion between them built by degrees as Rose maintained an even rhythm. Her skin hummed wherever his hands glided, but still she resisted the urge to rush.
She lightly held onto his firm torso to steady herself. Did she think he was feeling vulnerable? Was she maintaining her own self-control for his benefit? She wanted him to finish with her; she had to get the timing right.
She watched the rise and fall of his chest, her eyes then dropping to his pale taut abdomen. She knew every inch of him so intimately. Without thinking, she smoothed a hand over his surgical scar. Sherlock moaned, whether in satisfaction or protest, she didn't know, but his hands wandered, gliding up and down her thighs. His eyes had darkened considerably, and she imagined her cheeks were as flushed as his now were.
As a light tremor ran through her, she gripped him harder. She watched as Sherlock's lips parted, his eyes reduced to slits. Rose knew she could let herself go.
She emitted a long, low sigh in surrender. Sherlock gripped her hips, a moan escaping his own lips. He clutched at her, pulling her deeper. The pressure was exquisite and Rose's breath came in short gasps as the wave of her orgasm reached its final peak, crested and shuddered through her.
The sound of Sherlock's pleasure came from deep within his throat, ending with a gasp of "Rose." She kept moving for him, listening to his shortened breath as his hands silently urged her on, until he finally held her still.
The creases in his brow faded, and he closed his eyes for a few seconds.
Sherlock tried to pull Rose down toward him, an almost impossible task with her swollen abdomen between them. She climbed from him and moved to lie by his side, snuggling into his chest when he put his arm around her. She listened to the drumming of his heart beat, racing along in time with her own.
Rose took a moment to recapture her breath when she became more self-aware. Specifically, her hair. It was soaking wet. Sherlock would complain about it in a few seconds. Rose lifted her head slightly, but Sherlock's embrace tightened.
"Thank you," he said in a voice just above a whisper.
"It was noth—"
"And I'm not talking about the sex."
Rose waited a beat before she tilted her head to look up at him.
Avoiding her gaze, Sherlock added, "I'm not sure where I'd be if you… if you weren't here."
Rose's throat constricted a little.
"I'll always be here for you," she said softly. "Always."
Sherlock didn't respond except to lightly brush his thumb over her arm.
Rose ventured, "And when you're okay to talk about what happened tonight, whenever that is… I'll be ready to listen. But if you don't want to say anything, that's o—"
"There's nothing more to tell," he said.
He's not ready yet, she told herself. Perhaps he'll never be, and she had to accept that.
Rose settled once more alongside Sherlock. His heartbeat thundered in her ear. So strong and dependable. She felt when it began to slow, a hypnotic rhythm that thickened the air around her, making her eyelids grow heavy and her limbs slacken.
"I thought I was clever."
Rose was instantly awake. She smoothed a palm over Sherlock's chest to let him know she was still listening, still awake and attentive.
In a steady monotone, in a voice as deep as an ocean trench, Sherlock recounted the evening's events for her.
.
A/N:
Apologies for the small delay in getting this update out after such a short one last week. I have the dreaded winter lurgy and couldn't get my head clear enough to do this chapter justice. I hope I've conveyed the right kind of emotions here. I fear I may have sneezed too much.
Thanks for still being here! Apologies to those who have arrived here via a marathon read and are now on the slow path which was slower than usual! But welcome, all the same :D
We're almost at the end of The Six Thatchers. Probably one more chapter to go, and then it'll be the period leading up to The Lying Detective, my absolutely favourite episode of Sherlock ever!
As always, I appreciate any kind and encouraging word. At this time of year, in Australia, I could do with a bit of warmth!
