Chapter 92 — Incapable of Human Emotion

Sherlock leant over Rose and kissed her again. A closed-mouth smile spread across her face. Her eyes, though slightly puffy with dark circles underneath, still sparkled back at him.

"I won't be long," he said.

Her smooth naked body was warm and covered in only a blanket. Her scent still lingered. Desire and longing coiled through him. But he had showered and dressed and had to reassert his sense of purpose. Her dishevelled appearance and ability to ease his torments wasn't enough to lure him back in.

Rose's smile faded a little, but she gave a tiny nod in agreement.

"I should be there before she gets back home," Sherlock added, probably unnecessarily—Rose would've worked that out—but his heart felt heavy in anticipation of being the one to inform his landlady of the news of Mary's death.

Rose's brows arched in sympathy.

"I know," she said, rubbing Sherlock's arm and ending with a light squeeze. "Do you want me to come with you?"

With him? Disappointment rippled through him. Rose thought he needed her help and guidance. She assumed he couldn't cope with this task on his own—offering to be there for him, even to the point of compromising her relative anonymity.

"No," he replied, keeping his expression neutral to disguise his wounded ego. "I'll be fine. I'll call you later."

Rose held him in place for a moment longer.

"You have a kind heart, Sherlock," she said, her eyes searching his. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Sherlock's throat constricted, and he immediately pressed a kiss to Rose's lips once more so he didn't have to look her in the eye while he attempted to recompose himself.

He regretted telling her everything last night, and she'd honed in on John's last words to him. Of course she would. Guilt and culpability had seeped out of his pores like sweat, and she had eagerly mopped his brow of it. A case for her counselling skills at last!

But Sherlock had spent half the night awake, replaying everything with a mounting sense of disgust. He'd lain there, his heart bare and bleeding. Where was the man who was above all this?

Sherlock's lips left Rose's, and he brushed them against her cheek, pressing them there, too, before drifting to the soft skin behind her ear. A soft sigh escaped Rose. This was not going to end with him getting to leave in a timely manner.

He drew back, but there, on the curve of Rose's neck, was a reddish mark. He furrowed his brow.

"Did I…?"

He stopped himself. He didn't want to talk about it, but Rose detected where his gaze was directed and lifted her hand to her neck.

"Is it a love bite?" she asked with a trace of humour, as she pressed her fingers to it.

Love?

Bite?

Firstly, it can't have been a bite. The broken capillaries beneath her skin were clearly as a result of Sherlock nibbling and sucking there. Hard. Until her sighs turned into a gasp of ecstasy.

Love?

He had been driven, he knew that much.

In the early hours of the morning, he'd woken with a start, already hard. It wasn't just nocturnal penile tumescence. He'd slid over to Rose, smoothed a hand over her, caressed her with light fingers until she stirred, sighed and opened for him. And then he took her. Tirelessly he plunged, while she clung to him, moving just as urgently beneath him, gasping his name. It wasn't at all one-sided. Sherlock could feel at least three places on his person where he sported his own 'love bites'. Stupid name.

"Don't worry," she said as Sherlock made to rise from the edge of the bed where he had been sitting. "I can cover it up with makeup before I go out."

He knew, without looking at her, that there would be a glint in her eye that told him she loved it when he took her with surprising urgency.

"What are you up to today?" he asked conversationally, endeavouring to change the subject as he crossed the room to the chair that held his jacket. Today was Saturday, and normally… (normally? Is there anything they did 'normally' any more?)… normally, they'd spend the weekend together.

"I'm having lunch with Lisa. She's—"

"Good," Sherlock said, pulling on his jacket. "I'm not sure how long I'll be. Lisa… she's the main salesperson… floor thing… isn't she? From the home entertainment store."

"No. She's the psychology student I tutor. Used to tutor. The single mum from—"

"Oh, good."

Why did he even bother learning their names? They kept switching identities, he was sure of it.

"—Edinburgh, here to visit fam—"

"Well, have a lovely day."

He gave Rose a quick smile to counteract her frown, and a wink for good measure. He felt a tiny bit guilty walking out on her mid-conversation, but he couldn't tolerate gaining another insight into the life of an undergraduate psychology student he cared nothing for.

Once Sherlock had left St George's Fields via the front security gate, he drew out his phone and took the volume off mute. As expected, he had sixteen missed calls and nine messages. No need to check who they were from.

He dropped his phone into his coat pocket, then rummaged around for his packet of cigarettes. As his fingers brushed the corner of the packet, he suddenly felt nauseated. After last night, perhaps today was a good day to give up.

His phone rang.

"Mycroft."

A pause, where he assumed his brother was quietly making a few deductions about the speed with which Sherlock answered the phone, the tone of his voice, and the ambient sounds of his surroundings.

"You're not at your flat," came Mycroft's first statement.

Very good, Mycroft.

"No. I'm on my way, though. Mrs Hudson's returning from Corfu—"

"Yes. I know. I've got a car waiting for her at the airport. I didn't want to add to her stress levels today."

Good God. What was the man doing?

"That's… very thoughtful of you. But now she'll be expecting something."

Another pause. Sherlock felt he should ask Mycroft how everybody else was faring. Did he need to make a statement to Scotland Yard? Did he have to report to the Security Services to help concoct a story surrounding Mary's death? Would they issue another D-Notice?

There was a jolt in his heart he endeavoured to ignore.

"And will you see John soon?"

And now his stomach roiled just to complete his feeling of unease.

"Yes," he replied, his voice rasping slightly. "At some stage. When an acceptable amount of time has passed in Mrs Hudson's company, I guess I'll head over to his place."

"You may not find him there. He could still be at Bart's. Hasn't left Mary's side all night, from last reports."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and bowed his head. The emotions he'd successfully kept at bay since waking pressed in on him. Squeezing his lungs.

"Right."

"There'll be an post-mortem of course."

"Yes, naturally." There was no air left inside his chest with which he could speak properly.

But speaking of post mortems… Why bring that up so soon? What was his brother getting at? That eventually someone would have to forcibly remove John Watson from his wife's bedside so they could cut her open?

"That could be days away," he offered.

"It's tomorrow."

Sherlock sighed and decided to continue walking along George Street. If he was going to die of some mysterious ailment—internal organ failure, perhaps—he may as well get as close to home as possible.

"Tomorrow?" he repeated. "Please tell me you didn't ask Molly Hooper to do it?"

"How insensitive do you think I am?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

"Ms Hooper—"

"Doctor Hooper."

"—will be needed for babysitting duties, as far as I can see."

Babysitting duties. Sherlock stopped in his tracks again.

Rosie.

"Molly knows then," he said, bowing his head and running a hand through his hair.

"Yes. Detective Inspector Lestrade informed her. She was babysitting the Watson's infant at the time of the… It was quite a busy night last night. Everyone was concerned for your whereabouts, naturally."

"Well, I'm fine and in one piece. I spent the night in one of my bolt holes. Okay?" Lies. All of it.

"Would you like me to send a car?"

"I'm almost home." Another lie.

"The funeral is scheduled for Tuesday."

"For God's sake, Mycroft."

What hadn't his brother organised?

Sherlock would never get home at the rate he was going. He crossed the street and continued on while Mycroft endeavoured to tell him that a swift funeral was for the best, and didn't Sherlock remember they hadn't delayed getting his own underway.

"This is different," Sherlock remarked. "Mine was—"

"The same person is grieving."

A cold hand clutched at Sherlock's heart. He suddenly realised that this was what John had been going through… when he thought he'd lost his best friend. But what did Mycroft know about such things?

"I know it's not easy for you," came Mycroft's voice again in a lower, kinder tone. "She was your friend, too. Suffering a loss such as this…" Such unfamiliar words were coming out of Mycroft's mouth. What is this? "With Redbeard..."

Appalled, Sherlock hit out, "For God's sake, Mycroft! You're not comparing this to… to losing a pet dog?"

"You shut down after you lost Redbeard."

"He was a dog. I got over him."

Mycroft was conspicuously silent. No snide remarks regarding his pet dog? Still holding the phone to his ear, Sherlock silently observed the world around him—the preoccupied early risers of a London Saturday morning.

"I'll keep you informed if John leaves Bart's," Mycroft said, with the finality Sherlock knew meant dismissal.

He ended the call.

But Sherlock had the distinct impression this morning wasn't going to get any easier.


"Strictly family, I'm afraid," said the nurse. "Well… just Doctor Watson, actually."

"I'm…" Sherlock began. The man who killed his wife. Will that do?

"Mr Holmes, yes, I recognise you," she finished for him. "How about I check?"

Sherlock's confidence in asserting his rights had disappearead the closer he had come to Bart's hospital. He'd left Mrs Hudson in the company of Mr Chatterjee, having asked her holiday companion to come inside for a moment. Sherlock hadn't wanted to be alone imparting the news.

He'd left her crying after holding her for several minutes. He made the excuse that he just had to see how John was faring. Naturally, she'd waved him away and Mr Chatterjee assumed the position of someone to whom she could cling.

The nurse turned to leave, and Sherlock gave her a head start before following her. She didn't invite him to, but he couldn't stand waiting in the visiting area a moment longer. He had to keep moving.

He saw the room she'd disappeared into, and approached cautiously. The door was still ajar, but slowly closing before him. He could hear low voices from within, but John's soon dominated, rising in volume. Sherlock just caught, "…anywhere near us right now!"

He froze, his mouth running dry. He stepped back, and didn't hear the nurse's response. But when she exited the room, she gave a start upon seeing him several metres from the door.

"I'm sorry. A bit too soon," she said, smiling apologetically. "Perhaps if you…"

But Sherlock had already spun on his heels and was striding away.


He scoffed again and violently sat up. Rose almost fell from the sofa.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock said, the creases in his brow prominent. "I can barely lie on this myself. And you in your…" He waved a dismissive hand at her. "…condition, means we both can't fit comfortably. If at all."

He sat at the end of the sofa and plopped his feet up on the coffee table. He vigorously rubbed his hands through his hair, leaving strands of it sticking up in angry tufts. Rose moved the cushions from behind her back, her heart thudding loudly. She stretched out her legs on the table next to Sherlock's and leant into him. He tutted. She tried to concentrate on the show, telling herself he was allowed to have outbursts of anger during this 'grieving period', and it wasn't about her. But Sherlock's mood had darkened considerably over the last few days and her eyes began to sting anyway.

Mary's funeral was on Tuesday, and Rose had no idea whether Sherlock had actually attended or not. He didn't visit her that night. His words "John just needs time" about his visit to the hospital on Saturday were quite telling and he spent a bit of time not in Rose's company. She had no idea what he was feeling. Not that he would tell her anyway. The raw emotions of Friday night had pretty much disappeared.

"Pointless," Sherlock spat. He aimed the remote control at the telly and switched it off.

Rose straightened up, about to protest, but Sherlock stood and stalked off towards the kitchen.

She briefly closed her eyes and tried to maintain a steady breath, before clicking the remote control to put her crime drama back on.

Things were definitely see-sawing with him. Just yesterday Sherlock had seen a therapist! At first, Rose thought they would then make some progress, but talking about his own feelings wasn't Sherlock's intention at all. After his remark about John, Rose had commented that perhaps he'd like to talk to someone about it, if not her.

"Yes," he'd murmured, with a far away look in his eyes.

It shouldn't have surprised Rose that he had decided to visit John's therapist under the guise of his own concerns about experiencing recurring dreams. Where had he picked that up from? But he had then proceeded to quiz the therapist about John instead. He didn't get very far with extracting information about one of her clients, obviously. No wonder he was in a bad mood.

With the funeral out of the way—the boring bits, Mary had said—Rose had visited the bank on the Strand in the morning. The DVD for Sherlock was safely tucked away in her bag. Perhaps whatever Mary had to tell Sherlock would give him some direction and sense of purpose. Rose wasn't sure when to give it to him, and she didn't want to trust it to the Royal Mail. She'd been tempted over the course of the day to have a look at herself.

Really, Rose?

It was a private message from Mary to Sherlock. Of course she wouldn't watch it.

Rose tried hard to concentrate on her show. The main protagonist, the Detective Inspector from Yorkshire, was going to confront the man they all knew to be the serial killer. By herself!

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock muttered as he re-entered the room carrying a mug of some hot beverage. "I bet she's not armed."

Rose stared at Sherlock as he settled himself down onto the sofa once more, propping his feet up on the coffee table and taking a sip of the drink he'd made for himself.

"Why are you still watching this?" he asked with his eyes glued to the screen.

"Because I'm enjoying it."

"Her detective sergeant's in cahoots with the killer. Obvious."

"What?"

"Ow, that's still hot," he remarked, grimacing after taking another sip of his selfish drink. "The DS had been in a relationship with him in highschool. Didn't you see the framed photograph on the shelf behind her dining table when she was talking on the phone over breakfast?"

Rose dropped the remote control on the sofa beside her and stood up.

"You choose something else then," she said. "I'm going to the bathroom."

She walked off without a backward glance and heard the programme change behind her. Rolling her eyes, she mounted the stairs. Did she really need the bathroom, or was she just making excuses to leave Sherlock's side?

Rose used the toilet anyway. Small bladder. Any excuse. She went to head back downstairs but was distracted by the light she'd left on in the spare room. It was going to be the nursery and had already been fitted out with the furniture she and Justine had purchased while Sherlock had been in Morocco.

The piles of clothing she'd been sorting earlier were still sitting on the change table. Rose's heart stuttered. Another sore point.

When Sherlock had arrived earlier that evening, he found Rose in the 'nursery' sorting through clothing Lisa had given her on Saturday—secondhand baby clothes from her brother or sister-in-law, or whomever she had been visiting while in London. Neutral colours and yellows and greens.

Sherlock had screwed up his nose when she'd explained it to him.

"Secondhand baby clothes? Ones that someone else's baby's worn?"

"Well… yes. Probably only once. And they're clean. Actually, I think some of them have never been worn."

Sherlock then proceeded to sample each one, placing them in one pile or another. New. Used. New. New. Used. Used. Used. Used. New.

And then he'd sauntered off, as if job done!

Rose looked at the two piles now. She couldn't have Sherlock wrinkling his nose every time their daughter wore one of the used items. Although, she could just wash all of them together, and then they'd smell exactly the same. How could he tell then?

He was Sherlock Holmes. Who was she kidding.

Rose picked up the pile of 'used' clothes, and placed them back into the shopping bag Lisa had given her. She'd donate them to charity and keep the rest.

Rose's heart felt heavy as she placed the second pile of clothes into the largely empty drawer. She couldn't imagine it being full. She had this discussion on an expectant mother's forum—about who'd stocked their nursery already. Apart from buying furniture, Rose hadn't done any of that. No nappies, lotions or wipes, except for the gift basket full of products Indira and Alice had given her during her baby shower.

Having a baby—in contrast to being pregnant—was still something that wasn't a reality for Rose. The closest she'd come to thinking they'd be an actual family—she and Sherlock and a tiny baby girl—were the couple of times Sherlock had chuckled at their baby kicking, and had kissed her abdomen. Since Mary had died, Sherlock hadn't acknowledged her pregnancy at all, except for the "your condition" comment he'd made earlier and the scoffing at baby clothes. He hadn't hugged her from behind and rubbed her belly and rumbled out a laugh at the acrobatic antics of their daughter.

Rose stared down at the cot mattress still covered in its protective plastic sheet. Her eyes pricked with tears. How were they going to progress to being doting parents with Sherlock behaving like… like what?

With Sherlock behaving like he used to be, when… when she first met him.

"You didn't come back," came Sherlock's voice from the doorway.

Rose hiccupped, startled, and quickly wiped at her eyes before turning around.

Sherlock was standing on the threshold holding a mug of tea. Not the mug he was drinking from earlier, but another one, one with a chamomile tea bag label dangling over the side.

"I made you tea," he said, blinking, as if a little unsure of himself, "and left it in the kitchen to steep earlier. Sorry. Do you want it up here?"

Stunned at this change of events, Rose's eyes rapidly moistened. She quickly sniffed and blinked back her tears.

"In the bedroom," she said, heading for the door. She flicked off the light and said, "I'm finished here anyway."

Sherlock followed her in, and she busied herself turning down the covers and switching on her bedside lamp.

"I've upset you," he said, after placing down her tea cup.

"I'm…" Rose gave him a half-smile. "I'm pregnant. It's in my job description to be upset."

"I made you cry."

"Sherlock…"

"Mrs Hudson keeps crying."

To her, he suddenly seemed like a small child who didn't understand the simplest of emotions. As if he'd regressed.

"She's… grieving," Rose said, tentatively. "It's her response to Mary's death. Crying is a great emotional outlet, but not everyone grieves in the same way. Some people just busy themselves with other things. It's perfectly fine either way."

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes scanning the bedroom rug before returning to hers.

"You're not going to finish watching the show with me?"

Say yes, Rose. He needs your company, but won't admit it.

No. I have needs, too. And I'm so fucking tired. The last thing I want is more verbal abuse in front of the telly.

"I'm… probably going to read for a bit. But thanks for the tea."

He gave her a tiny nod in acknowledgement, then made for the door. Rose held her breath, willing him to turn around, but he didn't.

She read for ten minutes, twenty, then twenty-five, not really concentrating on the Psychology Today article.

Oh, for fuck's sake. She tossed her iPad aside and drew back the covers. Grabbing her now empty tea cup, she headed for the door.

The instant she was out on the landing, she knew. Downstairs was in complete darkness, and there were no sounds from the television. She flicked the light switch on the landing, then descended. The signs were all there, though, the most tell-tale of all, the empty hook by the door where Sherlock's coat ought to have hung.

.


A/N: Not quite the end of T6T, but almost. Just one more chapter to go in the episode. I know this, because I've already written it :D