Chapter 93 — Breaks It Off—Breaks Her Heart
Rose drew out her phone and inhaled deeply. It was a quarter to seven, not too late. Sherlock wouldn't be joining her this evening, again. That much was obvious. She brought up his contact details. Her thumb hovered above the handset symbol. Don't text! He ignored chit-chat type messages, but she wanted to let him know she was here for him.
Her stomach churned. He blamed himself! What must he be thinking? Why hadn't she gone downstairs sooner!
Unsurprisingly, her call went straight through to his voice mail.
"Hi... Just…"
…checking to see how you were…
…worried about you…
"…wondering if you wanted chips for dinner? I've got a craving. Pregnancy hormones. Who would've thought I'd be craving them?"
She finished off with a laugh. Pathetic. He'd see through that in a second.
Rose wandered the flat in search of something to occupy herself with, but the floors were swept, benches and table-tops clear, and the laundry done. She collapsed onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling. When her phone buzzed with a message, she eagerly snatched it up.
Oh, crap. Adrian again.
Now that she was back in London, it was surprising the number of friends from Edinburgh who thought a trip to the capital city was appealing. Probably the idea of free accommodation. London wasn't cheap. To be fair, Lisa had been visiting her brother, so that was a different case. But Indira and Alice—the latter obsessed with the London Underground—thought they'd visit after the baby arrived, as did Adrian. She wouldn't have the space to accommodate them all! Not even singly! And there was Sherlock to think of, and their fiercely guarded privacy.
I'll deal with rejecting Ade later, she thought, tossing her phone onto the bed. Tea first.
Rose hastened downstairs, momentarily relieved at having something to do. Upon returning, she carefully placed her tea onto the bedside table, sank down onto the bed and idly picked up her phone.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," she muttered. Away from her phone. Of course he'd bloody ring.
Swiftly, she dialled Sherlock's number again.
"I was going to call you back in two minutes," he said.
"Why? Where are you—"
But she was abruptly cut off by the very familiar, and very loud, clangs of the Westminster Chimes.
Rose opened and closed her mouth, but there was no point. Sherlock wouldn't hear her, and as it was, she had to hold the phone away from her own ear. A heavy weight descended on her and she scrambled out of bed. Why was he there?
Once the chimes had finished, Sherlock added, "Just a few seconds longer."
It was the longest thirty seconds of her life. Sherlock was on top of the bell tower! Rose paced up and down the small rug beside her bed. Come on! She needed the impossible—time to speed up!
After the seventh bong reverberated through her phone, Sherlock said, "Sorry about that. I tried to delay the chimes… moved those silly little coins around… but it didn't do anything."
"Why are you there? Who's with you? Sherlock, you can't… Just stay there. I can be there in—"
"Rose."
"You can't do this…" she said, choking on her words.
"Do what?"
Her breath came out in short bursts.
"This… take… take…"
"Take what?"
Her mind frantically tore through her crisis centre call processes, but they all led to her recommending a counsellor. She wasn't qualified to offer counselling!
"Take your… it's not yours to take. Don't you dare!"
"I've no idea what you're talking about."
How could he sound so casual? Heat was rising in her neck, spreading to her cheeks. She stopped in front of the bed and clenched her fist by her side, digging her nails into her palm.
"Take your own life! You can't do that! You're a part of our lives now. It's not yours to take from us!"
"Take my…? Oh... Rose, relax. I'm not about to jump. I'm having a cigarette. Mrs Hudson hates me smoking inside."
A flush crept across her cheeks and she relaxed her hand. She was so stupid. He was having a smoke? All the way up there?
"You can smoke here," she said in a small voice. "On the patio."
"It's raining."
Rose's heart still continued to thud dully in her chest. She was an idiot. Sherlock wasn't like that. Why had she panicked?
Rose forced a smile to her face in an effort to make her voice match.
"I… I was ringing about chips… do you fancy any?"
"... Sorry. I've already eaten. You must've read my mind. Couldn't get them delivered though."
There was a trace of humour in his voice. How could he joke at a time like this? But Rose deflated. He had an answer for everything.
"Will I see you later?"
She was met with silence, which caused the back of her neck to prickle.
"You don't want me around, disturbing your sleep, tossing and turning." His voice was lower. Considered.
"I don't—" mind or care.
"I'll talk to you later."
"Wait."
Rose drew the phone away from her ear to check, but Sherlock had quite obviously ended the call.
No! Stop it, you stupid man! Stop pushing me away!
She quickly pressed his number again, and then just as swiftly ended the call. Who was she kidding? He wouldn't answer. He clearly didn't want to talk to her. If she was going to let him know she was truly there for him, then she had to do something a bit more drastic.
Rose passed through the internal door, which was still open and dropped her keys into her bag. The hall was lit by the lamp on the entrance table. Was it normally like this, or was Sherlock out? But Rose spied something she'd been hoping to find—a pile of letters on the table.
She pulled out the parcel from Mary. Careful not to disturb the pile too much, she slipped it underneath the topmost letter.
With a heavy heart, Rose ascended. The living room door was shut, but not locked. She opened it cautiously and stepped inside to find Sherlock Holmes staring at her, his brow furrowed as he sat in his fireside armchair, a book open on his lap.
"Why are you here?"
Not a good start.
Rose closed the door behind her and drew in a steadying breath as Sherlock pushed himself out of his seat.
"Because I love you and I miss you." She had wanted to say the words with conviction, but her voice trembled towards the end. "And I… wanted to make sure you were okay."
The creases in Sherlock's brow lessened just a little, as if he was thrown by her words, but then his jaw clenched and he narrowed his eyes. He tossed the book he was reading onto the seat of his armchair.
"I don't want you wandering around London at this time of night."
"I was with Bob."
Sherlock sighed as he approached her.
"Yes, I'll be having a word to him about that," he said.
"Sherlock."
But he kept moving towards her, with Rose freezing on the spot, only her eyes widening as he came closer. Leaning forward, Sherlock lightly touched her arm, ducked his head and kissed her cheek.
"Hello." He turned from her and asked, "Tea?"
Rose's heart continued to thump loudly as Sherlock left her for the kitchen. Her cheek felt warm where he had kissed it and his cologne lingered. Finding her voice at last, she thanked him, then added that she was just going to put her things away.
Rose swiftly made for the bedroom as Sherlock was filling the kettle. Her muscles still felt tense, and her chest tight. At least he hadn't kicked her out.
She left her coat and bag on the chair in the corner of Sherlock's room and re-entered the kitchen. Sherlock was leaning back against the counter with his arms folded in front of him and his head bowed.
"I had my first checkup today… since coming to London, that is," Rose said, with false cheeriness.
Sherlock straightened up, then turned around, his attention back to his tea preparation as Rose approached him.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Yes. Fine. Just the usual measurements and things."
He retrieved two tea bags from the overhead cupboard.
"I'll be going every fortnight from now on," Rose added.
He added sugar to one of the mugs.
"So… if you'd like to come along…"
Kettle. Hot water.
"…you're quite welcome to."
Tea bags jiggling.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock left the tea bags in the mugs.
"Do I need to?" he asked as he crossed the kitchen for the fridge.
"Only if… if you wanted to ask… something," Rose replied. Her face felt hot again. "If you had any questions."
"Why would I have questions?"
He came back with the milk and proceeded to add it to each mug.
"Or concerns," Rose said.
"I don't have any concerns."
He took the milk back to the fridge, so Rose reached for the mug without added sugar and left the kitchen with it.
"I'm thinking of going to a couple of antenatal classes," she called out.
I'll just pretend to be normal. What else am I supposed to do? His behaviour is perfectly fine. Expected, even.
"Yes, I've heard about those," Sherlock said, making his way back into the living area with his own tea. "Mary wanted to go. She couldn't get John to… well, they were separated at the time."
Sherlock settled down into his seat, pausing to pick up the book he'd left there earlier. Rose carefully scrutinised him. He didn't even react to his own mention of Mary. He placed his tea down onto the table next to his chair and opened up the book.
"Did she go in the end?" Rose asked, casually taking a sip of her tea.
Sherlock shrugged and didn't look up from his page.
Rose cleared her throat and said, "Well, I might take Justine along."
"Good."
"I could just say she's my cousin… or something. Not really old enough to be my mother…" She finished with a laugh. Well, it was true. Justine was in her mid-forties. Perhaps she could've easily been a teen mum. A pretty cool teen mum. Although, had she been a teen mum, she may never have completed secret agent training, or whatever it was they did.
While Rose was having her own private conversation in her head, Sherlock didn't respond. She could feel the tiny tears in her heart getting bigger.
"I could say my partner's away… deployed… or…"
"Only lies have detail."
He turned the page then reached for his tea once more.
Or you could just say you'll come with me! she thought furiously, shooting daggers at his bowed head.
Well, who else could accompany her when she was in labour, if not her baby's actual father? But he said he'd be there… Then why isn't he preparing for it? And I should have someone else, if Justine isn't available either. She could be in Blackpool visiting her daughter and grandchild.
"Lisa's moving to Liverpool," Rose volunteered, suddenly remembering her friend from Edinburgh, who also had her own experience with childbirth. "Did I tell you?"
"Mm."
"She's going to transfer her credits to a uni there. Bit like me. Travelling all over just to come complete one bloody course. But she wants to be closer to her son, I guess. So…"
"That's nice."
"It starts up again in September—the course—but she'll stay with her brother while she's here in London. I think it's her brother she's vis—" September! Lisa won't be here for the birth! Forget about her then.
Sherlock turned over another page, not reacting to Rose's break in conversation.
Back to her original plan with Justine then.
"So, maybe—"
"You really should think about turning in," he said, without any inflection in his voice.
And there it was. He was pushing her away again. Rose bit her bottom lip to prevent herself from crying. She dropped her gaze to her lap, fidgeted with the handle of her cup, then said, "Yes, I think I might."
She left her seat, and her tea, and moved toward Sherlock. Finally, he lifted his gaze from his book and looked up expectantly.
"Goodnight," she whispered, bending towards him. Butterflies flittered through her stomach when he inclined his head further. Their lips met, but Sherlock was already withdrawing before Rose applied any pressure.
"'Night, Rose," he said, his eyes dropping to the page.
Rose made herself scarce. She didn't care to take her half-full tea cup into the kitchen. Sherlock could. Then he'd see that he had dismissed her before she'd finished. He was clever about making deductions like that.
With stiff, heavy limbs, Rose went through her night-time ritual. Though exhausted, she didn't think she'd sleep at all, at least not until Sherlock had joined her. She fixed the covers on the bed, turning them down how Sherlock liked them to be. She left his lamp lit, and settled underneath the covers on her side, nearest the ensuite bathroom door. Her mind replayed their conversation, such that it was. Could she have behaved more supportively, less selfishly? She kept adding bits she should've said, deleting things she shouldn't have, over and over, until her eyelids grew heavy.
When the mattress sank lower, she was pulled out of her light sleep, not knowing until that moment that she had actually nodded off. Rose rolled onto her back as Sherlock pulled the covers over himself and turned to his side, facing away from her. He reached out and turned off the lamp just as Rose had stretched out an arm. She placed her palm lightly on his back anyway.
"Goodnight, Rose," he said, the instant she touched him.
Rose withdrew her hand, a lump forming in her throat.
"'Night, Sherlock."
She stayed where she was, facing in his direction, even though she couldn't make out his form in the dark. In the still of the night, she listened to his breathing, for ages it seemed. But after a while, she couldn't determine if he, like her, was still awake.
Give him time, she told herself. He wants to be alone, and your presence tells him he doesn't need to be. Don't push him any further.
I'm a crap therapist.
You're not his therapist.
You're the woman who loves him unconditionally.
Sherlock's steady breathing lulled Rose into a state of half-dreaming, until she sank lower and lower into the depths of sleep.
From his vantage point on the corner of Melcombe Street, Sherlock watched Rose enter the Baker Street tube station with Bob at her heels. He assumed she'd be tempted to stay in his flat all day if she had woken with him beside her. He had made the uneasy decision to leave even before she'd woken for her routine trip to the bathroom in the early hours of the morning. He'd devised a scenario—a flat devoid of his presence—and combined with what he knew Rose's response would be, he correctly anticipated her next movements.
She would return again that night, and every night after that until Sherlock spoke to her about his feelings. He needed time. He couldn't find words to justify the tightness in his chest and the never ending twisting and churning in his gut. His head buzzed with a million thoughts, none that were fruitful. What feelings were these? And what if Rose couldn't fix him? Would she try to?
Sherlock left his post and returned to the flat. He contacted Bob later that morning, outlining his wishes for Rose. Bob dutifully agreed. No protesting on behalf of Rose. Good man.
But that morning, he dwelled too long in his flat.
"We'll have to rally round, I expect," Mrs Hudson said, dabbing a tissue to her nose. Sherlock made noises in agreement. "Do our bit," she continued. "Look after little Rosie."
Still dressed in her mourning clothes, his landlady found new ways to remind him that Mary was no longer with them. He hadn't left the flat early enough. He had to move away from the conversation—bury himself in work.
How could he look forward to the birth of his own daughter with the knowledge of what he had done weighing him down? He didn't deserve the life he and Rose were planning together. He couldn't look at Rose. He couldn't hold her, and it just about killed him. Neither could he talk about the future with her, not without his thoughts constantly straying to the Watsons and his own hand in destroying their family. It was his own arrogance and overconfidence in his abilities that had blinded him to the emotional response in another.
But the request from Mary via a DVD was a shocking discovery. There was too much to process, and Sherlock couldn't do that while Mrs Hudson was still sniffling by his side.
"Oh… she can't mean all that," she said, once Sherlock had closed his laptop lid. He leant back in his seat and brushed his lip with his thumbnail.
Then what did she mean? Her request was quite explicit.
Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "I have to go out. Clear my head a bit."
As he walked towards the Marylebone Road, his mind turned over a couple of other things Mary had said. The danger may be the fun part, but there were consequences he couldn't outrun forever. Although her words were preamble to her actual request, they remained with Sherlock, settling uneasily in his gut.
Traffic trundled along beside him, but he was oblivious to the trivia of everyone else's lives. This life of his, one that he had shared with John and Mary, it was what they wanted. What they all wanted.
The danger was the fun part.
But not Rose, he thought as he crossed the Marylebone Road to continue along Baker Street. This wasn't the kind of life she had ever planned living. They weren't compatible. How could Sherlock Holmes bring a child into his world, which was fraught with danger? How could anyone?
A sharp pang in his heart reminded him of his goddaughter. Rosie! What was going to happen to her?
Sherlock stopped outside a fish and chip shop—his second favourite in the area. It was too early for chips. Where was he heading anyway?
He drew out his phone. He needed to know what was going on in John's life without calling his friend himself. Did he really need saving?
"Sherlock."
Molly sounded relieved to hear him, but an infant was also squawking into the phone. Clearly Molly was holding Rosie.
"Are you…" He stopped himself. Stupid question. Obvious.
"I'm with Rosie. John… John's not here. Do you think…" She stopped abruptly to soothe the baby. "Do you think it's too soon? For him to go back to work, I mean. He went in for a few hours. Or at least to see if they'll let him."
"I… don't really know."
"No. I don't either. Oh... Sorry."
Rosie had started her hiccuping cry once more.
"No, I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I should let you go."
"She's just overtired."
"Talk to you later."
"Sherlock."
He ended the call and gazed along the street before signalling to a vacant cab. He was tired with having to navigate the city on foot. Perhaps he'll…
But wait. He shouldn't let Molly manage on her own. What kind of godfather did that make him? He gave the cabbie the Watsons' address and settled in for the ride, his phone still in his hand. He was in two minds whether to ring Rose or not.
Sherlock asked the cabbie to stay for a minute while he checked on Molly. If she needed a break from babysitting their goddaughter, he could send her home in the cab while he looked after Rosie.
As it turned out, he needed the cab for himself after being dismissed. Not unkindly by Molly. Her expression and body language were one of regret and embarrassment on Sherlock's behalf. But he could feel his heart shrivelling up all the same.
He directed the cab to Lambeth. A walk from the bridge, up-river, past Vauxhall, and perhaps all the way to Chelsea Bridge would do him the world of good. A body washed ashore somewhere along the embankment may prove a welcome distraction.
The hulking edifice of MI6 Headquarters rose up beside him as he neared Vauxhall Bridge. Her Majesty's Secret Service. Vivian Norbury. What had she been rabbiting on about? The Merchant in Sumarra—the story Sherlock had aways hated. This was what Mary was also trying to tell him. He couldn't outrun death. The path he was walking on, the dangers he was constantly seeking, would all lead to an inevitable conclusion. And this wasn't what he wanted for Rose and his daughter. Their lives needed to take another direction.
Sherlock's heart sank lower as he continued along. He had made up his mind. Mary's message had made everything clear to him. Sherlock and John and Mary were one particular type of person. To continue living the life he wanted, he needed someone like John by his side, as much as John needed him. And so he must save John in the manner outlined by Mary. As for Rose and their baby? He never wanted to put them in danger. And he didn't want them to have to go through this process of grieving by losing a partner and a father in such a violent, seemingly pointless way. Sherlock couldn't change his own destiny.
Suddenly short of breath, Sherlock stopped and held onto the railing beside him, as the full force of his decision hit him squarely in the chest.
He had to let them go.
.
A/N: Ugh, sorry!
Weird coincidence: when researching if Big Ben ever went out of sync, I discovered that it was indeed out by six seconds during the time this chapter was set—August 2015. They didn't know what had caused it!
And this is the end of The Six Thatchers! Fun times ahead! The Lying Detective is up next.
Did you enjoy my take on T6T? Enjoyment being a relative term!
