Author's Note:
Apologies for the delay between updates. Winter is almost over, and hopefully my enthusiasm will pick up as I thaw out! Thanks for being so patient with me!
Chapter 96 — I'm Not Sweet, I'm Just High
Rose sat on a chair beside the tub and massaged shampoo into Sherlock's unkempt curls. A little tricky, comfort-wise, in her condition.
Only a small amount of protesting preceded Sherlock's time in the bathtub. He conceded they could still conduct their brainstorming session with Billy perched on the closed toilet seat lid, the computer on his lap. Up until this point, Sherlock had largely ignored Rose, until she suggested she wash his hair. His expression had been a mixture of embarrassment and contained excitement. Under normal circumstances, he loved that sort of pampering. That he acquiesced, perhaps indicated things were returning to normal.
Rose wasn't really listening to Sherlock and Billy discussing the rudiments of the case. Finally, Sherlock had something on which to focus. Perhaps he'd climb out of his drugged-out haze now.
"You're talking about the Culverton Smith," Rose said, pausing her lathering, as she finally tuned in. "He's on just about everything. He does all those... charity things."
"'e' was on that wish thing, for kids with cancer…" Billy volunteered.
"Yes," Sherlock said, his eyes remaining closed. He waved a hand above his head to indicate he wanted Rose to continue with the head massage. "And that's what makes his particular level of crime utterly despicable."
"As opposed to someone who's openly hideous in his day job, who randomly murders lots of people on his off days," Rose remarked as her fingertips raked Sherlock's scalp.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open and focussed on Rose.
"He puts himself in a position of power over the weak and vulnerable."
"And then what?" Rose asked. "Murders one of them?"
Rose had to withdraw her hands when Sherlock sat up, deep creases appearing in his brow.
"Why don't you..." He flapped a hand toward the bathroom door. "Go fill a syringe for me. A higher percentage of cocaine. I need to think."
"Sherlock, no!"
Rose's mouth ran dry. What happened to abstaining? Didn't cases give him a renewed sense of purpose?
"Well, make me a cup of tea then," Sherlock said, sinking beneath the water again. He tilted his head back and began washing the shampoo away. "Make yourself useful," he continued, not looking at her. "You're not adding to the conversation in any meaningful way."
Rose's cheeks burnt as she left the bathroom, taking the chair with her to deposit in the corner of Sherlock's bedroom.
"Okay," she heard Billy say as she strode along the passageway to the kitchen. "I've made a list of the charities 'e supports, but there's only one main 'ospital that 'ad a wing named after 'im."
It took every ounce of willpower not to walk out. Of course she wouldn't. He needed her. His way of grieving was to bury himself in work and sedate his emotions. It hurt though, the way he was treating her. But she had to be strong. For her and their baby. And for Sherlock, of course.
Rose put the kettle on, then cleaned the counter around it. Every other surface was cluttered with dubious-looking equipment for the manufacture of illegal substances. She continued on through the living area, collecting tea cups and saucers. She piled them onto the counter and hoped Billy would wash them. Her East End friend had advised her not to go behind the plastic curtain in her condition, due to the fumes that may still be present. That made the sink area inaccessible.
By the time Billy emerged from the bathroom, she'd made three cups of tea. Two sat on the living room table, while the third was in Rose's hand. She sat in her chair by the fireplace, slowly sipping raspberry leaf tea while navigating through phone messages.
'Right, 'e wants a meetin' with Culverton Smith," Billy said, taking a seat at the living room table with the laptop. "'as to be the same day that Doctor Watson finally takes a look at 'im."
"What are you talking about?"
"Coordinatin'," Billy said, without turning around. "Oh, thanks for the tea, Rosie."
Coordinating what? Rose had no idea what Billy was on about, nor did she care.
"Billy. I want you to dismantle the equipment in the kitchen. You have to tell Sherlock you're cutting off his supply.
"Nah, can't do that," he replied without turning around. "I only watch over people. I don't preach or counsel."
"That was before. Now you're manufacturing and supplying. There's a difference."
"Yeah, well, we're working on summat."
Rose's blood began to boil. Billy was spending far too much time around the arrogant sod.
"I'll… I'll report it to the police."
"And put y'self in the spotlight?" Billy asked, finally dragging his gaze away from the screen.
"I won't tell them my name. An anonymous tip."
Billy turned his attention back to the computer. He sighed.
"Shezza said the nick 'ave been 'ere loads-a times for drugs busts. They never find anything. It'll be like the boy who cried wolf. They won't waste their time comin' round again."
Rose brooded in silence. Of course she'd never ring the police. She wouldn't do that to Billy.
Or Sherlock.
She thought she heard movement in the kitchen and waited a beat, but Sherlock didn't emerge.
"He's using you, you know," she said in a low voice to Billy.
"I'm learnin' stuff," he replied. "Like I said: I'm 'is protégé. And now we've got a proper case."
"So he doesn't need any of that!" Rose said, furiously pointing toward the kitchen.
Her outrage didn't appear to have any effect on Billy. She tried to lean back in the chair but it was hard to stay comfortable these days. Her insides began to churn again. The little baby tumble dryer inside her had switched on. Rose absentmindedly rubbed a soothing hand over her rather large baby bump.
Finally Billy stopped typing and turned to her.
"'e can detox at any time," he said. "Look what 'appened last year. And 'e 'asn't been using at all this year. Stoppin' won't be a problem for 'im. Doesn't affect 'im too much. Well, except for that thing at Christmas."
"What thing at Christmas? Do you mean us breaking up?"
Billy's eyes widened a little.
"No… the…uh… yeah. Your break up."
He looked nervous for some reason.
"Is that what you meant?" Rose asked.
"Ah. Yep. 'e chucked a lamp across the room. Made a hole in the plasterboard. Shame, when he'd spent so much time fixin' it up. Painting 'n stuff. Well, don't matter now. Not since I got evicted. A hole in the wall is someone else's problem, innit?"
Billy turned back to the computer. Rose narrowed her eyes at his profile. An awful lot of detail there, Billy.
Only lies have detail, Rose.
If Sherlock was teaching Billy, then why hadn't he taught her friend how to lie better? Sherlock was the best at that! So what was Billy covering up for him?
Rose received a sharp kick on one side of her stomach. Cheeky thing.
You know when I'm thinking ill thoughts about your dad, don't you?
Dad.
Sherlock was going to be a father. Did he even think about that any more?
"Billy," Rose began, attempting to keep her voice even. "You know he has a baby on the way. Has he said anything about that at all?"
Thankfully, Billy turned his attention to her again.
"'e said you should be in Edinburgh and I shouldn't let you in. 'e tried to tell Hudders not to let you up, but she said he should be talking to someone about... y'know. Coz 'e's grievin'. She thinks your 'is therapist."
"Yes. I told her that ages ago. And she's right, though."
Sherlock's not talking about the baby. Rose's eyes stung, but she blinked potential tears away and took another sip of her tea.
"I'm due in four weeks," she said, looking down and rotating her cup in her hand.
"Then we'll 'ave this solved in three," Billy stated confidently.
Rose was only slightly warmed by Billy's comment. He continued clicking the mouse, prompting Rose to finally look at the computer screen to see what was keeping him so occupied.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Jus' browsin' this list of therapists."
"So you think he needs one, too."
"No," Billy said, twisting around. "Not for 'im. For Doctor Watson."
"He already has one. Sherlock visited her."
"Yeah. I know that. Do you think Doctor Watson will go back to her if he knows Shezza tried to question her?"
"I don't know," Rose said with a light shrug. Nor do I care.
"What do you think Doctor Watson's state of mind is like? What would 'e be planning for the future?"
"I…" She was going to dismiss Billy's question, but the topic under discussion had taken an interesting turn: speculating about someone's state of mind. Rose missed her uni seminars. Frequent contact via phone with her ex-classmates made her miss Edinburgh and her life there. Not to mention the visits from Scott Williams. Her stomach twisted at the thought. Was Scott Williams even still alive? Sherlock said he was going to kill him off.
"I think he probably drowns his sorrows at night," she said, recomposing herself, "when he's obviously missing Mary, but he'd keep himself busy during the day."
Rose remembered encountering John the night before Sherlock's funeral. She had come around to Baker Street to pay her respects. That visit had taken a turn for the worst. Best not dwell on that. But something John had said during their conversation gave her a clue as to his plans for the future. He had told her that after Sherlock's funeral, he would move out of Baker Street. Possibly live with his sister.
"I think he'd want to change things," Rose said. "He may eventually move house, get a job somewhere else, but they're huge changes. He'll change the small things first."
"Like get a new therapist?"
"Possibly. But I don't think he'll want to show he's not coping. He definitely won't tell anyone about it. I don't know how you'll find out who he's seeing. Don't tell me Sherlock wants to visit them as well?"
"Nope, just needs to know 'is whereabouts..." Billy said, trailing off as his eyes scanned the screen. "'e'll 'ave-ta make an appointment during 'is lunch hours or the weekends," he murmured.
"He'll want to spend time with Rosie on the weekends," Sherlock said behind Rose, startling her. She hadn't heard the door slide open. "So, lunchtime appointments it is then."
Sherlock strode in, shoving down his dressing gown sleeve, the air rippling around him.
"Ah, tea, thank you."
Since his tea had now gone tepid, it was no surprise that Sherlock was able to down it one go. But knots formed in Rose's stomach.
"So. John," he said, now pacing the rug.
He seemed just a little…
Rose's heart sank. Of course he was. Wired. While she and Billy were sitting in the living area chatting, he'd quietly had another hit in the kitchen. That's why he took so long to appear.
"Of course there's always a chance he'll move in with his sister," Sherlock went on. "Good point about him wanting to change everything," he added, sweeping a hand in Rose's general direction. "But he won't want to stay with Harry if she's got that wagon thing happening again."
"Wagon?" Rose asked.
"On the wagon. Or off. Whatever. Harry's an alcoholic. Must remember to send her a ten pack of gin and tonic from Tesco. That'll keep John from choosing her as an option."
"What? You're sending an al—"
"It's only a matter of time before she goes on another binge. I'm just—"
"That's so cruel!"
"I do what I can."
Rose watched him pace. Sherlock had brought his hands up to his mouth, palms together, as he about-faced. Rose's insides were all churned up. She didn't like him right now. Cold, hard arrogance seeped from him. It made it so hard for her to want to stay here and help him.
"What's John's whereabouts got to do with your case?" she asked him.
"Were you even listening back there?" he asked, stopping in his tracks and gesturing toward the back of the flat. "Solve the case, save John," he said cryptically.
Rose's face hardened. There was always a case, and John and drugs. Why did the three have to go together? And why couldn't Sherlock ever see how much harm he was doing to himself in the process?
Sherlock had strode to the window and was peering out onto the street. Rose awkwardly pushed herself out of the armchair. She needed to stretch. Her stomach was tight. There was hardly anywhere to recline comfortably. Perhaps the sofa, or Sherlock's bed, or maybe she just needed a long walk.
"There," said Billy. "A list of therapists close to Doctor Watson's surgery, so he can ride 'is bike there."
"Excellent," Sherlock said, turning from the window. "Why was I looking out the window?"
Rose picked up her tea cup, straightened up and rubbed her back.
"Oh, good. You're going," Sherlock said, walking towards her. "I need you to—"
"I'm not going. I just need to lie down."
"Well, lie down at your place. I want you to ask Bob something."
"Can't you ring him?" Rose said, striding through to the kitchen and depositing her cup onto the counter. When she returned, Sherlock was waiting for her, his brow furrowed.
"No," he said. "GCHQ may be listening in, and these are the exact type of keywords they monitor me for."
"They monitor you? What keywords?"
"Tell Bob to bring me half a dozen of his miniature recording devices."
Rose didn't like to ask what for. She drew in a steadying breath.
"I won't be going home til it gets dark," she told him.
"No," Sherlock said. And Rose was surprised when he placed gentle hands on her shoulders, but then he turned her to face the door. "There's no one out there that shouldn't be. That's why I was looking out the window. One part of my brain is faster than the other. It's safe for you to leave now."
He gave Rose a gentle push towards the landing, but she turned around to face him.
"I need my things."
Sherlock immediately left her, and made for the back of the flat. Rose supposed she could do with a walk anyway.
When Sherlock returned with her bag and coat, she said, "I'll be back later tonight." She hoped he'd get the message she was still going to be supportive, despite his current demeanour.
"No, Rose. I just want Bob. Don't come back here. In fact, you should return to Edinburgh. Scott Williams is about to take a nasty fall in Seoul, and you should be there to receive the news."
Rose's heart stuttered and her throat constricted. He was still alive!
"No, wait," she said, striving to keep her tears at bay. "Just hold off on that for a while."
"Why?"
"Because… if… if you're going to kill him," she said, locking moist eyes on Sherlock's cold, grey ones, "just wait until after the baby's born."
Sherlock blinked, as if to keep back his own emotions. But in a split second, the icy façade was back again.
"What difference will that make?" he asked.
"It will make the world of difference to a small child. I just want one photo of Scott Williams holding his baby daughter. Just one. A keepsake for her." Rose's voice was fraying at the edges, nerves shattering. Sherlock turned from her.
"Fine. Now leave," he said, waving a dismissive hand as he left the living room for the kitchen.
Rose let one tear drop, which she hastily wiped from her cheek. She turned to her friend, who was frowning at the screen again.
"See you later, Billy," she said, adding a false cheeriness to her voice.
"Uh, yeah, Rosie," Billy said, rising from his seat. He enveloped her in a bear hug, and it was all Rose could do to stop from dissolving into a puddle of tears.
Without another word, she made for the stairs.
Scott Williams had a stay of execution. Four weeks until the baby arrived; three weeks for Sherlock to solve his bloody case. There was still hope for them!
