Author's Note:
I was so keen to get this chapter out (one I've been hanging out to deliver since I began writing series 4) that I didn't get a chance to thank most of you who reviewed the last chapter. Also, by a massive oversight, I haven't thanked those who reviewed Ch. 95 as well. So, thanks thedragonaunt, magentacr, pallysdeeks, wynnleaf, deschperado, shadowthief-wolf, Danny Almeida, StTudnoBright, Robinhood4ever, Grace Monroe, Melone and Guest.
I hope you enjoy this chapter, and rest assured, things will eventually get better! :D
Chapter 97— You Know I'm a Killer
Unappealing swill. Sherlock prodded the sausage, then dipped his index finger into the tomato sauce the baked beans swam in. He sucked the sauce off the end of his finger. There. Consider me breakfasted.
"Here's your breakfast, Billy," he told his companion. Such was the fate of every dish Mrs Hudson delivered. What was she trying to do? Fatten him up so he resembled his brother, circa 1995? Sherlock didn't eat while he was on a case. Surely the woman knew that by now.
Billy finished hanging up another printout of Culverton Smith before taking a seat at the living room table.
"Thanks, mate," he said.
Sherlock sank into his armchair and looked about him as his assistant tucked in. There were still quite a few gaps about the place that should be filled with the image of the man who was supposed to command his attention. Gaps in Sherlock's line of sight were a strange bedfellow of hallucination. Gaps could produce a vision of Rose at any moment.
Real or imagined, she still posed a problem for him. In the stark light of day, if he wasn't high, the wound in his heart still gaped and festered. And if Rose was around when his body was going through such physiological torments, it became easier and easier to snap at her, since she was the obvious cause. At night, however, her presence, false or not, was most welcome. He slept far better if she (or the apparition) pressed soft kisses to his brow and slotted into his side, curling her arms around him, her light breath tickling his neck. Her scent wafted into his nostrils and his fingers dove into the silky strands of apple-pear-scented hair. His torments were eased for several hours.
"Need more over there." He pointed towards the doorway. "In fact, a whole string of them," he added, gesturing across the room. He jiggled his feet. He needed a coffee. But he'd wait until Billy finished his breakfast.
"How many days until CASK Day?" he asked Billy.
"Three," was the reply, spoken in a mouth full of beans kind of way.
Three days. Good. It couldn't come soon enough.
Rose waved one final time to Adrian and Indira as they set off down the path through the St George's Fields manicured garden. She turned and slipped back inside the flat. Breathing in the silent air, she closed her eyes. Though she loved her friends, Adrian and Indira as a couple brought a kind of chaotic busyness to Rose's mostly solitary existence.
Right, better get moving, she thought. She had a few minutes in which to freshen up, before meeting her 'pregnant and new mum's' group at a café in South Kensington for morning tea.
Halfway up the stairs, her phone rang. It was Justine.
"Your visitors left?" her friend, neighbour, birthing partner and security detail asked.
"Yes, just," Rose said, laughing a little. "You must've heard them, surely?"
"I'll come round and get the baby's room sorted again."
"They'll be back on Monday," Rose said, puffing a little as she climbed the stairs.
"I thought they were off to Paris?"
"Just for a few days, then they'll be back for a day before heading north again."
Rose reached the top of the stairs and held onto the banister while she caught her breath.
"I'll pop over anyway," Justine said. "Straighten it out in case the baby arrives in the meantime."
"We won't need it straight away… okay, fine."
Rose didn't have the energy to argue with her. She and Justine had attended birthing classes together, and Justine advocated having everything prepared just in case Rose went into labour. Her hospital bag had been packed for weeks. Rose's due date was still a week away, but Justine had quite correctly pointed out that babies arrived when they were ready. In Rose's mother's group, out of the five of them, two had now given birth, and they were the women whose due dates were after Rose's.
Rose stood in the doorway of the nursery and surveyed the mess her friends had left behind.
Since Adrian and Indira had hooked up one sleazy Saturday night and entered into a relationship in Edinburgh (spawned, no doubt, by the fact they had a mutual friend in Rose) they had decided to spend Indira's uni break visiting London. And yes, Rose had said she'd have no room for visitors after the baby arrived, not thinking they'd take that as advice to come before the baby arrived.
Well, it had all worked out in the end. Their company this last week had been a welcome distraction. Showing them the sights of London, and taking them out to dinner to introduce them to her clubbing friends—since Rose didn't want to go to nightclubs in her condition—had made the days bearable. And having Adrian as a friend, rather than whatever he thought they should be was a huge bonus. Still, over the week, she caught him gazing thoughtfully at her abdomen. Did he still think there was a possibility the baby was his?
Rose sighed as she mentally listed what she had to do. Fold the sheets, put them aside for when her visitors returned. Let the air out of the mattress. Fold it up, squish it into the back of the closet. Move the cot and change table back…
"Don't you dare," came Justine's voice behind her.
Rose left Justine to rearrange the room with only minimal protesting on her part. And she told Justine that yes, she had noticed the new sleepsuits that the woman had sneakily stowed in the drawers.
"Well, they were on sale," Justine said, a smile tugging at her lips. "Oh, and don't forget this. In case Kaitlyn comes to your morning tea with her new one."
Justine handed Rose the present she'd bought her mother's group friend whose baby had been born Friday last—a bathing set. Rose would've forgotten it. She was getting more absentminded the further along she was in her pregnancy.
She left the nursery for her bedroom, changed into her favourite maternity dress—the striped, ribbed one—swept up her hair, then applied a light dusting of makeup. She was interrupted by a text from Lisa. Her former tutoring student was in a bit of a panic about starting her new course in Liverpool at the end of the month. Rose wondered if she could squeeze in another tutoring session with Lisa before the week was out. Well, why not. All good distractions from Sherlock and his condition.
She quickly sent back, Counselling 101 tomorrow afternoon? Rose smiled to herself. Lisa was a capable student. They'd probably spend most of their 'session' talking about babies and Lisa's own labour experience instead.
As she crossed the landing, she called out to Justine that she was going.
"And I might pop over to Baker Street afterwards," she added, making for the stairs.
"No, you bloody well will not," Justine said, swiftly exiting the nursery. "No more stress before the baby's born. It's not doing you any good."
"Not knowing how he is will cause me more stress."
Justine set her lips into a thin line.
"You should take it easy while you've got the place to yourself again. Promise me you won't go round there today."
The former special agent could look quite murderous when she wanted to.
"Fine," Rose said, turning towards the stairs. Not today then, she thought. But perhaps…
As she descended, Rose reviewed her plans for the rest of the week: a checkup with her midwife tomorrow morning, coffee with Lisa in the afternoon, and dinner with her ex co-worker, Sunil, and his partner Thursday night. So, maybe Friday morning was do-able. Justine had a yoga class at eleven, so Rose could slip out then.
Rose hadn't seen Sherlock for almost two weeks. The last time, she'd visited after 11pm on a Saturday night, when the streets were busier and she wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Billy had let her in, he said, only because "Shezza's asleep" which meant less of a chance Sherlock would yell at him for allowing Rose to enter.
Rose had curled up beside Sherlock in his bed and he'd banded his arms around her automatically. They slept like that, limbs entwined, just like old times, until Rose's alarm woke her at 4am. She slipped out of the flat into the darkness once more.
Friday morning it is, then.
Heavy limbs, aching joints, bright light, throbbing head. Business as usual.
Annoying voice.
"Shezza, wake up! It's CASK Day!"
Sherlock's eyes refused to snap open. He pried the heavy lids apart and stared up at Billy's hazy form.
"What?" he croaked.
"CASK Day. This is it."
Billy thrust a piece paper in front of Sherlock's face. What looked like a blurry, hand-drawn map of the London Underground gradually came into focus. The squiggly lines, red crossings out, and purposeful arrows were all too familiar to Sherlock. It was their plan of attack. Plans and predictions.
"We're 'ere," Billy said, pointing to one strand. Along this timeline, there had been no crossing out. These scenarios had all panned out, leading to this very day, CASK Day. Billy had thought up the acronym. Brilliant.
Sherlock squinted at the writing above Billy's fingertip.
"What's 'LL'?" he asked, pulling himself upright.
"Landlady."
"Right."
Landlady. Scare the bejesus out of Mrs Hudson, so she would take dramatic action against him. Sherlock remembered that now.
He swung his legs off the bed as Billy gave him room.
After vigorously rubbing his scalp, Sherlock asked, "Where's my gun?"
"Ah… maybe 'ave some coffee, first. You've got time. And when I say 'coffee', I actually mean—"
"I know what you mean. I'd prefer tea first. And a line of coke. The old-fashioned way."
"'ey. Hang on."
Sherlock had little time and patience to explain. Lethargy was the enemy here. He required just the right amount of mania and aggression in his performance to shock his audience of one.
Sherlock staggered into his ensuite bathroom to freshen up. One glance at his watch told him it was just after eleven thirty. Almost lunch time. They'd better get moving then.
Sherlock entered the kitchen to find that Billy had a syringe waiting for him. No cup of tea. No line of coke.
"Sorry, Shezza, but this mix 'as worked well for us this last fortnight. A higher percentage of cocaine."
"I wanted a cup of tea," Sherlock said, scowling, before reaching for the syringe. Just this last one. Because it was CASK Day and he needed to focus.
Rose rubbed her back before she reached out and pressed the buzzer for 221A. Perhaps she shouldn't have walked all this way.
"Oh, hello, love," Mrs Hudson said.
"Hello, Mrs Hudson," Rose said, forcing a smile to her face. "I know you're not supposed to let me in, but I just wanted to—"
"You'd better come in," the landlady said, her mouth turning down at the corners. She opened the door wider and stepped aside. As Rose entered, Mrs Hudson added, "I don't think he's in a good way."
Rose's breath hitched a little as panic rippled through her.
"Why, what's happened?"
Mrs Hudson shut the front door behind them. She clasped her hands together as she addressed Rose at the bottom of the stairs.
"I thought he was going to be okay," the landlady began. "He's been eating his dinners at least. But he's a bit obsessed with that fellow on the telly. Pictures everywhere. The whole place is a mess!"
"Okay," Rose said, feeling marginally better. At least Sherlock hadn't ended up in hospital. Yet. "I'll go up and see if he wants to talk about it."
"Are you sure you want to do that in your condition? Should you even be working? You're due any day now, aren't you?"
"I'll be fine," Rose replied, smiling briefly before turning for the stairs.
Each step still filled her with dread and she paused on the landing to stretch her ribcage. There was no room left inside for her lungs to expand. Come on, she thought, rubbing her belly this time. It did little to alleviate the discomfort. To top it all off, her legs, or more specifically, her thighs, were feeling heavy.
Rose gaped a little when she entered Sherlock's living room. Mrs Hudson was right. Pictures of Culverton Smith had exploded around the room. Sherlock and Billy stood by the living room table, discussing something that lay in front of them.
"She's going to need it to force me into her car," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with condescension. "Why would I voluntarily go otherwise?"
"But not a loaded one," Billy retorted.
"Then I'll empty it first."
Sherlock lifted up the object. The gleam of metal caught Rose's eye. A gun! Sherlock turned towards the sofa at the back of the living room, his arm outstretched. Rose gasped as he took aim and said, "The wall could do with some more—"
Sherlock stopped suddenly, his eyes flicking to Rose. He slowly lowered his arm as Billy turned around.
"What's she doing here?" Sherlock snapped. He dropped the gun onto the table with a clatter and added, "She's going to ruin everything." He turned his back on them, moved towards his armchair, but didn't sit down. With a hand resting lightly on one hip, Sherlock bowed his head before running fingers through his curls.
"I… I'm not sure I like what you've done with the place," Rose said, struggling to maintain an even tone.
"Rosie," said Billy.
Her friend hastily retrieved the gun from the table, awkwardly concealing it behind his back before he approached her.
"Y'can't be 'ere today," he said sternly. "It's CASK Day."
"What?"
"CASK Day. Catch A Serial Killer. I made it up m'self."
Rose shook her head as Billy beamed at her. She didn't have the patience for Sherlock and Billy's delusional detective games today.
"Sherlock," she said, bypassing Billy.
"Not today," Sherlock muttered, throwing his head toward the ceiling as if pleading to the heavens.
"I just want to talk to you," she said.
Sherlock heaved a sigh before turning to her. Before he could speak, however, movement in the kitchen caught his eye.
"Where are you going with my gun?" he called out. He brushed past Rose and made for the kitchen.
Billy stood in front of the passageway leading to the back of the flat.
"I said I don't think you should let a nice old lady threaten you with a loaded firearm," Billy said. "It ain't safe."
Sherlock stopped at the edge of the kitchen, as if they were having a stand off.
"And I said it won't be loaded."
"For God's sake, you two," Rose said. "What's going on?"
"You see, this," Sherlock said, pointing to Rose while his gaze was still locked on Billy. "This is what you bring to the table. Get rid of her."
"No, Sherlock," Rose said, her skin beginning to prickle. But she remained composed when Sherlock turned to her, his expression hardening. "This," she continued, gesturing to the pictures strung above her. "This isn't good. We should talk."
"Nobody asked you. Why are you even here? There's nothing for us to talk about. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to ignore you for the next few minutes."
"I'm not leaving until you talk to me properly."
His eyes locked on hers, narrowing slightly. If he was going to stare her down, it wasn't going to work. This pretend hatred wasn't fooling anyone. She'd heard his sleepy murmur of 'I love you' in the stillness of his bedroom one night. It just about broke her heart.
"Hmm," he said, his brow drawn down in an exaggerated expression of contemplation. "Now what's your worst nightmare? I know. Nosy journalists snooping into the background of a woman who was seen leaving Sherlock Holmes's abode. What will they uncover, do you think? Let me tweet something that will get half a dozen journalists parked outside my front door. Good luck getting out anonymously after they arrive."
Rose was momentarily speechless as Sherlock strode over to the living room table and sat down behind his computer. Was he really going to tweet something about her?
"Shezza," Billy said, striding through the kitchen towards them.
"Let's see," Sherlock said, tapping away as he spoke. "Culverton Smith. He's a serial killer! Hashtag—hiding in plain sight." He pressed Enter with a flourish. "That'll get the press 'round, wanting a comment."
Rose's abdomen tightened and she reflexively rubbed a soothing hand over it. As Sherlock vacated his seat, his eyes dropped to her hand before he turned for the window. Rose didn't know whether to burst into tears or throttle the man. He really was a bastard. Why was she even here?
"You have approximately eleven minutes before the first vultures swoop," he said, parting the curtains and looking out onto the street. "I'd leave now, if I were you."
She would. She ought to. The pressure on her tear ducts was enormous. But she had a duty of care, didn't she? She had prior knowledge of a man going off the rails. She could just hide out here all night until the press grew restless and left. She had to stay put for the moment. Sort this out.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Rose said, "I'm not letting you go anywhere with a gun."
Sherlock's face lit up in a half-smile. His eyes twinkled in ridicule.
"You think I'm taking a gun with me? Do you think I'm going to shoot Culverton Smith in the head, like I did Charles Magnussen?"
"Shezza."
Sherlock's words buzzed in Rose's ears along with the warning note in Billy's. What did he just say?
Rose froze, her eyes widening as Sherlock glanced toward the kitchen where Billy must've been standing, behind her.
"Oh," Sherlock said slowly, as if catching on. "You don't know about Magnussen, do you?"
Rose opened her mouth, but no words came out. She couldn't take her eyes off Sherlock's. She was waiting for an explanation, for him to say he was only joking, but Sherlock just shrugged.
"I don't have time for this," he said, sweeping past her. "Billy can explain later over a joint. He's more articulate when stoned. Now, where did you put it."
Rose turned around slowly, her emotions see-sawing. Sherlock strode to the back of the kitchen, but Billy hadn't moved from the doorway into the living area. He was no longer holding Sherlock's gun, she observed, but he was still watching Rose, a hint of panic on his face.
Tears pooled in Rose's eyes, because Billy's expression didn't deny Sherlock's claim.
"Where is it!" Sherlock yelled from the vicinity of his bedroom. "You just had it!"
"Rosie," Billy said, moving towards her. "You should go."
The air was rapidly thickening around her. Although he was closer, Billy's words sounded distant, while Sherlock's pierced the air.
"Did you eat it!" he yelled, now from the bedroom, where bedcovers flew off the bed onto the floor.
Rose slowly shook her head. She didn't know what she was supposed to do. As she continued staring towards the back of the flat, she could see the now familiar gleam of the gun on top of the fridge.
"C'mon, Rosie," Billy said, gently guiding her towards the door. "I can explain it all later."
Rose walked with Billy to the landing, since her mind hadn't come up with an alternative way to respond.
"'For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother! Be he ne'er so vile!'" came Sherlock's harsh voice from the back of the flat.
"Ah, you'd better go quick smart," Billy said. "'e's quotin' 'enry the fifth now. It's gonna get messy. I'll take care of it."
What the hell? thought Rose, but she did as Billy had bid her as sounds of furniture being shoved aside and items falling to the floor emanated down the stairwell.
Tears pooled but remained unshed and her whole body trembled with shock. Sherlock had… shot—and killed—Charles Magnussen? When Rose reached the ground floor, she was met by a concerned Mrs Hudson, who had just emerged from her kitchen.
"Get back in here now, Wiggins!"
"What on earth is…" the landlady began. "Oh. Are you all right, love?"
"I'm… fine," Rose said, wiping at her eyes. "But I can't…"
"Where is it!"
"Sorry," Rose said, her voice breaking. "I can't… I can't do anything for him."
Rose left Mrs Hudson at the base of the stairs and strode to the front door. Muffled yells and crashes continued to drift down the stairwell as Rose escaped into the street, her heart beating furiously.
She barely remembered the ride home by cab. Much quicker than catching the tube and having to walk from the station to St George's Fields. She did remember rubbing her belly during the journey to stop it feeling so tight, not that her efforts had any effect at all. Scenery drifted by the cab window while Rose was lost in thought. She tried to recall everything she knew about Charles Augustus Magnussen's death. Was it covered up then?
Her mind went around in circles, yielding nothing.
Once home, she unlocked the door to her flat just as Justine came striding up the path.
"All right, Rose?" she said.
Rose couldn't get inside fast enough. Leaving the door ajar, since she knew Justine would follow her in, Rose made a swift bid for the sofa.
"Rose, what's wrong?"
Concern was written all over Justine's face. Rose knew she must look a sight, but she refused to cry again.
"I… I just needed to lie down," she replied, kicking off her shoes. She was lying on her side which did nothing to alleviate the pain in her back and thighs, nor the pressure on her abdomen.
"You're looking very peaky," Justine offered.
"I've just been on my feet all morning. My back's a bit…"
"Your back?"
Justine seemed to pounce on her words.
"It's nothing," Rose said. "I just walked too far. That's all. Actually…" Rose struggled to sit up, prompting Justine to grab her under the elbow. "I just need to pee… again."
"How far did you walk?"
Rose continued to the back of the flat.
"Rose?" Justine prompted.
"Baker Street," Rose said, stopping in the alcove before the ground floor toilet and turning to face Justine. "Yes, I went to see Sherlock," she said, exhaling deeply.
"And you look awful. He's got you all stressed again, hasn't he?"
Rose's abdomen tightened and the dull ache she'd been feeling in her thighs also intensified. She rubbed a hand across her stomach and grimaced.
"What's wrong?" Justine said urgently.
"Nothing," Rose swiftly replied.
"Did you just have…"
"No."
Rose's throat tightened and she could feel a flush creeping across her cheeks.
"Oh, love! If you're not in early labour—"
"I'm not!" Rose straightened up and attempted to recompose herself with a steadying breath. "It's a backache, that's all," she said pointedly. "I slept awkwardly last night."
Justine's expression softened.
"Well, I'll make you a cuppa tea. Why don't you have a shower and a lie down? I'll fix you some lunch—"
"Justine. Don't fuss."
Justine's half-smile grew as she approached. Taking Rose by the hands, she said, "I think we're going to have a baby soon, love. If not today, then definitely tomorrow. I woke with back pain one morning, and I ignored it all day long! I woke at midnight with full on contractions! You mark my words! You're in labour!"
Rose swallowed hard. She felt herself clenching Justine's hands back. There was no way she could have a baby now. It was too soon. She wasn't ready. This was the worst possible time to bring their daughter into the world. The man she had loved with every fibre of her being, who had proven to her time and again what a caring and thoughtful partner he was, whom she imagined would excel at this parenting business, that man; he had completely about-faced. He could only say he loved her when he was in a half-state between sleep and wakefulness. He was a drug addict, and worse: a murderer. He would never be ready for fatherhood.
.
