A/N: A long one this time! I hope you enjoy it :)
Chapter 98 — Keeping Off the Sweeties
"Our priority, Mr Holmes, is to manage pain and avoid withdrawal," the consultant told Mycroft in her clipped tones.
Just shut up, the lot of you, Sherlock thought, wincing from the vice–like grip the migraine had on his head.
"And as I've already stated," came Mycroft's voice laced with the full weight of Her Majesty's Security Services, "my brother is not to be administered opiate-based pain medication."
Fuck off, Mycroft.
Sherlock rolled to his side, a difficult manoeuvre given the kicking in the ribs he'd received at the hand of one medical professional, but it was a feeble attempt to move away from the conversation that was taking place in the doorway to his room.
"…the risk of conflict with our staff," another voice said.
The voices waffled on and on. Sherlock only tuned in every so often. Even though it was two against one, Mycroft's argument was the only one where the statements gave the underlying suggestion of simultaneous lawsuits and exiles to Siberia. It was a lost cause. The hospital's acute pain management policies with regard to a patient with an addiction disorder were lost to him. No assignment of a personal addictions nurse who would individualise a pain management plan for him; no smooth transitioning from acute pain management to ongoing management of his substances misuse. All nice words. Comforting, anaesthetising words.
Not for him. He was now on the receiving end of a blunt detox stick. Beaten over the head with it, in fact! No more opioid-based analgesics for this junkie!
Sherlock clenched his fists, curling into the pain that rippled through his abdomen. Beads of sweat lined his forehead. Couldn't they move their fucking meeting to the passageway?
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as another wave of nausea battered him.
It was a power move by Mycroft to insist that this was his office, rather than agree to have the discussion where the hospital hierarchy felt comfortable. It was a statement reminiscent of… Magnussen.
Sherlock's stomach lurched and he lunged for the bowl on the bedside table.
This should shut them up.
As his stomach clenched and squeezed, forcing vile liquid up and out, Sherlock knew the room had cleared. When there was nothing left, he retched a couple more times.
"There's water here, if you need it," a familiar voice told him. A caring voice. Nurse Cornish.
Perhaps she would be so kind as to switch his intravenous drip with something from the top shelf. She was a fan, after all. He could hydrate himself orally, and luxuriate in the best the hospital had to offer as he had done when he was first admitted.
After the excitement of catching a serial killer had died down, and he'd given his statement to Lestrade, parried insults with Mycroft, and exchanged "where do we stand with each other now" looks with John, Sherlock was left with only the comedown as his companion.
He fell limply back onto the bed. Every joint, every muscle wrenched in pain.
Fucking Mycroft.
Interfering busybody.
Sherlock knew the worst was still to come.
"I've never killed a pregnant woman before," came Culverton Smith's lava-fuelled voice, hot and thick in Sherlock's ear. It rippled with barely contained excitement. "Which way do you cut, do you think?" he asked Sherlock, holding up the scalpel. "Along the grain, or across it?"
"No," Sherlock whimpered. But he was powerless. His eyes widened in fear. Didn't anybody know Culverton had escaped custody and was now after their baby?
"It'll be painless, I promise," the killer assured him. "She won't feel a thing. You can watch if you like."
Sherlock's limbs were heavy, his vision blurred. He couldn't move or call out. Culverton's laughter echoed around him. Rose was nowhere to be seen. Had she given birth or hadn't she? Had Culverton Smith killed both mother and child? Where were the reinforcements?
Hammers smashed his bones to smithereens, reassembled them only to fasten them to a stretching rack. He drowned in his own sweat, ligaments ripped out of his body and entwined around joints, strangling them. Day turned to night. Faces loomed, laughed, scolded.
On the one hundredth day of torture, or so it felt like, Sherlock woke to a someone's light humming and an instrument probing his ear.
"Much better," came Nurse Cornish's voice. "D'you think you might be up for some breakfast this morning? I think you're over the worst of it."
"Fetch me my coat, my phone, and fifty milligrams of your finest Naltrexone," he said, his voice like gravel.
Cornish laughed lightly.
"Oh, we are feeling better. How about some toast? You must be hungry. Mr Holmes, your brother, wants you home today, so I expect Doctor Arami will be in to see you shortly."
"I still have a headache," Sherlock said petulantly. Just the mere mention of his brother prompted his blood pressure to rise.
"I'll fetch you some paracetamol. So, was that a yes for the toast?"
Sherlock gave a faint nod. He stared at the ceiling while Nurse Cornish updated his chart. What had she said? He wasn't over the worst of it. The worst was that he had to exist in this world and now had to be entirely lucid for it.
Remnants of his nightmarish hallucinations still sat with him, namely Rose and… the baby.
Was she still pregnant? How long had she been pregnant for? Every time she visited Baker Street, she looked just about term, but not ready to pop. Except for that last visit. He had noticed something, but had dismissed it, just like he'd been dismissing her for weeks.
Sherlock's heart sank. Her abdomen had dropped. That was it. The baby's head had engaged. He'd done his research—in happier times. He knew what this meant. Still, labour could be weeks away.
"Okay, then," Nurse Cornish said, putting the chart back and making for the door.
"What's today's date?" he asked her.
"Oh… it's Sunday."
"The what?"
"The thirteenth. You've been here since Friday."
Nurse Cornish smiled briefly before she left.
The thirteenth. Their baby's due date was the sixteenth! He still had time! Or did he? He knew how these things worked. Most babies were born on either side of their due dates. He was still in with a chance. A slim chance, perhaps.
For what? To be with Rose during labour? After everything he'd said and done? But it was her fault, really. She should've hightailed it to Edinburgh after the voice message he'd left her. She should never have been here to witness his fall—to be a recipient of his anger. He'd treated her appallingly. Did he really think she'd allow him to be there?
But she had kept coming back. She had laughed when he told her he didn't love her anymore. She curled up beside him in bed. Showered him with soft kisses. That was Rose, wasn't it? Not some figment of his imagination. And what was their last encounter like? Business as usual? Or…
Oh, dear God, no!
The realisation hit him like a bolt of lightning. He'd told her about Magnussen.
Sherlock's veins filled with ice. His mind tried to pinpoint the exact moment he had confessed to shooting Magnussen. What had been Rose's reaction? He didn't know! Hadn't really noticed, except to observe that she was stunned. He'd been too distracted searching for his gun! So, how would Rose react to that revelation?
Sherlock's breath came in short bursts. He had to tell her he was sorry. Sorry about everything. He didn't mean any of it. He wanted her back. He wanted that life again—to love and be loved. And a baby! Their baby! He told her he'd be there for the birth. Promised her!
His heart rate was accelerating now.
"Here we are," Nurse Cornish said, re-entering the room holding a tiny cup. His paracetamol, most likely.
"I-I need my phone," Sherlock said.
"Oh."
She placed the cup onto the bedside table and looked about her before realisation dawned. "Ah, Mr Sm—" She cut herself off, not wanting to say the hateful name, most probably, then drew her lips in a thin line. She tried again. "He took your belongings away, didn't he? Let me just go and see where they might have ended up."
Sherlock closed his eyes in an effort to calm himself down. Rose would hate him. Absolutely despise him. He was a murderer. He didn't deserve her. She had every right to exclude him from her life now.
But that's what he originally wanted, wasn't it? It wasn't safe for her to be around him. That's what he'd decided. He'd pushed her away because he wanted to protect her. Protect them from the dangers that came with his particular lifestyle. Why had he changed his mind about it now?
Because I nearly died.
His breath caught in his throat as the very real memory of having the life force squeezed from his body came to the forefront of his mind. He couldn't breathe. He wasn't strong enough to save himself. Culverton Smith's eyes had locked on his. Those disturbing eyes weren't the last ones he had ever wanted to see. He didn't want to die! He had to see her one last time. Explain everything.
But that wasn't even the first time he'd been close to death. He remembered his heart leaping to his mouth standing on top of Bart's hospital. There was always the risk of dying during that stunt. And he didn't count the time he actually had died by Mary's hand. That had happened too quickly and he had no real memory of it. No time to dwell on what he was leaving behind. There were countless times his life had been on the line during his stint abroad and past drug misuse, so why the anxiety now?
Was it because he was finally tethered to someone? Not in the same way that he had bonded with John Watson. With Rose it was mind, body and soul—if he believed in such a thing. And they had created a new little person together. How had he thought his only course of action was to banish her from his life? To make her hate him? What had he been thinking?
It was too late. There was no going back. Sherlock had made the biggest mistake of his life and he had to suffer the consequences. He would have to live with this gaping wound in his heart.
Pressure built up behind his sinuses. Live with it. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, his eyes still clamped shut. As a wave of regret enveloped him, drowning his heart, he choked out a sob.
"Oh."
Sherlock was jolted back to reality by the female voice. He opened his eyes. Unshed tears blurred his vision. Not the right shape for Nurse Cornish. The woman was holding something draped over one arm. Sherlock knew that posture.
He blinked to refocus and wiped at his eyes.
"Sorry," said Molly Hooper. "I… I thought you were asleep." She repositioned herself, looking at him with wide eyes. Dammit. Molly had caught him in a vulnerable state again!
"What are you doing here?" he snapped, then immediately regretted it.
"Um… Mycroft asked me to… he said you might need this. A change of clothes." She gestured to the suit bag unnecessarily. "Because you're being discharged today."
Sherlock's gaze dropped to the bag slung over her arm then back to Molly again.
"But why did you bring it?"
"Because… I'm riding home with you. An escort." She smiled uneasily. "Mycroft's got a car…"
Sherlock's gaze remained stony. He didn't know why he was being such a prick to her. Oh, yes he did. There was no dopamine left in his system, thanks to the two day detox. None at all. And he had nothing to feel happy about. Not anymore.
"And Mycroft wanted to make sure I didn't stop at some East End drug den on the way home?" he said, waving a flippant hand.
"Something like that," Molly said with a rueful smile. "So, I'll just leave this here," she added, draping the suit bag over the end of the bed. "I'll wait outside. The nurse said she was looking for your coat."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," he said. He inhaled deeply as Molly faced him, her brow furrowed. "Why did you come?"
She blinked, obviously taken aback by his penetrating gaze.
"Because Mycroft ask—"
"Mycroft could've had his driver bring my clothes up. I want to know why you're here."
Molly regarded him for a moment, and then, as if by some internal force, she stood taller. It was so subtle a gesture that a less observant mind would've missed it.
"Because I care, Sherlock," she said, her eyes locking onto his. "We all do. We're friends. You've been through a traumatic experience, and… and…"
"Are we friends?"
She looked at him, her brows arching in puzzlement.
"Yes."
"And how is that working out for you?" He couldn't quite keep the bitterness from his voice. Just what was he doing, exactly?
"What?"
"I can think of many times you've done favours for me, Molly. Supplied me with take-home parts for my experiments, allowed me free rein in the lab, faked my own death..."
Molly gaped a little, but offered no response.
"So," continued Sherlock, "the question I have for you is: what have I ever done for you?"
Molly's clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing.
"Why are you asking me this?"
Bands tightened around Sherlock's chest. He felt everything drawing inwards. It was a defensive mechanism which allowed him to strike out when necessary.
"We're friends," he said. "You said so yourself. How am I a friend to you? Have I ever done you any favours?"
Molly folded her arms in front of her. Her own defensive position. Did she know he was getting ready to strike?
"Well… you… you once spent all night looking for Toby."
"Toby. Your cat, Toby."
"Yes."
"As I recall, I was using your flat as a bolt hole, and I carelessly let him out."
"Yes. And you felt awful about it, so you spent all night searching the neighbourhood, while Toby sat on a window ledge and watched you."
A smile played on Molly's lips, but it wasn't quite enough to pull Sherlock out of the depressive quagmire into which he was slowly sinking.
"I don't deserve your friendship or anyone else's. I have no idea how to be a friend. My idea of helping a friend through grieving for his wife is to binge on a cocktail of drugs and take on a serial killer. How does that even qualify?"
Molly's expression softened.
"You're not like everyone else, Sherlock. You know that. And everything you do has a reason behind it. Your... your friends are people who know you better than anyone else. We know you care."
Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and stared pointedly at the edge of the bed, avoiding Molly's gaze, effectively dismissing her.
"I sometimes help Mrs Hudson record shows on her FreeSat box," she went on, her voice quavering slightly in that way Molly had when she was bristling with emotion. "But you… you'll be there to throw somebody out the window if they cross her. I'm sure I can count on you if I… if I ever need someone thrown out of a window. We all do what we're capable of."
Sherlock's eyes widened at Molly's last example, extreme as it was. He was sure she was trying to lighten the mood, but he remained in a dark place. His landlady had only been roughed up by that American agent because Sherlock had invited danger into his flat.
"The people who are your friends are the people who get you," Molly said, her voice now unwavering. "And anyone who doesn't understand you doesn't count. Now get dressed." She gestured to the bag on the bed, before turning to leave. "I'll be outside."
On exiting through the doorway, she almost collided with Nurse Cornish.
"Oh, s-sorry."
Molly left without a backward glance, leaving Sherlock's mind in a whirl.
"Now you have a complete outfit," Cornish said, draping Sherlock's Belstaff over the suit bag. "I'm afraid your phone has no charge left. Not that you could use it in here. But you'll be out in a jiffy. That's nice, isn't it?"
Sherlock clenched his jaw and looked away, still smarting from Molly's semi-lecture. Nurse Cornish placed his phone on the table next to him.
"You won't need to wait for Doctor Arami to see you now," she added, clasping her hands together. "Doctor Watson has signed for your discharge. I don't know how that works, but the government seems to have endorsed it. Your brother likes to move things along, doesn't he?"
Nurse Cornish fussed about him, doing God only knew what, while Sherlock dwelled on Molly's words. Only those who knew him and understood him were his friends, and nobody else counted? Was that his view of the world? Did that mean those who knew him readily accepted all his flaws and every despicable act he'd ever committed? Where did that leave Rose? If she was one of these so-called few, did that mean she would also forgive him? Accept him the way he was?
But she had been accepting. Mostly. Up to a point. His last confession, though. He still didn't know what the fallout would be from that one yet.
"I'll leave you to get dressed," Nurse Cornish said, finally vacating the room.
Sherlock eased out of bed and padded to the bathroom. He didn't want to shower here, so he freshened up by splashing his face. He regarded his dishevelled appearance. Bruising underneath his left eye, faded to a pale yellow. But more dramatically, a subconjunctival haemorrhage also in his left eye. Nice one, John.
Sherlock dressed awkwardly and uncomfortably, still feeling dizzy from the limited amount of time he'd spent upright. But he'd deserved John's ire, hadn't he? Expected it. Wanted it.
What would Rose think of his appearance? This was how low he had sunk. This brutal form of punishment had been carried out by his best friend.
Tell me how that works in terms of friendship, Doctor Hooper.
Sherlock left the hospital with a minimum of fuss on anyone's part. Molly fell into step beside him, but she had no more insightful words for him either then or during the car journey. At the flat, Sherlock was thankful Mrs Hudson filled in the silences for them.
"Look what they did to my bloody sink!" she'd told him. Never mind the damage her lodger had inflicted on the flat in the last few weeks. Mrs H was on a rampage because Mycroft's people, in scrubbing out the kitchen sink, had scratched it up a little.
Molly and Mrs Hudson were happy to natter about Rosie for a bit, so Sherlock made excuses that he needed a bath. His phone was charging in the bedroom; he could hear messages pinging as he soaked. His heart tripped with every one. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He finished up in the bath, quietly dressed, then sank onto his bed, his device in hand.
Disappointingly, there were no messages, text or voice, from Rose, Bob or Justine. Surely, if she'd given birth, at least one of them would've contacted him? Sherlock's insides twisted. He still had a chance to be at his daughter's birth!
"I'm off, Sherlock," Molly said to him, standing in the open doorway.
Sherlock gave her a quiet nod and a half-smile in acknowledgement, his mind still on the radio silence from Rose's end.
"So, I'll see you tomorrow afternoon," she added.
"Yes," he said quickly, giving his head a slight shake to clear it. "Thank you."
He couldn't say what his thanks were for. Everything really. From Molly's understanding to her refusal to cower under his brief interrogation. For her friendship.
Her smile in return seemed to say it all, and she left Sherlock alone with his messages from potential clients and reporters—everybody, except the one he really cared to hear from.
Wearily, Sherlock left his room. Mrs Hudson was wiping down the kitchen counter.
"I'm making you a pot of chicken soup," she said. "They say detox is a bit like catching a cold."
Sherlock grimaced.
"It's nothing like catching a cold."
"Plenty of fluids, I always say."
Sherlock drifted into the living room and sank into his armchair. He placed his phone down beside him and watched as various messages from nobodies flicked by. He turned it over. It was depressing.
When Lestrade arrived, Sherlock had just finished consuming Mrs Hudson's Drug Addict's Special. Almost licked the bowl clean, in fact. He'd been starving!
"That was the most disturbing interview I've ever experienced," the D.I. said, almost swaying where he stood.
"You didn't have to come all this way to tell me that," Sherlock said. But in actual fact, he was relieved to have someone else whose voice could break the silence and take his mind off his worries in the way that his landlady's could not.
"No. Your brother's got me on the night shift," Lestrade declared, waving a limp hand towards Sherlock. "Anyway, you up for a pint?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow.
"I'm on the road to recovery," he told the D.I. "I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to be paved with pubs."
"Oh. Right. 'Course not."
Lestrade sank down into the chair opposite.
"How about a cuppa tea?" he said, lifting his brows in hope to Sherlock.
It gave Sherlock something to do, and he was grateful that the Scotland Yard detective wasn't going to assume the role of nurse maid. And Lestrade's recount of his "interrogation" with Culverton Smith, although disturbing, was an improvement on listening to Mrs Hudson's witless babble.
Sherlock couldn't stay up too late. He was still recovering and he needed his sleep. He thought he'd toss and turn all night, his mind as ever returning to Rose and impending labour, but the second his head hit the pillow, he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He slept in late, waking to find that Lestrade had been replaced by John. It was awkward, to say the least. John spent most of the time reading the newspaper, chatting to Mrs Hudson about Rosie, and eating the breakfast supplied by the landlady.
Sherlock sought relief from the silent tension by hiding in his bedroom, trying to work up the courage to ring or, at the very least, text Rose.
His thumb hovered over her contact details. What was he going to say to her? How should he even start?
Sherlock pressed Call before he talked himself out of it. Perhaps after he'd said 'hello' she would direct the conversation in that expert therapist's way of hers.
What Sherlock didn't expect, though, was Rose's voicemail greeting. His breath hitched, and he found himself clearing his throat and saying, "…. it's…. me." Of course, it is, you moron! Sherlock's heart began to drum erratically. Christ! Where to go from here? "Just… letting you know I'm out of hospital. Maybe you didn't know I was in hospital, but it was on the news, or so I'm told. Part of my plan, clearly." He forced a laugh into his voice. "A touch of the dramatic. You know me. The case is closed, anyway."
He lapsed into silence again. Okay. None of that was actually helpful.
"I'm fine…. by the way. Mrs Hudson can't stop feeding me. Chicken soup is good for recovering addicts, apparently. And I have minders. They're on a roster. I can't be trusted in my own company, but…" Oh, for Christ's sake. "The flat's been cleaned up. All my secret hiding spots raided… not that I've had anything hidden for a while. It's all been out in the open. Weird how they cleared out my drawer full of condom packets. Remember those? I've got no idea why they thought… Well. Doesn't matter now." Adrenalin coursed through his veins and he began to pace. "And… h-how are you? Any… twinges? I mean, of course I'd come and see you, but I'm on a bit of a short leash at the moment."
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. He had nothing more to say. Why was he even ringing?
"So… ring me… or text. If you like. I don't think there are visiting hours, but I doubt you'd be stopped on the stairs or anything. Mycroft's yet to make an appearance, but I could easily truss him up and stow him in John's old room upstairs."
Sherlock bowed his head. He'd run out of things to say. So say the words, then. End the call for fuck's sake, but say the damn words first. But his throat constricted.
"Sherlock?"
John.
John's footsteps.
John striding through the kitchen because Sherlock had clearly taken too long in his bedroom. Alone.
"I…I have to go. Talk to you later," he said into the phone before swiftly ending the call.
"Yes, John?" Sherlock asked, exiting his bedroom.
John asked him if he wanted a cup of tea, which Sherlock accepted, but he knew the offer was just an excuse for John to check up on the ex-junkie.
The tension in the air remained, and Sherlock felt the compulsion to end at least the silence by telling John about some pointless cases that had been emailed to him in the last week or so. John nodded and hummed agreeably in all the right places. But the man could barely crack a smile. In between, Sherlock kept glancing at his phone. Every minute that passed seemed like a nail in the coffin of his relationship with Rose. Why didn't she ring or text? Had he really damaged—
Oh! Stupid, stupid!
Sherlock swiftly brought up Rose's contact details. He'd blocked her number! If she'd wanted to call or text she couldn't!
"Idiot!" he said out loud, as he removed hers from the list of blocked numbers.
"What's that?" John asked, bringing over their mugs of tea.
"Just… just a part of the plan I'd forgotten to cater for," Sherlock said, placing his phone down on the adjacent side-table. "I guess it's all irrelevant now."
"So, it was all fairly straightforward then," John said, taking his seat once more. "Your plan."
Sherlock explained to John the rudiments of his and Billy's plan, omitting Billy's involvement for reasons he couldn't really determine. He was less certain about how much Rose contributed—had she even stayed overnight in his flat? Perhaps she'd never gently caressed his brow after all. As for receiving information from Culverton Smith's daughter, Faith, that was just bizarre.
"But she wasn't ever here?" John asked.
"Interesting, isn't it?" Sherlock replied. "I have theorised before that if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible to anticipate and deduce almost anything."
"So you dreamed up a magic woman who told you things you didn't know."
Billy's special recipe, with its hallucinogenic qualities, may have been quite powerful in other ways, Sherlock thought.
"Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind," he told John. "I'm intrigued."
"Oh, I know you are. Which is why we're all taking it in turns to keep you off the sweeties."
Sherlock thought they were actually getting somewhere—the conversation flowing almost like the old days—but his insides churned when John made excuses about leaving. Rosie, though. He missed their conversations, but the mere mention of her these days made guilt and disappointment in himself ripple through him. Had he abandoned his own infant?
Although John's expression barely wavered from politeness under discomfort, Sherlock was grateful John didn't object to his request to visit Rosie. But his ex-flatmate was still leaving and they hadn't cleared the air between them!
Say something to make him stay, came a voice, loud and clear in his head. It was Mary! Now playing on a DVD in his Mind Palace of all things! Talk about the case! she ordered him.
"Oh, by the way," Sherlock hurriedly added as John went to retrieve his jacket from the landing, "the recordings will probably be inadmissible."
"Sorry, what?" John asked, striding back in.
"Well, technically, it's entrapment so it might get thrown out as evidence. Not that that matters—apparently he can't stop confessing."
"That's good."
"Yeah."
Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock! admonished Mary. You haven't even asked how he is. I'm still dead, remember?
"Are you okay?" he ventured.
John's reply, although stilted, spoke volumes in its rawness. What Sherlock didn't expect, though, was to be let off the hook for what he saw as his involvement in Mary's death, and he told John the conflict he had with Mary saving his life.
"It is what it is," John replied, giving Sherlock a brief smile.
Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, his heart stuttering. This worthless life Mary had valued over hers, he thought, just what was he going to do with it?
John wavered in the doorway, then said, "Ah, I'm tomorrow, six til ten. I'll see you then."
"Looking forward to it," Sherlock replied, raising his mug to John. It looked like they'd exhausted all they were capable of saying to one another.
"Yeah," John said non-committally, before turning once more for the landing.
Sherlock brought his tea to his lips just as his phone sighed on the table next to him. His heart jolted, and he saw, in alarm, that John had paused mid-stride. For God's sake! It was Rose! And he still had Irene Adler's text alert tone attached to her contact listing!
Sherlock took a sip anyway and tried not to show any reaction to it.
"What was that?" John asked.
Feign ignorance!
"Mm?" Sherlock said, gulping down his mouthful and making a point of looking around. "What was what?
John slowly continued into the room.
"That noise," he said.
"What noise?"
Oh, for God's sake, he's going to think it's The Woman, isn't he? Even though he believed she was dead and that he tried to fob Sherlock off with some lame excuse that she'd taken a new identity in America, that would be the only possible conclusion an inferior mind could draw from this.
Sherlock watched warily as John continued towards him, deep in thought.
"John?"
"I'm gonna make a deduction."
"Oh, okay. That's good."
"And if my deduction is right, you're gonna be honest and tell me, okay?"
"Okay," Sherlock said amiably. But perhaps I could help John think outside the box for a moment. "Though I should mention that it is possible for any given text alert to become randomly attached to a—"
"Happy birthday."
What the f—?
"Thank you, John. That's..." Completely wrong! "...very kind of you."
"Never knew when your birthday was."
"Well, now you do," Sherlock replied, covering up the lie with another sip of tea.
"Seriously, we're not gonna talk about this?"
"Talk about what?"
"I mean—how does it work?"
"How does what work?"
"You and The Woman. Do you go to a discreet Harvester sometimes? Is there a night of passion in High Wycombe?"
Jesus Christ! Am I going to put up with this, or actually tell him it was Rose? And it's not even my birthday!
Sherlock wanted nothing more than to look at his phone and read Rose's text message. But the conversation took on a life of its own. Although John was referring to Irene Adler, Sherlock could see his relationship with Rose in every point John made, except the bit about falling for a dangerous sociopath. And true to form, he tried to get out of it with his romantic entanglement line. Why? Now was the perfect time to tell John about Rose and the baby. Perhaps John could even give him solid advice about what to do next.
"...Trust me, Sherlock, it's gone before you know it. Before you know it."
Sherlock's heart gave a dull thud in his chest. His mind was buzzing. Telling John about his relationship with Rose was on the tip of his tongue, but he also had a fleeting moment of panic that it was well and truly over, so what was the point in talking about it. What would Rose say to him in a text that she didn't want to say over the phone?
"She was wrong about me," John said, interrupting Sherlock's thought processes.
The opportunity was lost. Sherlock could see the shift in John's demeanour as he began speaking about Mary. The man clearly had to get something off his chest, even though he tried to disguise it as a lecture to Sherlock. But when John confessed to cheating on his wife, and addressed an imaginary Mary, all Sherlock's thoughts went to his friend. His insides twisted as he listened to what should've been a private confession.
Comforting John in his desperate moment of need was something Sherlock didn't have to think twice about. His own heart was aching.
John eventually stepped out of Sherlock's embrace, cleared his throat and turned for the kitchen. Sherlock watched his friend go. John was making for the bathroom, most likely to reset and compose himself. Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. Whatever Rose had to say, he was going to fight tooth and nail to repair their relationship.
John's words echoed through his head. Trust me, Sherlock, it's gone before you know it. Before you know it.
No. He wasn't going to let it be over.
Sherlock moved towards the side-table and retrieved his phone. His pulse hammered in his ears as he turned the phone over and read Rose's message.
