Author's Note:
Another long one! Enjoy!
Chapter 99 — The Roads We Walk Have Demons Beneath
"Well, that's the last of them," Justine said, as she hastened into Rose's suite and glanced about her, presumably for more stray balloons and flowers. "You right?" she asked Rose.
Rose nodded, then eased herself out of the arm chair.
"Lady Muck fed and watered?"
"Well… not much on offer yet," Rose replied, hugging the swaddled newborn to her and gently rubbing her back. Soft downy hair tickled her cheek. Rose drew in a deep breath, briefly closing her eyes. Her entire body flooded with warmth. Baby shampoo and powder. Tiny flutters of breath caressing her shoulder.
"Any day now," Justine said, reaching for the baby. "You'll be dripping like a tap."
Rose re-clipped her bra strap and smoothed out her shirt as Justine peeled off the swaddling blanket and buckled Grace into the baby car seat.
"Ooh, look at this, eh?" Justine cooed, adjusting the shoulder straps and buckles on the seat. "Travelling in style. Nothing but the best for our little princess."
Rose smiled at the image of her security guard-birthing partner, and now nanny, fussing over the infant. While Justine continued to adjust the car seat, Rose looked about her for stray items, then grabbed her overnight bag from the bed. Spying her phone on the lamp table, she crossed the room to retrieve it. Justine looked over and nodded to Rose's phone.
"What'd he say?" she asked, straightening up and grasping the handle of the car seat, her expression bright in anticipation.
Rose carefully avoided Justine's gaze and hoisted the bag strap over her shoulder. Heading towards the door, she said, "He hasn't replied yet."
"Your dad's gonna break the land speed record coming to see you," Rose heard Justine say to Grace. Addressing Rose, she asked, "How many minutes from Baker Street to here, do you think? A hop, skip and a jump, really. Or did you tell him you were going home today?"
Rose continued along the corridor, a few steps ahead of Justine, her insides twisting. Turning her head a little, she replied, "I haven't told him anything yet."
"You what?"
In two quick strides, Justine was beside her.
Rose stared straight ahead, steeling herself for the protests she knew would come.
"He doesn't know," she said to Justine. "I didn't text him anything about her."
She didn't need to look at Justine to know the woman was gaping at her.
"So what did you text?"
They were approaching the security doors that separated the private suites from the foyer.
"I just said, Visit when you can."
They stopped at the end of the passageway. The button that would unlock the doors was on Justine's side. Rose knew Justine was deliberately stalling, her body blocking the button.
"Visit when you can," Justine repeated. "Did we not listen to the same message? He's clean! He's out of hospital. He obviously wants to see you."
"And he has minders."
"He wanted to know if you'd had any twinges!"
"Can we talk about this at home?" Rose said, looking through the glass door toward the administration desk, where the receptionist was gazing at them.
Justine punched the button beside her.
With the paperwork sorted earlier, there was no need to stop at reception. The invoice would be sent to Scott Williams at his home in Edinburgh. It was an outrageous sum of money, but this was the hospital they had chosen in the end, after careful consideration, in a happier (and drug-free!) time.
The hospital known as "London's poshest" became Grace's place of birth not because of its exclusivity or the champagne on offer or the notion of having one's baby's nappies changed by obliging staff. It was simply because Rose wouldn't—couldn't—have a home birth, which would've been the most private option, especially if they wanted to keep Sherlock Holmes's involvement a secret.
Rose herself had been born via home birth, her mother would tell everyone and anyone who'd listen. Whenever the subject of labour and births would come up, Rose would hear how her own birth was the "most horrific experience" in Sandra Sulford's entire life. No wonder Rose didn't have any siblings.
Rose's parents had returned to London after living in Cardiff and then Birmingham. They'd met in Cardiff, and married and worked in Birmingham. But once in London, Sandra knew next to nobody after living away for so long, and three weeks before Rose's due date, her husband, Rose's dad, had travelled to York for work. Rose arrived a week later.
"You couldn't even wait two weeks!" her mother would admonish her. Even from birth, Rose had been a disappointment to her mother, and she had been playing catch up ever since.
Sandra, not one for making important decisions for herself, had been numb with fear and pain. She wouldn't call a cab ("What if I gave birth in the back seat?") and public transport was out of the question. Finally, she knocked on her neighbour's door.
"The woman couldn't even speak English!"
The neighbour eventually called an ambulance, to Mrs Sulford's horror and shame, but by then Rose had already arrived.
"Such a mess! And the stench! You couldn't get rid of it!"
Yes, thought Rose years later. You couldn't get rid of the stench until she was nineteen years old.
It was only her mother's experience that prevented Rose from having a home birth. She knew they were a perfectly safe and a more intimate and private experience. And it would've been the most appropriate option for keeping Sherlock Holmes out of the spotlight. When she'd explained it all to Justine, her birthing partner told her, "Your mother didn't really have a home birth. It was more of an unexpected early delivery, no birth plan, no midwife in attendance—"
"Justine, just… drop it. I can't do it that way…. I just… can't."
Rose knew she was being unreasonable… irrational, even. But as she explained to Justine, she couldn't do it. Her daughter had to be brought into this world in another way. Whenever she'd hear the words home birth, she'd hear it in her mother's voice, full of vile and hatred. Going into labour, and as was becoming increasingly more likely, without Sherlock, already filled her with anxiety. She didn't need her late mother's vitriol embedded in her mind during the process as well.
The Great Portland Hospital was their final choice. Central London, discreet, and Sherlock could pay for the privilege of being smuggled in through the secret entrance. Not that this became an issue at all, in the end.
It was a short walk to the rear exit where Bob had the hire car idling, but the silence stretched uncomfortably before them. Rose knew Justine was quietly fuming.
"Your chariot awaits, Your Grace," Bob said, with a chuckle, as he opened the rear door and relieved Justine of the car seat.
The travelled in relative silence, with Justine in the front seat directing Bob through the traffic and muttering under her breath about why would anyone want to drive in London. Rose knew the real cause of Justine's ire.
Justine had been amazing as a birthing partner. Extremely supportive, taking no nonsense from either Rose or the midwives. It was Rose's wish that they be left alone for the most part, her and Justine, until it came time to push. Justine was someone to have on your side, to champion your cause. But Justine, like Bob, was extremely loyal to Sherlock, and this was now evident in the silent treatment she was giving Rose.
After they unpacked the car in the underground carpark at St George's Fields and hauled everything upstairs to her front door, Bob—the capable assassin looking ridiculous holding helium-filled silver and pink balloons and bunches of flowers—unlocked the door for them. He stepped aside to allow Rose to enter first, a balloon bobbing on her head as she did so.
"Surprise!" yelled a chorus of voices from across the room.
Rose took in the living room before her, a smile frozen in place.
"Welcome home," Indira gushed, enveloping Rose in a hug, while Adrian hovered close behind.
"We're not interested in you," joked Mel, her former colleague at the home entertainment store. "We want to see the baby!"
Indira and Adrian had already visited Rose in hospital the evening before, as had Lisa. Although Lisa wasn't among the welcome home contingent today, it was exhausting having repeat visitors so soon after giving birth. Indira and Adrian had returned a day early from Paris. Rose thought that occasion in hospital would be the last she saw of them before they returned to Edinburgh, but obviously they'd schemed with Bob. Rose saw Justine narrow her eyes at her husband. Clearly she wasn't privy to the surprise welcome home party either.
The party goers—Ade, Indira, Mel, and Sunil, also from her old workplace, plus Sunil's husband, had brought along food as well as non-alcoholic champagne. Grace exchanged hands several times, the food was consumed and Rose opted for tea instead of champagne, even the non-alcoholic variety.
It was a lovely thought, though, but her mind was still buzzing from broken sleep.
When Rose yawned, Justine took that as a signal to end festivities.
"Right, you lot. Clear off!" she said, her smile giving the impression she was half joking, but Rose knew otherwise.
"Post loads of photos," Indira said, hugging Rose once more.
"We'll be back in Edinburgh before you know it," Rose reassured her friends. She saw Justine's scowl from across the room.
As she bid the others a farewell, she knew she'd added another reason for Justine to be upset with her. Well, what did the woman expect? What else was keeping them in London? Once Rose had a photo of Grace and her dad, Scott Williams—before his untimely death—she was ready to begin her life as a single mum in a place she called home. She would have help and support there, they lived in a lovely neighbourhood, and Rose could resume her studies in a year or so. London didn't give her any of that.
"Right, well you go upstairs and shower," Justine said after the last visitor had left, "and I'll keep Princess Grace occupied until you're ready for her. What?"
Rose's frown told Justine she had other plans and she held firmly onto Grace.
"You want to say something," she said to Justine. "Just say it. Get it over with. I could feel your disapproval from across the room."
Justine folded her arms in front of her.
"If we have the conversation now, you'll get in a huff and chuck us out. Then you'll be left trying to have a shower with a fussy baby. At least shower now, and chuck us out after Bob's cleaned up."
Justine gestured to Bob, who was currently dropping paper cups and food scraps into a rubbish bin.
"Oi!" he said. "I think I'd rather hold the baby, to be perfectly honest."
Rose couldn't fault Justine's plan. And she knew Rose well enough to know that she'd give them their marching orders if she thought they were railroading her into a decision.
"Okay, fine," Rose conceded, before handing Grace over to Justine.
She wasted no time in showering and dressing in trackpants with an elasticated waistband. Her stomach, though considerably smaller, still made her look as if she was five months pregnant and she needed to wear something comfortable around her waist.
Justine was changing Grace's nappy when Rose emerged from her bedroom.
"All sorted," Justine said. "Where do you want her?"
"I'm not sure," Rose said with a wry smile. She reached for her baby and added, "Where's the best place for this bollocking you want to give me?"
Justine sighed and followed Rose downstairs. On the way, she said, "It's not that I want to get into an argument with you, Rose. I just don't understand."
They reached the living area, so Rose made herself comfortable on the sofa while Justine handed her another cushion from an armchair.
"He's been an absolute twat with the way he's treated you this last month," Justine continued. "And you kept going back. So what's changed that's keeping you from telling him he's got a baby girl?"
Rose concentrated on preparing to feed Grace while she collected her thoughts.
"It's not any one thing…. Well, it is, but it's also not. It's… it's everything. Everything he did and said over the last month."
"That was all a load of bollocks."
"I know that."
Justine remained standing, watching Rose, while leaning against the edge of the fireplace. Rose dropped her gaze to Grace and drew in a steadying breath.
"I can't believe he really loved me, and still said half the things he did."
"He were trying to get you to leave. To get you to hate him."
"Maybe he succeeded."
"You don't mean that."
"I don't know." She looked up from Grace and met Justine's gaze. "I sometimes think..." Rose swallowed and recomposed herself. "Maybe it will be better if we just go back to Edinburgh. After the photo… the one I want with Scott Williams. For Grace. And Sherlock Holmes doesn't get a look in. If that's what he wants."
"I think he's changed his mind about that, love."
Rose looked away, her eyes pooling with tears.
"It was like he flicked a switch. He wasn't the Sherlock I knew anymore. He was… so cold."
"Rose…"
"He murdered someone."
The words were out of her mouth before she had determined if there was a better way of saying the same thing. Perhaps there wasn't. Justine's expression was unreadable, almost as if she didn't comprehend what Rose had said. And then it hit Rose. You idiot! Just who are you talking to?
"Oh, I didn't mean," she stammered. "I mean, I know you…. Well, I don't know, exactly, but it's… it's just that he…"
The front door burst open and Bob swept in.
"All sorted!" he announced proudly.
"Shut that door!" Justine admonished him. "Look at the muck in 'ere."
"What's happened?" Rose asked Bob wearily, but she was grateful for the distraction.
"I've just put t'rubbish out and appeased old Mrs Number 19 that it weren't us who's been using up more than our fair share of t'skip bins."
"There's a job well done," Justine remarked, with a tinge of sarcasm. "You can tell old Mrs Number 19 to sod off an' all."
"Eh, ease up," Bob said. He then seemed to detect the charged atmosphere, and he straightened up a little. "I'll just go put t'kettle on."
After he'd disappeared into the kitchen, Justine crossed the room and sat herself down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Rose's insides twisted.
"So, I guess now's a good time to tell you how we met Sherlock. Unless he's already told you?"
Rose gave an imperceptible shake of her head, then busied herself readjusting Grace.
"She 'right?" Justine asked. "Any milk yet?"
"She seems content with colostrum for the moment."
Justine waited until she'd regained Rose's attention.
"He weren't trained, the lad. I said to Bob, 'What're they doing? Sending us this young English lad who knows nowt?'"
"Did you use your Yorkshire accent abroad?" Rose asked, slightly perplexed.
Justine laughed lightly.
"No. You're right. I guess I said that in French." Her expression became serious once more. "But he shouldn't have been there. Why did your government send him, for Christ's sake? I mean he were… is… clever. Smart. Brilliant. A good strategist. A quick learner." Justine looked down, her eyes darting as if she was trying to recall every detail. "Impressive hand-eye coordination. Combat skills—quick, agile. Fantastic survival skills…" She gave Rose a brief smile. "Of course, we didn't know he were Sherlock Holmes back then. Altamont, he called himself, when we first met him in Paris. We were assigned to help him… Anyway, that all worked out perfectly fine. He had solid plans. Thought of every possible scenario. Don't know how he works out these things. But then…" Justine breathed in deeply. She wrung her hands together.
Rose felt her face flush. In her arms, Grace was barely sucking. She'd fallen into a light sleep, her jaw moving only intermittently.
"We… we met up again in Poland," Justine went on. "Months later. It were complete shite. Somebody… I'm sure somebody betrayed us somewhere along the line. Bastards." She smiled uneasily again, and Rose's head began to buzz. She didn't know if she was comfortable listening to whatever Justine was about to tell her. And if Justine, of all people, was finding it difficult, then that just said it all.
"We ended up on the outskirts of Kleszczewo… a little village in Poland. Lovely place. And there's this cottage… an inn, really. Never vacant, though. You try rocking up in the middle of winter. No rooms available! Not ever! It were a cover, y'see. Always available for agents like us. Don't know why I'm telling you this. It's top secret. I'm gonna have to kill you by the end of m' story!"
Justine's smile quickly faded when she took in Rose's expression.
"Sorry, love. Poor taste, that joke."
For want of something else to do, Rose eased her nipple out of Grace's mouth and adjusted her bra. Grace flopped back in sleepy contentment as Rose pulled down her shirt. She gave Justine a half-smile to let her know she was still listening. Not that she particularly wanted the nanny to continue.
"The owner of the cottage, nice old lady," Justine began, her smile appearing and disappearing as it had done before. "A widow. Can't for the life of me remember her name, and that's… that's just shite, isn't it? I'm sorry. I'm sure Sherlock knows it. He… well, she taught him how to make sourdough rye bread. Funny, isn't it?"
Rose didn't think the story was at all funny, and she had an inkling about where it was leading.
She lifted Grace up to her shoulder, and hugged the infant to her. It was comforting, this soft, warm barrier between her and Justine.
Justine's expression softened at the sight of Grace snuggling into the curve of Rose's neck.
"I think he were just relieved we could have a break," Justine went on. "We all were. A bit of a breather. He were fond of her. I could tell. She scolded him… forever telling him to get his feet off her stool whenever he sat in this old armchair. He didn't chop the wood thin enough. He didn't make the oven hot enough. I had to listen while he absolutely butchered the Polish language trying to tell her she reminded him of his landlady. Well, he didn't know the word for landlady, so he ended up saying she were like his second mother. She went right off! Said she couldn't adopt him, speaking a mile a minute. He didn't understand a word of it!"
Although Justine's eyes were shining, Rose could find little to enjoy about her story. That Sherlock could even speak a little Polish along with fluent French, was a bit impressive. How many other languages could he speak?
"But we stayed too long," Justine said, dropping her gaze. She clasped and unclasped her hands again. "That must be it… because suddenly they were there. Three of them. Too quick for us to even grab our weapons, Bob and me. But Sherlock." Justine shook her head in exasperation. "Sitting back on that bloody armchair, with his feet propped up…" She sighed, then added, "His gun, the stupid twat, it were wedged down the side of the chair cushion. But he were up in a split second with it, when some lad—couldn't have been more than 18—grabbed her and held a knife to her throat. The other two were outside, guarding the perimeter, I s'pose. He had steady hands, Sherlock. Had the boy in his sights, but no word said between them. He could've pulled the trigger right there and then, but he didn't. The young lad just looked Sherlock in the eye then sliced his knife across her throat. Carotid artery."
Rose gasped, and Bob, who had just appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, called out, "Qu'est-ce que tu racontes! Ce n'est pas le moment! C'est inapproprié!"
"He let her go," Justine said as if she hadn't heard Bob's protests. Rose's head was still reeling. "She crumpled to the ground and Sherlock only had eyes for her. He grabbed her shawl to stop the blood, but this lad came at him with the knife. Good thing Bob were quick to snap his bloody neck."
Bob let out a choke in protest, then fled back into the kitchen. Rose's hand that had been soothing Grace's back had frozen in place.
"We couldn't get him away from her. Stubborn bugger. Completely covered in her blood. We had to leave. I'd eventually grabbed Sherlock's gun and finished off the other two before they'd even set foot inside. But there would be others not far behind. I even tried to convince him to get up at gunpoint, but he just yelled at me to shoot him, too."
Rose's heart jolted, but Justine looked away, her gaze directed to the corner of the room.
"What… what did you do next?" Rose asked, finally finding her voice.
"Bob knocked him out cold." She glanced towards the kitchen doorway. "Good plan, eh, Bob?" she called out. To Rose, she added, "Couldn't leave on foot now that we had buggerlugs to carry out. Borrowed a car. Zigzagged across the countryside. We stopped to sleep, but by morning, Sherlock had gone. We couldn't go back for him the way we came. We had to keep going and hope he'd know where the next safehouse were and make it there himself. Well, he caught up with us a day later. Clean clothes. No new battle scars. But he had dirt underneath his nails."
Rose tried to picture the scene. It felt surreal to her—Sherlock in this environment.
"He…he went back to bury her?" she asked.
"He didn't talk about her again. I'll tell you one thing though. He never hesitated in taking a shot after that."
Rose's skin prickled and she tilted her head so her cheek rested on Grace's head. She could feel the thrum of her own elevated pulse in her ear. Justine leant forward.
"He shouldn't have been sent there," she said. "To do the work he had to. I mean… gathering evidence and tipping off the authorities where he found dodgy dealings—drugs, brothels, smuggling, people trafficking—that were more his thing. But taking a scalpel to remove the tumours on these little crime outfits… taking out bosses, lieutenants… that should never have been him."
"Why didn't you do it?"
"We'd only been assigned to help him twice. I know there were others—agents—scattered around Europe to help him. But in most cases, these criminal networks were organisations he infiltrated himself. It had to be him… but he weren't… equipped. Not emotionally. I could see he were damaged. Not just because of the work he carried out abroad. There were something else. Something he's been carrying his whole life. You must be able to see that. You of all people."
Rose gave a faint nod, her eyes stinging.
A tiny smile graced Justine's lips.
"When he contacted us to come work for him, and I found out what sort of life were waiting for him up in Edinburgh, I couldn't have been happier for him. You… with a baby on the way. And you're just perfect for him, eh? You understand him. You know him inside and out. And he loves you."
Rose blinked, releasing a solitary tear, which she hastily wiped away.
"And this… this barrier he puts up, acting like he's emotionally detached, that's just his way, isn't it? A defence. You know this."
A lump formed in Rose's throat. It all seemed so logical when outlined by Justine in this way. Rose ran a soothing hand along her daughter's back. Sherlock's daughter.
"When he were out there," Justine went on, pointing to the doors that led out to the terrace, "on the night Mary died, he broke down in front of Bob. And all the names came spilling out." Justine's voice tremored a little. "You know… the names of the people he brought down or helped bring down. He keeps a list in his head. Baron Maupertuis, Maupertuis's lieutenant, Maupertuis's mistress, Von Bork, his lieutenant, Reisinger, Lim and her husband, Ivet Mavrodieva's nephew."
Rose head began to buzz. He killed all those people?
"He knows everything about them. Told Bob their life stories. Despicable human beings, the lot of them. The things they did… But he humanises them. Never forgets them. And they brought him back here, the government, and gave him a pat on the back and an endless supply of money. No debriefing. And then what? He goes and shoots Charles Magnussen."
Rose took a sharp intake of breath.
"That's who you're talking about, isn't it?" Justine asked her. "When you said he murdered someone."
Rose nodded, her insides somersaulting.
"You know what I think?" Justine said. "From what I know of him, and what Sherlock told Bob… Magnussen held a knife to your throat, too. To Mary's throat. What that bastard knew about you two could destroy both your lives. And there have been many lives he indirectly ended, didn't he? And he didn't give a rat's."
Rose didn't want to engage in this conversation, to bring a reality to Sherlock's actions. To justify them. Her skin bristled and she stopped breathing.
"He had seconds to make a decision," Justine continued. "And you know what? He expected to die after he took the shot. He dropped his weapon and waited for the special armed forces to take him down. Prepared to die, he were. He'd do this one last thing to save you and Mary, and then let them end him. He thought that's what he deserved. After everything."
Justine shook her head, and looked away as if in disgust. She wrenched her hands in her lap.
"And that brother of his… saved him from being executed on the spot, only for him and his cronies to order him on one last mission. One that would have him dead inside of six months. And he were all set to go!"
Rose blinked as tiny cogs in her mind kicked into gear. That sounded so familiar. Didn't Sherlock tell her about this? But he made it sound as if it was the fate of some random intelligence agent—a discussion they'd had back in Edinburgh, when she was studying Violence Risk Assessment. That was it! And the "operative" had been prepared to die, he said. Felt like he'd deserved it and he had nothing else to live for.
"And then that Moriarty hoax happened," Justine was saying, as Rose's stomach churned monstrously at the memory of her and Sherlock's conversation—how outraged she'd been on behalf of the operative. "And suddenly he were the golden child again. Forgiven and forgotten. What kind of message does that send Sherlock? Satan one minute, the Saviour the next!"
Justine reached forward, her eyes glistening. She patted Rose's knee and said, "He needs you, love. He needs all of us. But you most of all. If you can find it in your heart—"
"I know," Rose said, her voice rasping. She couldn't articulate her feelings any more than that. To voice her current thoughts would unleash a tidal wave of emotion.
Justine stood up and turned from her, but Rose could tell she was wiping her own eyes.
"You take Her Royal Highness to bed," Justine said, twisting around and smiling briefly. "We'll lock up down here."
Rose pushed herself up out of the sofa.
"Justine," she began.
In a rush, Justine was in front of her, enveloping her—them both, mother and child—in a hug.
"I know, love," Justine said, patting Rose's back.
"I'll do my best," Rose said, in a voice barely above a whisper.
"I know you will." Justine eased back and added, "Now you ring me if Madam here starts fussing in the night."
"I will," Rose replied, as Justine released her. "Otherwise, I'll see you in the morning." Rose looked towards the kitchen. Bob hadn't emerged with their tea. Rose assumed he was upset about being reminded of their time in Poland. She didn't blame him. "Say goodnight to Bob for me, won't you?"
Rose turned and made for the stairs, her heart and her thoughts weighing her down as she ascended.
Author's Note:
Thanks to Violonaire for the French translation!
Apologies for the lack of (actual) Sherlock in this chapter. I felt that this was a conversation that had to happen for Rose to fully understand the complexities of Sherlock. And I, for one, vote for Sherlock to have some happiness in his life! Who's with me? We can wear badges #HappinessForSherlock!
