Chapter 106 — All Those Complicated Little Emotions
"O'course, I could grow me own hair," Felix said, gesturing toward the long, dark wig, whose tangles Rose was attempting to tame with a stiff-bristled brush. "But I'm recedin'. Just like me old man." He ran his fingers along the circumference of his crown.
Across the room, Melly, the thick-set entertainer, snorted.
"The baldness gene's on your mother's side," he said as he rummaged through a thread-bare carpet bag, double-checking bits of costume and accessories.
"What? Me mum weren't bald!"
Rose chuckled at the banter between Felix, the "actor of restricted growth"—as he had described himself—and Melly, the whiteface clown, though quite clearly free of facepaint at the moment. Stealing a glance in Sherlock's direction, she noticed the Consulting Detective deep in conversation with Bob, Rose's security detail. It was only Bob's presence that leant this bizarre meeting in her living room any credibility, because she wasn't so sure of Sherlock's state of mind at present.
As Melly and Felix began rallying insults at one another, Rose tuned in to Sherlock and Bob's conversation.
"…disadvantage of putting the management of his home security into the palm of his hand," Sherlock was saying, "means it can be placed into the palm of somebody else's hand."
He straightened up and lightly tossed his smartphone from one hand to the other, a devilish grin pulling at his lips. He met Rose's gaze and gave her a quick wink. Warmth momentarily drizzled through her, but the tightness in her chest remained.
"Wi-fi cameras," Bob added, his head bowed over a tablet screen on the table in front of him, "security alert diversion, toggling of light switches, and spontaneous… what?"
"Bleedin' from the eyes," Felix chimed in. "My idea, that."
"No," Sherlock said. Turning to Bob, he muttered, "Forget it. Stupid idea."
"Where's Bill?" Felix said, looking around. "e's meant to be getting' some blood capsules."
"Apart from that," Bob told Sherlock. "I don't see any holes in your plan."
Rose's insides twisted. She had hoped, just a little, that Bob would find flaws. Sherlock's plan was outrageous… laughable, even. She had listened, with growing incredulity, to Sherlock outlining the whole thing to the security and electronics expert.
When the doorbell rang, Rose handed the wig back to Felix, and made for the entrance.
Billy, his face flushed from sprinting up the stairs from the underground car park no doubt, greeted her with a "Rosie" and a kiss on the cheek.
"All sorted, Shezza," Billy said, jingling a set of keys. "And I got the blood capsules."
"Forget the blood," Sherlock said, turning from the table where he and Bob were fine-tuning the plan to disable Mycroft Holmes's security system. "We won't be needing them." Ignoring Felix's protest, he went on. "Thank you, Billy. Gentleman…." He addressed the two newest members of his homeless network, recruited at the last minute by Billy. "Rehearsal's over. Your ride's here."
"This way, fellas," Billy said, gesturing toward the door.
Rose began gathering tea cups that were dotted around the living area.
Checking his watch, Sherlock said, "We'll give them a head start. But John should be here shortly. Bob…" Bob straightened up, and shoved his own phone into his back pocket. "I'll see you out by the gates in ten minutes."
"Uh… yeah," Bob replied, seemingly taken aback at his sudden dismissal. "I'll go and see how the girls are getting on," he added, with a quick smile directed at Rose.
"Tell Justine to bring Grace back as soon as she's awake," Rose told him as she left the living area for the kitchen.
"Or not until we leave," she heard Sherlock add.
Rose felt a flush creep across her cheeks as she heard the door click shut after Bob. Did Sherlock want some quiet time alone with her, or just quiet time to mull over his plans? She supposed it was the latter. Over the last few hours, she didn't think Sherlock had taken her growing apprehension into consideration.
As Rose re-entered the living area, Sherlock murmured to himself, "He hasn't changed the PIN in over a year." He was bent once more over the table with the home safe security app open in front of him. "He's unlikely to do it now."
"How did you get access?" Rose asked, joining Sherlock at the table.
"Saw my opportunity when he was getting the system changed from a wired configuration to a wireless setup years ago," he said, closing the pop-up windows on the app. "Logged onto his laptop one Christmas, and added myself as a privileged user. Never had to use it until now. Except for that one time…"
A smile crept across his face and he glanced toward the door. Perhaps it was the realisation that everybody had left and they were now alone that caused the smile to fade from his face. His shoulders drooped just a little.
"What is it?" Rose asked, alarmed at Sherlock's sudden change in demeanour.
"Why don't I remember her?" he said, his voice suddenly thickening as he stared vacantly across the room.
"Remember…?"
"My sister."
"Your—"
"The woman I met," Sherlock began, stepping around Rose and pacing across the floor, "she can't have been more than a year or two older or younger than me. Bit hard to pinpoint exactly which when I was so out of it." Sherlock bowed his head and raked his fingers through his hair as he about-turned. "So if I can't remember her, then how young were we both when she… when she left our family?"
"Perhaps there was a good reason for giving her up."
"But why her?" Sherlock said stopping in his tracks, finally meeting Rose's gaze. "If she was around my age, why keep one child and give up the other?"
Rose was relieved Sherlock was finally voicing what had obviously concerned him the night before, when he had bottled up everything. He'd told her about the woman who claimed to be his sister, the people she had impersonated, her role in the Culverton Smith case, the attack on John and the possible family secret his brother was keeping from him.
And then he'd gone silent. She could actually see the shift—he began withdrawing into himself. Shutting down. She had tried to prompt him to speak his thoughts out loud, but he gently suggested she go to bed, while he went outside for a smoke.
Rose had sat up in bed, her heart pounding, every muscle rigid underneath the sheets, until Grace awoke for her last feed of the evening. When she returned to their bedroom after settling the infant, she found Sherlock emerging from the ensuite bathroom, clad in his pyjamas, his hair damp. Relief had flooded through her. He was staying. He hadn't fled into the night.
"I can't think about it anymore tonight," he'd said, climbing into bed.
"You know, you can talk to me about any—"
"I know, Rose."
He'd stretched out an arm and pulled her into him as he spoke.
"Just not tonight," he said, with a heavy exhale.
Rose had slept uneasily. She wasn't sure if Sherlock slept at all. She assumed he'd risen in the early hours and switched off the baby monitor, leaving her to have one final unbroken stretch of sleep while he lay on the single bed in the nursery and soothed Grace back to sleep. Presumably she'd woken at four—that horrid time when it's not quite morning. Rocking her back to sleep would usually take Rose til dawn, and then she'd feel it wasn't worth going back to bed.
Waking with full, leaking breasts at seven, with an empty bed beside her, confirmed all that for her. She found Sherlock lying in the room next door, obviously not sleeping even though his eyes were closed. Grace lay on his chest, and Sherlock was rhythmically patting her back, as the baby squirmed intermittently.
"I can take her now," Rose said softly. "It's morning."
Sherlock silently acquiesced, groggily handing over their baby. He slipped out of the room, leaving Rose to tend to Grace's needs. By the time they made it downstairs, Sherlock was already dressed and in consultation with Bob. It was all stations go from then onwards.
But this was the first time Sherlock had stopped to think—to feel—all morning.
Rose had no immediate answers for him, but it was good to see him personalising the situation again, instead of proceeding at a manic pace as he had been doing. There was always the danger of him seeking chemicals to aid in his thought processes. Or worse—seek those that would shut down his emotions.
"I can see how frustrating it is," Rose said in response to Sherlock's question. "What about your mum and dad? Do you think they—"
"I want to keep them out of this for now. All I'll get is… is blethering and tears."
He stopped on the rug in front of Rose's tiny sofa, head bowed, kneading his brow with his fingertips.
"Do you want to sit down for a minute?" Rose asked as she moved towards him.
Sherlock gave a tiny shake of his head.
"I have to go," he said. "John will be on his way."
"You said he'd be here at eleven. That's fifteen minutes away."
Rose's heart sank again at the mention of John Watson. She'd overheard Sherlock on the phone to his friend, giving him the address at St George's Fields. She thought today would be the day Sherlock finally told John about his new family, but it wasn't meant to be. Sherlock had asked John to pick him up from the residence of his expert in home security systems, where he had been in consultation—not a complete lie—and anyway, John was only going to drive to the front gate off Albion Street.
Perhaps today wasn't the day for revealing other secret family members.
It surprised Rose when Sherlock did as she asked—sitting down on the sofa after a moment's consideration. She took the seat beside him.
"My mind would be in a whirl, too," she went on. "I can't imagine how it must feel having a long-lost sibling... well, in my case, any sibling at all. And your brother keeping secrets this big from you."
She was babbling. Was she babbling?
"It's not just that," Sherlock said. Rose was relieved he didn't dismiss her inanities. "If she was older than an infant when she left us," he began, "then why can't I remember her?" He turned his head in her direction, and Rose rested a gentle hand on his forearm to encourage him to continue. "Did something happen..." he mused, partly to himself, "something so... traumatic, that I must've buried the memory. Deleted it. I know I started doing that from a young age. Redbeard..."
He trailed off.
Rose had heard the name before. Redbeard.
That's right!—she had soothed Sherlock while he was having a panic attack about having sex in the armchair John Watson used to sit in as a result of their game of Cluedo. He'd been traversing his Mind Palace when Rose instructed him to find pleasant memories. He had uttered that name, his face softening at the time.
"Redbeard?" she asked.
"Redbeard was my dog."
Well, that made sense.
"I'm not sure what happened to him," Sherlock continued. "I've blocked it out. Obviously found it too traumatic. So whatever happened to my sister..."
Again, he drifted off.
Giving his arm a gentle squeeze, Rose said, "These are things you as a child found distressing. As an adult, you're in a better position to cope with the truth."
"Am I."
It wasn't really a question.
"Yes," she said with a light laugh. Leaning into him, Rose added, "Think about all the things that have happened in the last few years, and how you've coped."
Sherlock's mouth eased into a half-smile.
"Not very well, as it turns out."
Rose threaded her fingers through Sherlock's.
"But you haven't buried anything in the recent past, have you? You've been processing things."
Bowing his head again, Sherlock blinked a couple of times. Was he remembering the worst? Did that include the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen, Rose wondered. Her stomach clenched at the thought.
After Mary's death, didn't Sherlock confide his involvement in the assassination of key underworld figures abroad to Bob one night? Justine had told her that.
"You've talked about the things that've upset you," she said, stroking her thumb across the back of his hand. "I know it's hard, but you've been confronting difficult memories and putting words to your feelings."
"Have I."
"And whatever you find out tonight, we can talk about it." Rose drew in a steady breath. "As you're processing it. You don't have to understand every aspect of it all by yourself. I'm here... and... and Bob and Justine. If you don't want to talk to me. If you think I'll... get upset. And if you don't want to talk to someone you know, I can recommend a professional therapist. They're really-"
"I'd rather give my money to you," Sherlock said, with a trace of humour in his voice.
"Be careful what you say next."
"You as a therapist, Rose."
Sherlock placed his hand over Rose's, leant in and pressed a small kiss to her lips.
"But I have to go," he said, straightening up.
Rose stood when Sherlock did. As he strode towards the front entranceway, she could see him shrugging off the last vestiges of doubt. When he grabbed his Belstaff from the hook by the door, Rose's stomach somersaulted. Whenever he donned that coat in particular, it meant he was leaving as Sherlock Holmes.
Rose forced a smile onto her face when Sherlock glanced in her direction.
"I'll be back tonight," he said, walking slowly towards her as he straightened out his collar.
Rose gave him a tiny nod.
"I'll be here," she replied weakly.
Sherlock gently pulled Rose into his embrace.
"Thank you," he murmured in her ear, before pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.
"Everything will be okay," Rose whispered back.
"I know."
Author's Note:
Happy New Year! I'm easing into another year, and this episode. Can you tell? Thanks so much for coming back to my story after such a long break. I do hope you enjoy the rest. Not long to go!
