Chapter 107 — Oh, Have You Had Sex?

Sherlock's posture remained stiff and upright in the passenger seat. He tried to prop his arm up onto the window, but that did little to help him relax. As they merged onto the M1, John began tapping the steering wheel, having given up on quizzing Sherlock after receiving the detective-genius's monosyllabic answers.

Sherlock had already decided, halfway through watching Mycroft wetting himself, that he wouldn't stay in Cambridgeshire to interrogate his brother. If he knew Mycroft Holmes—and he did, very well—then the arrogant ponce would need til bedtime to mull over the evening's events, warming his brandy snifter in the palm of his hand. This was the way the minor government official plotted the fate of whole nations. Sherlock's older sibling would be reflecting on more than just his lost movie night. After such contemplation and a restless sleep, Mycroft would front up to 221B the next morning...

just a little bit desperate.

And only then would Sherlock receive his answers.

"And right 'ere," he heard Bob say to John.

Evidently the pair had been chit-chatting for the bulk of the journey while Sherlock hid in his Mind Palace, and now they were almost at St George's Fields.

After John had stopped the car around the corner from the security gates and Bob had alighted, Sherlock opened his own passenger door.

"Not going back to Baker Street?" John asked.

"No, I need to walk," Sherlock told him. "And think." With one foot out of the vehicle, he turned to John and added, "I'll see you in the morning." He gave his friend a half-smile, which he hoped would speak volumes on his behalf.

Sherlock thanked Bob for his assistance and told him he was going for a walk around the block first. There was a fleeting look of concern on his employee's face. He knew Bob would be monitoring the fob security system, checking when the Consulting Detective returned to the estate.

Searching his pockets for a trusty packet of cigarettes as he walked along, Sherlock came up empty-handed. He stopped in his tracks, head bowed. Double back to Crispins, or continue on to the Frederick Close entrance?

A familiar warmth and then a shiver ran through him. His heartbeat became muted when he recognised the cause. He needed something. Desperately. And he'd had a rush of adrenalin at the thought of acquiring and then using this substance.

But he pushed those thoughts away—reluctantly—shoving them to the far recesses of his Mind Palace.

There are other means...

Sherlock drew on, increasing his pace, a renewed sense of purpose motivating him.

When he reached the security gate, he fumbled in his pockets for his fob card. Swiping it against the security pad, he knew full well Bob would be watching the admin console and waiting for Sherlock's point of entry to light up. No need to send out the search party.

The hair on Sherlock's skin began to rise. A sudden rush of dopamine. That's what he needed. It wouldn't last, though. But it was a start.

He wended his way through the gardens and let himself into Rose's flat on automatic pilot. It wasn't until he stood hovering over her sleeping form in the darkened bedroom that he truly joined the here and now—

—at about the same time Rose switched on the bedside lamp.

Wordlessly, and blinking against the sudden illumination herself, Rose scanned Sherlock from head to toe.

"What's wrong?" she finally said. Arching her brows in alarm, she hastily added, "What happened?"

He supposed the sight of him was slightly upsetting to her. Well, he was still dressed in his coat, not having shed it at the front door like he usually did.

Prompted by such a thought, Sherlock eased out of his Belstaff.

"He didn't deny it," he said, his voice marred with the exhaustion he suddenly felt in every limb. He lightly threw the coat onto the chair by the wardrobe. Turning from her, he slipped off his suit jacket as well.

"What did he say?" Rose asked as Sherlock plopped the jacket on top of the coat.

But she was out of bed at once, rounding him until she stood in front of him. Sherlock bowed his head, as if in concentration while he unbuttoned a shirt sleeve cuff.

"I have a sister," he said, unbuttoning the second cuff. "She's out from wherever he's had her incarcerated. And he's terrified of that prospect."

"She's been incarcerated? Since when? Did he say why?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh, his stomach in knots. He lifted his gaze to address Rose.

"That's a conversation we've yet to have. His admission is implied in the words he didn't speak. But I..." He turned from her and unfastened the top button of his shirt. I can't think about this anymore tonight. Sinking onto the bed, he said out loud, "I'm sorry I woke you."

"I was barely asleep," Rose said, moving towards him. "I've only just patted Grace back to sleep for the third time. She's really restless tonight."

A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told Sherlock it was 10:49pm. Grace was usually settled by ten and wouldn't wake again until three or four. What could've caused her to wake repeatedly after her last feed of the evening?

"Go back to sleep," Sherlock gently urged Rose. He only needed to glance at her to see how exhausted she was. "I don't think I'll sleep at all," he told her. "I'll move to the nursery if she wakes again."

He bowed his head again, dragging a hand through his curls. He was making a concerted effort to keep his emotions at bay—he knew that.

"How about I put the kettle on?" Rose asked gently, entering his personal space.

When Sherlock tilted his face towards hers, Rose ran her fingers through his fringe. A warmth drizzled through him. She desperately wanted stay awake to keep him company, even though her eyelids were heavy.

"A cup of tea, then?" she added. There was still an affectionate glisten in her eyes, causing Sherlock's heart to twinge. How did he even deserve her?

Rose made to leave, but Sherlock's fingers encircled her wrist.

"No," he rasped.

Puzzled, she turned back to him. He released his grip on her, but not without first detecting an accelerated pulse rate.

Desire and passion, love and loss pierced his heart in turn. Sherlock assumed his eyes implored hers, for Rose's gaze softened. She stooped, cupped his face in her hands, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. Need and longing coiled inside, radiating outward. He reached for her, tugging her down towards him. When their mouths met again, Sherlock came alive. As Rose wound her legs around him, straddling him, he pressed her hard against his pelvis. He felt her shiver. Hunger rose inside him as she deepened their kiss.

Not too fast, he thought. He wanted to stretch out the night, to prolong the time they had together. Distance his thoughts.

Sherlock trailed his fingers under the back of Rose's nightie. He felt her gasp against his lips. Finally, she drew back and began unbuttoning his shirt. Her eyes were darkened pools, her fingers impatient. His own hands traversed her bare skin, trailing and outlining before he gently caressed the soft curve of her breast. As his thumb lightly brushed across her nipple, a contented sigh escaped Rose. She dragged his mouth back to hers, taking possession once more.

He knew together their needs would grow and intensify with every passing moment. This was what he wanted. What he needed right now.

Sherlock eased back, the taste of Rose still on his tongue. Slow or fast? He couldn't decide. Lifting the bottom edge of her nightie, he drew it over her head and discarded it. Gathering her up in his arms, Sherlock lifted Rose, pivoting them both until he could lower her back onto the bed. Standing above her, he unfastened the last button Rose had missed. He slipped off his shirt then bent over her, catching the edge of her lacy knickers deftly between his fingertips.

Sliding off her underwear, he could feel his own arousal straining against his trousers. And of course she knew this. Rose was suddenly in front of him, kneeling on the bed and unfastening his fly. He lightly batted her hand away, even though he wanted to be touched by her with every fibre of his being. Self-control. That's what he needed right now, but even his heart drummed impatiently.

Fixing his gaze on her, Sherlock joined her on the bed. Rose's cheeks were already flushed, her tousled hair spilling onto the pillow on either side. He kissed her again, slowly, until he could feel her trembling beneath him. His mouth left hers to trail over her jaw, while his hands caressed and explored. He listened to her sighs of pleasure, both maddening and powerfully arousing. When her fingers curled into his hair as he navigated his way along her smooth curves, he had to fight back his own desire once more.

Rose moaned her approval as Sherlock's tongue flicked and teased. Her skin warmed beneath his touch. He revelled in the taste of her. And her scent! Coconut. His old mantra. Apple-pear-coconut. Rose.

Sherlock was transported to a hundred other encounters, back when their world was familiar and predictable.

As her hand kneaded his shoulder in small, desperate motions, Sherlock knew she was on the precipice.

"Sherlock," she gasped, pulling at him, almost writhing away from his touch—a sure sign she wanted him to join her. She didn't want to reach her destination alone.

Sherlock slid upwards, lying by Rose's side. He tilted his hips, shoving his trousers down, but Rose was already upon him.

"Christ!"

He no longer fought to free himself. Rose aided him in that task. Her lips teased him, until tiny pinpoints of pleasure lit up all over his skin. Her hands were soft, yet demanding, her confident strokes tormenting him.

"Chr-ist," he said again, with much less conviction than before. His trousers and boxers were still bunched up about his hips when Rose took him into her mouth. He stopped breathing when the last of the air in his lungs was expelled on a sigh of ecstasy.

His hands dived into her hair, urging her on. Pleasure shot through him as his control slipped. He could lose himself to her, or he could take her with him. He needed it all.

As blood hammered through his body, Sherlock gave over to the pain of impending loss and pulled at Rose's shoulders. He didn't have to wait long. She moved above him, and as he grasped her hips, she pulled him into her, eliciting a deep moan from Sherlock.

Their pulses raced, a raw energy driving them both as they moved as one. Sherlock's mind emptied of all but this exquisite pleasure. He pressed Rose closer, craving more, before finally rolling them. The need to assume control came from somewhere in the back of his Mind Palace. Rose coming undone tugged at his centre. The thrill of every sensation filled him. When she came, hard and fast, gasping his name, Sherlock buried his face in Rose's hair. He let himself go, an explosion of heat finally releasing him.

Sherlock briefly collapsed onto Rose, all energy levels depleted. Rose lightly held him to her, but before she could say anything, Sherlock rolled from her and stood up.

"Why the hell," he began, grabbing at his trousers and shoving them downwards along with his boxers. "Every fucking time..." he muttered. Stepping out of the clothing he added, "Can I just for once... get fully undressed. For Christ's sake."

In the silence that ensued, Sherlock stood with his back to Rose, his head bowed, a hand lightly resting on his hip, clothes jumbled at his feet. His chest heaved as he drew in necessary oxygen. Behind him, he heard Rose rearrange the bedding. The lamp clicked off. He stood in complete darkness now, the air thickening around him.

Finally naked. Satisfied now, you fucking moron?

His shoulders drooped and he briefly closed his eyes. Sherlock turned and climbed back onto the bed.

"Rose," he said, his voice becoming ragged. "Sorry... I..."

"I know, Sherlock," she replied, her sympathetic tone floating through the blackness.

Sherlock pulled her towards him, moulding his body around hers.

"Sorry," he said again. His larynx had thickened, his mouth rapidly drying up.

"It's okay," Rose whispered, her breath a light flutter on his neck. Her fingers twined themselves through his hair and soothed him.

"No, I..." But he couldn't speak the words. There was an ache in his heart which expanded, completely filling his chest cavity.

He didn't undress fast enough! Couldn't coordinate making love to his partner! He took it out on her! He didn't know anything! About anything! He was ignorant and stupid! Moron! His whole life was a lie! Betrayed by those closest to him. Secrets kept... words never spoken. How had he never seen this?

Burying his face in the crook of Rose's neck, Sherlock shuddered out a strangled sob. He clung to her, his lifeline.

He didn't… know.

Couldn't…

remember.

Rose's whispers may have quieted him—reminded him that someone else was present—but his body still betrayed him in judders and stupid, weak tears. She pressed her lips to his temple, smoothed and massaged his nape. She let him cry. Silently. She encouraged this... this moment of vulnerability.

With one final sniff, Sherlock brought it all to a halt.

This.

Whatever this was.

"You don't have to process this alone," Rose was saying. "Whatever he has to tell you—"

"I know."

"I'll be here—"

Rose's platitudes were cut off by the baby monitor bursting into life. A sense of calm drifted over Sherlock at the sound of his daughter's voice, even though unpleasant thoughts still danced through his head.

"I'll go," Rose said, rising. "Just… just stay here. I'll be right back."

Sherlock rolled to his back and stared up at the darkened ceiling. Before she left, Rose clicked off the monitor and removed her dressing gown from the hook behind the door. With the bedroom door opening, he heard the almost muted cries of his daughter.

But now the air was still and his duel personalities were at war. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. One who should immediately shut off his emotions so he could get to the bottom of this case.

Yes. This case.

His case.

The sister he couldn't remember.

Or…

Sherlock.

Dad.

His baby daughter—Grace—was uncharacteristically waking repeatedly after her last feed. He was perfectly attuned to her. Only he could interpret her cries accurately. He really should attend to her needs.

Sherlock had no idea how long he debated his next actions before he decisively rose from the bed, clicking on the bedside lamp. After pulling up in front of the bureau, he opened the top drawer and drew out his pyjamas.

Yes, he had to help Rose. Grace was probably still fussing.

Was she?

As he slipped on his pyjama bottoms, Sherlock tilted his head, straining to listen for her protests through the brick wall.

At that moment, the bedroom door re-opened.

"I gave her a sneaky feed," Rose said. "Probably shouldn't have… but who knows?"

She slipped the robe from her shoulders as Sherlock shook out his t-shirt.

"I'll… um…" he said. Lie in the nursery? Wait for her to wake again? Soothe her with his magic touch?

"Ah… no," Rose said, waving a hand at him as she crossed the room towards the bed, completely nude again. "We'll have none of that. Off with the pyjamas." She climbed into bed, a half-smile forming on her lips. "We were lying together, naked. We hardly ever get to do that. Come on."

Sherlock felt emboldened by the notion. And why not? Rose was clearly moving on from his little emotional breakdown. And he had forgotten about his other role: as a loving partner.

Rose switched off the lamp again, leaving Sherlock to undress in the dark. When he joined Rose in bed, she was facing away from him. He curled his body around her soft, warm curves. He felt Rose sigh against him.

"I guess she was starving," she murmured. "Why didn't I figure that out sooner? Or maybe she just wanted soothing. Perhaps I'm just a dummy for her. I clearly don't know anything."

Sherlock nuzzled into her neck, inhaling her shampoo and receiving several hits of dopamine for the effort.

"You know a lot, as it turns out," he replied in his deep baritone.

Rose sighed contentedly once more.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, filling his heart as well as his lungs.

"I love you," he said, his voice crackling a little. "Just thought I'd remind you of that… in case I forget to say it from time to time… and for those times I behave… appallingly.

He heard Rose let out a shaky breath. Dammit! Did he just…

"I love you, too," she said, her voice a bit tight.

Yes, he did. He'd made her cry.

But Rose threaded her fingers through Sherlock's, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"I'll come with you," she said.

"What?"

"Tomorrow," Rose added. "When you speak to Mycroft."

Sherlock's heart lifted a little.

"But, that's…" That's what? He wasn't sure. Could she come with him?

"For support," Rose went on. "Or as an impartial third-party. What do you think?"

Sherlock allowed a chuckle to escape.

"You as an impartial third-party? Are you sure you won't have my best interests at heart?"

Rose laughed lightly, then shifted so she could face him. Sherlock could see her outline in the darkness.

"Or I could hide in the bedroom," she whispered, shuffling closer. "Just so you know I'm there for you afterwards."

Sherlock silently ruminated on Rose's suggestion. Wasn't this the perfect opportunity to come clean about everything? Mycroft tells Sherlock about a secret family member. Sherlock tells Mycroft about two secret family members. Would they be even?

But… Sherlock didn't want to categorise Rose and Grace with a potentially psychotic family member who'd been incarcerated for years—one who'd escaped from captivity, assumed not one but three different identities and who had scared the bejesus out of his best friend by shooting him with a tranquiliser gun. How did they even compare?

"Probably not the best occasion for bringing you into the family," Sherlock said finally. "And do you even want to be…" He trailed off. Be a part of his family? How much would his brother interfere? And what did they do to oust his sister?

"You can't choose your family," Rose said. She sounded like she swallowed her final word, and a silence stretched before them.

Stupid, stupid! thought Sherlock. Rose had her own family difficulties. He really shouldn't sound so flippant with the dynamics of his own.

"We have our own family," Sherlock said in a low voice, bringing his forehead to touch Rose's. "Right here."

When Rose's breath shuddered on the way out, Sherlock pressed a kiss to her lips.

"Thank you for offering to come with me," he said. "But John will most likely be there. He wants to see how this plays out, too. And he'll keep me from inflicting bodily harm on my brother."

"That's good," Rose said with a sigh.

"And I'll come back here as soon as we've finished. I'll tell you every last detail."

"Good," Rose replied, a sleepy edge to her voice.

They rearranged themselves so Rose lay on Sherlock's chest, with his arm curling around her.

He listened to her steady breathing for a time. It was hypnotic. Sleep threatened to pull him under, and he welcomed it.

When Rose's light touch roused him from a heavy slumber, Sherlock realised he'd been asleep for what seemed like hours.

And then he remembered.

They were naked.

They'd drifted apart at some stage, but Rose was snuggling into him again, and she seemed to be making every effort to wake him, too. A nudge here and there, a lingering kiss on his neck, her legs twining his.

With a deep-throated hum of approval, he let her know that he, too, was awake and up for anything.

This time, they luxuriated in the taste and feel of one another. Desire and longing stretched into a tender indulgence. And by the end, Sherlock's orgasm didn't leave him feeling fragile and vulnerable. It was deep and languorous, like the most potent of opioids.

Rose wrapped herself around him, snuggled into the crook of his neck and sighed.

Sherlock cleared his throat. There was one thing that niggled at him.

"Rose," he said in a half-whisper, his thumb lightly skimming Rose's arm.

"Mmm."

"We didn't… we forgot… we forgot about the condoms."

Rose hummed in sleepy acknowledgement.

Both times they'd forgotten. They'd had sex twice now without the use of…

Oh, fuck it. What did it matter? Rose didn't seem to mind either. It would or wouldn't happen. Pregnancy. What were the chances? They already had a child together. What difference did two make? He was a dad anyway. And a damn good one at that.

With more nonsensical thoughts flitting through his mind, Sherlock drifted off once more.


"Sherlock!"

He stirred. The bedroom was bathed in a half-light. Daylight.

"Grace!"

Was it morning already?

"I'll get her," he mumbled.

He felt the bed shift, heard more alarming exclamations from Rose, and then the sound of the door clicking shut.

Wait.

What?

He waited. And listened.

He was just going to wait for the second cry before getting up. Make sure Grace really put her heart and soul into it.

But, no… Sherlock didn't remember hearing the first cry, let alone a second. So why did Rose get up in such a hurry?

Sherlock sat up and shot a glance in the direction of the baby monitor. The steady stream of lights and the rough static indicated it was on. But where was the sound of a baby crying and a mother trying to soothe her?

Clearly something was amiss.

Sherlock shot out of bed, stooped to pick up the pyjama bottoms he'd discarded in the night, and hurriedly stepped into them. He'd just reached the door when it opened. Rose's expression wasn't what he expected to see. Her eyes were bright, her mouth curving into a smile.

"She's still asleep," she said, her voice barely containing her excitement.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. This didn't compute.

"Wha—?"

"She's still asleep! I can't believe it!"

"Then why did you wake up?"

"Because," Rose said, gesturing toward the landing, "I don't know… the sun woke me. But… God!" She tightened her hold on her dressing gown. "I'm leaking!" Turning towards the door, and leaving a bewildered Sherlock, she added, "I'm just going to express. Wait up here!"

The air seemed to buzz in her wake. Sherlock glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 7:02am.

Oh.

That was what all the fuss was about. Grace didn't wake at three or four or five. It was after seven and she was still asleep. Rose's breasts were engorged. She had to express milk. Sherlock's brain was slowly catching up. He bowed his head and vigorously rubbed his scalp.

Now, what was he going to do?

Stay put. Listen out for the monitor. Keep out of Rose's way because she didn't like him seeing her "hooked up" to that contraption. Okay. He could do that. Sherlock absentmindedly scratched his bare torso in the vicinity of his surgical scar. What was he going to do today, anyway?

And then it hit him like a John Watson on a slow day.

Mycroft! Their sister!

Explanations. Excuses. A past life he knew nothing about.

Sherlock's breath caught and he dragged a hand down his face. Jesus fucking Christ. Thank you, brother mine.

Sherlock stared at the clock and calculated.

No doubt Mycroft would've risen before dawn. To keep up the pretence of being in complete control of the entire universe, he would've bid his cook to prepare a hearty breakfast. It was Sunday, after all. The Lord of the Manor, dressed only to his waistcoat, would eat his sausages, bacon, hash browns and baked beans at a leisurely pace while he read the Sunday papers and skimmed additional reports from around the British Empire. The sun never set on Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock still had time. Mycroft wouldn't leave Cambridgeshire for another hour at least.

Grabbing the monitor, Sherlock entered the bathroom. With the volume turned up to maximum, and the shower stall door ajar, Sherlock showered quickly. He shaved efficiently and methodically, then dressed with an outward calm he knew was a sham.

After he drew on his jacket, he regarded himself in Rose's full-length mirror. He adjusted his shirt cuffs and smoothed the lapels of his jacket. Grace woke at that moment, a single cough through the monitor by way of a greeting.

Sherlock's chest expanded. Let's do this then, he thought, turning for the door.