Chapter 108 — One Word, Sherlock
Rose stared at her phone screen for a moment longer, realisation not quite kicking in. The call had ended and not a word had been spoken on the other end, except for the initial 'hello'.
A fierce heat spread across her cheeks. Embarrassment? Humiliation? What was this feeling exactly, she thought. For a dizzy moment, she wondered if switching to an analytical mode would somehow protect her. Am I becoming more like Sherlock?
Rejection!
That was it.
And humiliation. Let's just put that one in there as well.
Her heart grew heavy and Rose inhaled deeply. Looking down at the sleeping infant in her arms, her eyes began to mist over.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to Grace. "It's not your fault."
Of course it wasn't Grace's fault her mother was a former prostitute, but the innocent child was going to be punished for it.
Rose's chest tightened and there was an unbearable pressure on her sinuses.
Oh, fuck me. Don't cry!
But she choked out a sob anyway. She'd told herself she wouldn't get upset, no matter what happened, but here she was. Blame the new mum hormones. She'd finally worked up the courage to—
The jangling of keys in the front door brought her sudden outpouring of emotions to an abrupt halt. She hastily dabbed at her eyes and nose as Justine made a sweeping entrance.
"He'd forget his own head, that sodding idiot. D'you know what he— What's wrong, love?"
Rose should've expected that Justine would return early from seeing Bob off to Tesco. Trust her to let her nanny/security detail catch her in an unguarded moment. Wiping at her eyes again, Rose shuddered out a breath in an effort to calm herself.
"Is it Sherlock?" Justine asked, immediately taking a seat on the coffee table in front of Rose.
Rose shook her head and sniffed once more. She felt so stupid—like such a child.
Indicating her phone with a nod, she managed to say, "My dad." And then her eyes welled with tears once more.
Justine leant forward and lightly pressed a hand to Rose's knee.
"Is he—?"
Rose gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. God no. She couldn't lose both parents. Not in that way… well technically, she had already lost them both.
"I rang him… he… he hung up on me," Rose said, haltingly. In her arms, Grace stirred.
Justine clucked her tongue in sympathy, then reached out.
"Here," she said. "Let me take her upstairs. If you want a good cry—"
"I'm fine," Rose said, rising from the sofa, babe in arms. "I just…"
She didn't know what to feel, or what her next actions were, but she handed Grace to Justine anyway.
"He'll come 'round," Justine said. "Some people need time."
Rose nodded in agreement. She rearranged her clothing as Justine took Grace away.
"Put the kettle on, love," Justine called down from the stairs.
Rose heaved a sigh and made for the kitchen. She hoped Justine was right. This was the first time Rose had reached out to her dad since she'd left Edinburgh. But Sherlock's troubles with his family had prompted her to reflect on her own family difficulties. She knew it was better to get these things sorted as soon as possible, rather than let them fester for years.
Grace had a maternal grandfather, so Rose was adamant that her daughter and her dad would have some kind of familial relationship, even if her own relationship with her dad was strained. She was hoping she'd have a chance to rebuild it. And the first step was always the hardest; she knew that.
Whatever difficulties Sherlock had with his own parents, and therefore Grace's paternal grandparents, Rose was keen to explore and resolve. But she thought she ought to get her own relationship sorted first before she started prodding and poking Sherlock about his.
Poor Grace, Rose thought. Barely a minute old and already embroiled in family drama.
But, Sherlock…
Rose's heart went out to him. She'd never seen him so upset before. She had pieced it together. She was sure he not only felt betrayed by his brother, who'd kept the knowledge of a sibling from him, but he felt terrified that his own mind was capable of locking away such a memory as well.
When he'd left that morning, he pressed a kiss to Rose's temple while she was feeding Grace.
"Thank you for last night," he said, his voice thickening.
"Sherlock, you don't need to thank me. I'll always be here for you."
"I know," he said, with a wry smile. Leaning forward, he kissed her again. "I love you," he whispered, before ducking his head and kissing his daughter on the top of her head. "And I love you." Returning his gaze to Rose, he added, "I'll be back soon."
Rose wished she insisted on going with him. God only knows how the conversation with his brother was progressing this morning.
When Justine returned downstairs, over a cup of tea Rose explained what had happened with her phone call to her dad. His termination of the phone call before it had barely begun had upset her.
Justine told Rose her own troubles reconciling with her daughter who had been raised by nannies while she and Bob carried out their secret life around Europe. The teenage years were particularly difficult, but it had all worked out in the end. Nowadays they do get to spend time with their grandson. This prompted Rose to apologise to Justine for Sherlock interrupting their weekend away. The Wilsons had barely left London when their employer called Bob back to help him with the plan to scare his brother.
"I think I want to go back to Edinburgh," Rose told Justine, her voice firm and her mind made up. Fix things in person.
When Bob burst through the door half a second later, Justine cried, "Mind your manners! Fancy coming in with muck half hanging off—"
"Did you not hear about it?" Bob said, in a half panic. "It were on the news!"
At the expression on Bob's face, Rose's heart squeezed. She slowly rose from the sofa.
"What were?" asked Justine.
"Baker Street," he said, his eyes fixed on the darkened television screen.
Justine had snatched up the remote control and was pointing it at the telly. White noise sounded in Rose's head at Bob's mention of Baker Street.
"You don't just..." Justine said, admonishing Bob with every press of the remote control. "...come in here saying... half sentences..."
"An explosion," he was trying to say over Justine.
But their half-conversation blurred into the background as Rose's gaze was fixed on the screen and the flickering channels due to Justine's attempts to find a news source.
"...years ago," the reporter was saying, "when a gas explosion wiped out an entire..."
"But that was—" began Justine.
"They're just comparing it to the one across the street from before," Bob argued. "But that's not it..."
When the story changed to news of the new Canadian Prime Minister, Justine clicked the telly off with a huff.
"Missed it," she said.
Rose's mind couldn't fully grasp what was going on, except for the thoughts that were now circling round her head: an explosion in Baker Street, and no news of Sherlock.
The air in the flat was suddenly stifling and Rose couldn't focus on what was going on around her. She was dimly aware of Justine bustling Bob out the door with orders to go to Baker Street himself.
Justine approached Rose, her expression softening.
"Love, I'll be next door," she said, giving Rose's hands a light squeeze, "listening in on the police network. We've got a…" She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of her flat. "…a bit of software. Why don't you..." Justine gestured toward the now darkened TV. "Find another news channel."
Rose nodded absentmindedly as Justine left.
And listen out for the baby, Rose thought. Don't forget that.
Of course, she couldn't go running off to Baker Street to check out the explosion herself or invoke dubious software to decrypt communications over the police network. Somebody had to mind the baby! Her thoughts echoed as if she were standing at one end of a very long tunnel.
Sinking down onto the sofa, Rose eyed her phone. Did anybody think to ring him? She plucked up the handset and swiftly navigated to Sherlock's contact details. When she received his voice message straight away, Rose ended the call. No point leaving a message. Ring me if you're still alive! Her mouth had dried up anyway.
With her movements on auto-pilot, Rose clicked on the television and cycled through the channels until she found another news source.
"... been a major incident on Baker Street, Westminster. All emergency services are currently on site. Baker Street and part of Park Road have been closed. Members of the public are asked to avoid the area."
Rose's eyes were fixed to the screen as a reporter 'on the scene' spoke from in front of the police barriers. Behind him, the building was barely visible with the emergency vehicles crowding the street. From what Rose could see of it, though, the building looked intact.
"…police evacuated twenty homes," the reporter said, "and… uh, looks like they've sealed off the north end of Baker Street and a section of Park Road. Lots of police surrounding the building and… ah… a London Ambulance Service spokesman said they had sent two crews to the scene. Initial reports say three people are in a critical condition…"
Oh, God!
Rose's eyes widened, her mouth agape as the voice droned on.
"… uh, yes, Margaret," the reporter said, addressing the anchor back in the studio, "the home is the residence of Sherlock Holmes, the net detective. As we know, four years ago, he made headlines after his apparent suicide…"
At that moment, Grace's cries sounded through the monitor. Rose dropped the remote control onto the coffee table with a loud clatter as the studio took up the story.
"… and along with Doctor John Watson, they…"
Oh, give it a rest! Rose thought, swiftly leaving the living area. They're always rehashing those same tired old sensationalist stories about Sherlock and John.
Mounting the stairs two at a time, Rose was torn. It was hard not to feel frustrated with her daughter who would wake at the most inopportune moments. I'm trying to hear news about your daddy!
Grace needed a nappy change, which Rose did by bringing down supplies to the living room. She changed the infant on the sofa, with one eye on the TV screen.
"But where did the ambulance take them?" Rose asked to the room at large. "Which hospital? Oh… there we go. Sorry, Gracie. Up you come." She lifted Grace to her shoulder, then stood, rocking gently from side to side as images of Sherlock wearing that stupid hat were displayed on the screen along with a summary of every headline he'd ever made.
Roses insides twisted when images of Janine Hawkins flickered by.
"… oh, for God's sake," she muttered. He's not dead! Stop with the obituary-style reporting!
He's…
not…
dead.
But Rose's chest kept tightening with every passing moment.
"And it looks like we're being moved on," the reporter said, with images of him being jostled sideways filling the screen. The camera jerked a little, and he added, "Yes, we're being shut down. Whatever that means—"
Good. Piss off!
A hand went over the camera, and then the broadcast crossed to the studio.
Rose reached down and pressed mute on the remote control when she could see that the news had clearly moved on to another story.
Over her shoulder, Grace still squirmed and hiccupped.
"I'm sorry," Rose whispered. I'm too stressed, and you can sense it.
So, calm the fuck down, Rose!
She stared at the images on the screen. They meant nothing to her.
When her front door opened, Rose's heart leapt into her throat.
"Security Services have taken over," Justine said, striding in.
Quelling her disappointment that Justine wasn't Sherlock, Rose said, "That explains it." She indicated the silent television. "They've stopped the live coverage. What does that mean? Do you know which hospital they've taken them to? Are they all right?"
Justine shook her head.
"The regular comms on this have been muted by the Foreign Office. Probably because of Mycroft Holmes's involvement. I wouldn't be surprised if they've slapped a D-Notice on it."
"But what does that all mean? Is it a good thing?" Rose asked, barely suppressing the panic rising in her throat.
"Possibly, love." Nodding to Grace who was still obviously awake, Justine asked, "But what's madam doing up again?"
It was Rose's turn to shake her head. She passed the baby back to Justine. A feeling of helplessness rippled through her and her gaze was redirected to the TV screen, even though nothing on it indicated more information about the Baker Street explosion.
Eventually, Justine broke the silence with, "Do you think she's had enough of a feed?"
They spent the next couple of hours tending to Grace's needs, with Justine phoning Bob halfway through. She wasn't able to get through to him, which just increased Rose's anxiety levels.
"I'll go back and check the comms," Justine said, once she had Grace settled upstairs and in her cot again.
Rose wasn't sure what she actually achieved when Grace was asleep and Justine had returned to her flat next door. Lunch, eaten. Dishes? Done. Washing? Folded.
By the time Justine returned to Rose's residence with Bob, Rose was once again feeding Grace in the living room.
"She won't understand that," Justine was saying as the pair strode into the living area from the entrance.
"Understand what?" Rose asked.
"He wants to tell you the explosion weren't real," Justine said, shooting a look of disdain towards Bob. "Lots of noise and smoke and fire, but no real impact."
"It were meant to look like a DX-707," Bob said, his eyes sparkling a little. Rose was initially thrown by his appearance. Bob was wearing a suit. Ignoring Justine's tut, he continued. "… a patience grenade, probably to scare them, but the incendiary device were no more than a—"
"So what does that mean?" Rose asked. She had no interest in the finer details of the explosion. Justine was almost correct in that respect. "Are they all right? Is Sherlock—"
"We think they are, love," Justine said, once more taking a seat on the coffee table in front of Rose. "The word is: they're in a critical condition." When Rose furrowed her brow, Justine leant forward and lowered her voice. "When they try to put the word out about such a thing, it means they're covering up the truth. Do you understand?"
The cogs in Rose's brain slowly clicked into gear. But this was stupid. Why all the game playing?
"They'd be in hiding," Justine pressed on, a smile tugging at her lips. "Working out what to do next." The glisten in her eyes told Rose that Justine was full of admiration for Sherlock and whatever his plans were, when all Rose could feel was resentment.
She dropped her gaze to Grace, who was half-sleeping, half-suckling. Grace wasn't settling. She needed her dad, but he was hiding out in the city somewhere after somebody exploded a fake-bomb in his flat to scare him. Confusion flitted through Rose's mind. How could she ask him to be a dad again when he had to duck and weave around his own life-threatening drama?
Her eyes stung, and when she blinked, a single tear charted a determined path down her cheek. She brushed it aside.
"Oh… love," Justine cooed, reaching for Rose. "I'm sure he's all right."
"I… just… feel… so useless."
The tears fell freely now. There was nothing Rose could do to help Sherlock, and she was rubbish as a mother.
"You're doing all you can right here," Justine said warmly. Behind her, Bob shuffled uneasily.
"And I can't even do that," Rose croaked.
"She's happy," Justine said, reaching out and cupping Grace's tiny head. She smoothed a thumb over the soft downy hair. "She's content."
"She's using me as a dummy! There's no milk left."
"Oh, Rose, love," Justine said. "I know what you need. Here, hand her over."
Justine strongly suggested Rose go for a walk with Bob while she tended to Grace's needs.
"She won't smell the milk on me, so there'll be none of that, hey?" Justine said, directing her words to the sleeping infant in her arms.
Reluctantly, Rose acquiesced. At the door, she drew her coat around her and ran her fingers through her hair. At that point, she couldn't care less about her ratty hair, nor her tear-stained face. She donned sunglasses and slipped her feet into winter boots. So what? She looked like a homeless person. Rose didn't care. She needed a walk, Justine said!
As they left St George's Fields, Rose asked Bob why he was wearing a suit. Puffing out his chest a little, he explained to Rose how he had infiltrated 221B, posing as an MI6 Improvised Explosive Device senior officer. He showed one of his multiple IDs that he'd used once upon a time when he actually did work for the Secret Intelligence Service abroad. When he was able to explain that the bomb wasn't actually a DX-707, the MI5 so-called experts who were combing through the flat were all ears.
It wasn't a coincidence that Bob and Rose's walk took them to Baker Street. In contrast to the news report earlier, there were only a couple of police cars in the street now. An officer was posted outside the door of 221, but it seemed there was no more interest in the flat otherwise.
"So, you were thinking about heading back to Edinburgh?" Bob asked, as he and Rose took up a vantage point across the road. Evidently Justine had informed Bob at some stage of Rose's throwaway remark earlier. After Rose nodded, he added, "Well, we'll only be too happy to accompany you, me and the old girl."
A warmth drizzled through Rose. As they headed back in the direction of home, she explained to Bob that she felt unsettled in London. It didn't feel like home to her, and she really loved the house Sherlock had bought for them in Edinburgh.
"With its own garden," she added.
She couldn't imagine Grace playing in the communal garden in St George's Fields. It didn't feel as safe as their own private backyard could be. And she liked the mother's group she'd joined in Edinburgh when she was pregnant, more than the one she met up with late in her pregnancy in London. There was her university course to think of eventually, and her friends from there. And, of course, her dad. What she didn't voice to Bob, though, was her feelings about how Sherlock existed around them. In Edinburgh, he'd be there, mind, body and soul, even if it was for only a week at a time. Here in London, he could say he was going out for Chinese takeaway, then not return for three days, with no word to Rose!
She loved that he was still passionate about his "work". Perhaps she was just tired and feeling vulnerable right now. No, she scolded herself. I need to feel in control of my life again.
Once back in her flat, Justine told them she'd ordered a takeaway for dinner, and requested that Bob pop out again in half an hour to pick it up.
Rose couldn't believe how calm Justine and Bob were over dinner. Justine ate one-handed, while she rocked Grace. Every morsel Rose swallowed felt like it could catch in her throat. She supposed this was an easy assignment for the Wilsons, compared to life on the run in Poland. Of course the food tasted great, and a fussy baby was a walk in the park. But to Rose, the minutes ticked by in agony with no word from Sherlock bloody Holmes.
Justine bid Rose retire just after nine, when Grace went down for what her nanny assumed would be her final feed of the evening. Rose wasn't so confident, but she kept her doubts to herself. Justine had been incredibly supportive today.
Armed with an old article that had always guaranteed to send her to sleep—The Psychology of Taxidermy—Rose settled down for the night. She'd barely made it through the first page when Grace awoke. Rose spent the next half hour rocking and soothing the baby, reciting an internal mantra about not needing sleep. Who needed sleep? Sleep was over-rated. She was sure Sherlock had said that to her once upon a time.
Abandoning the article in favour of said sleep, Rose clicked off her bedside lamp and closed her eyes. Sleep took hold almost immediately, sending her plummeting to the depths of suspended consciousness, from where she was rudely plucked one and a half hours later.
No, Rose groaned, staring at the monitor, hoping the hiccup that had woken her had been a figment of her imagination. To sleep for such a short interval seemed cruel. Her limbs were heavy, her head swam and her eyelids drooped. Rose sat up in bed, watching the steady lights and waiting for Grace to cry again just so she could witness the lights flickering herself.
Instead, she heard, "There you go—all's right with the world, Miss Sulford-Holmes," in Sherlock's soothing baritone.
Instantly awake, Rose flung off the covers and hurled herself from the bed. Upon opening the nursery door, she found Sherlock stooped over the change table, buttoning up Grace's sleepsuit, the room aglow from the lamp on the dresser. Chest heaving, Rose stopped, frozen in the doorway.
"Ah," Sherlock said, glancing in her direction and offering her a broad smile. "Here's Mummy." To Grace he said, "Looks like Daddy forgot to turn off the monitor." Lifting his daughter into his arms, he tutted and murmured, "There's always something." Rose folded her arms across her chest. Turning to her, Sherlock said, "Sorry about that. Now, where would you like to feed her?"
Rose challenged him with an icy glare. How dare he act so casually! It was only the presence of Grace that kept Rose from yelling at him.
"You're not injured then… or… dead?" she said, struggling to keep her voice at a baby-soothing level.
"Er…" Sherlock said, creases appearing in his brow as he approached her. "No." With a tilt of his head, he asked, "Should I be?"
Rose's blood began to boil.
"Sherlock. There was an explosion. In your flat."
"Oh," he responded, his expression immediately becoming neutral as he crossed Rose's path by the doorway. "You heard about that."
"Of course I … did," Rose said, swallowing her curse word. She faced Sherlock on the landing. "It was on the news!"
"The news?" he repeated, creases of doubt appearing in his brow.
"Yes! All of the news channels! And there were fire engines and police and God only knows who else."
"Really? Sounds like a bit of an overreaction."
Sherlock turned from a stunned Rose and began descending the stairs.
"Where are you going?" Rose asked.
"I thought you might like a cup of tea," Sherlock called back. "Sounds like you could do with one."
Rose paused on the top of the staircase, head bowed and eyes closed as she drew in a steadying breath.
We exist in different worlds, she thought, exhaling slowly. Why doesn't that surprise me?
Author's Note:
So many unanswered questions about that explosion in 221B with Sherlock and John launching themselves through the window and landing without any apparent injury. Not my favourite episode at all, I have to say, but it is what it is :D
