Chapter 109 — I'm Not a Civilian
Sherlock filled the kettle and clicked it on. Checking the freezer, he confirmed there were two bottles' worth of expressed milk. Holding his baby daughter over his shoulder, he intermittently patted her as she snuggled into the crook of his neck. Her tiny breath against his skin soothed him. He felt, rather than heard, Rose at the entrance to the kitchen.
After retrieving two tea cups from the overhead cabinet, he turned to face her. She was leaning against the door frame, her arms folded in front of her.
"You know, you can go back to bed," he began, "and I can feed her if—"
He paused after taking in Rose's expression. Her face was awash with... what was that emotion?
Oh.
"You're still upset with me," he finished.
Rose didn't answer straight away. She blinked several times, as if to keep tears at bay.
"I didn't know if you were dead... and…" Rose shrugged before shaking her head. Desperately trying to contain her emotions; he could see that now. Her eyes began glistening and she dropped her gaze causing a lump to form in Sherlock's throat. The penny dropped. Idiot!
"I'm… sorry," he said, leaving the kitchen counter and crossing the floor. Stopping in front of Rose, he added, "I'm a monumental…" He mouthed the word dickhead, as he half-heartedly covered up one of Grace's ears.
As the beginnings of a smile played on Rose's lips, he felt a light tug on his heartstrings.
"I should've realised the world is full of people who take a peculiar interest in my activities," he said. "It's not as if I've never conducted wayward experiments before and—"
"Your windows blew out."
"And… yes, but—"
"They had to put out a fire, and there were bomb disposal people running about."
Rose had told him this before, upstairs, and Sherlock had been flippant then. In an effort to keep the mood light, he quipped, "Damn enthusiasts."
"And they evacuated twenty homes along your street."
"Clearly alarmists and busybodies."
Sherlock was thankful Rose's remarks were accompanied by the faint smile that graced her lips.
"And worst of all," she said, her eyes studying his, "you came home and didn't say hello."
Sherlock's heart swelled. This, he could do; at last, an oversight he could immediately remedy.
"I… I wanted to surprise you by giving you an extra long sleep. Forgot about the baby monitor. Sorry."
Closing the gap between them, he braved another smile.
"But… hello, Rose," he said, his voice deepening. He ducked his head, meeting Rose in a tender kiss that showed a lot of promise, before they were interrupted by the staccato cough of a neglected infant nestled between them.
After they eased out of their kiss, Rose chuckled lightly and reached out to rub Grace's back.
"How's she been?" Sherlock asked.
"She's your daughter."
"Demanding that much attention, huh?"
Holding out her arms, Rose replied, "I'll take her now. I'll feed her while you make the tea."
While Sherlock allowed several minutes for the tea to steep, he leant against the counter, his head bowed, deep in thought.
It had been action stations—hurried decision making between himself and Mycroft, with John providing sensible alternatives when the conversation became heated. Sherlock decided to park his emotions, not allowing any reflection on the past to cloud his thought processes.
The way forward was based on two theories: that their sister Eurus had escaped from Sherrinford and was currently toying with them, or that a confederate of the late, great Consulting Criminal had assumed multiple identities, including that of their estranged sister, and was exacting Moriarty's revenge by toying with them. One of the theories would be confirmed by a visit to Sherrinford.
He hadn't stopped to think and feel throughout the day. If he had, would he have realised Rose may possibly have heard about the explosion and may be worried about him?
There was too much going on. How often was he supposed to stop and think about his wider world? Should he set an alarm on his phone? A reminder to be a loving, thoughtful partner and father?
Sherlock returned his attention to the task at hand—tea. How to be the best of himself in all his many and varied roles was not going to be solved tonight.
By the time he joined Rose in the living area with their beverages, she was watching the flickering images on the telly with the sound turned down, while Grace lay asleep in her arms.
"It's strange how they haven't mentioned the explosion again," she said, in a voice barely above a whisper. "I always thought conspiracy nutters were just that: nutters. But after this…"
"Mmm, yes," Sherlock responded, taking a seat on the sofa beside Rose. He kept his voice low as well. "You can thank my brother's people for this latest media blackout. By morning the story will have changed to a minor gas explosion."
With a sigh, Rose flicked off the telly and turned to Sherlock.
"So… you have a lot to tell me," she said.
Indeed, he did.
Sherlock told Rose everything Mycroft had outlined that morning. It didn't surprise Sherlock how upset Rose became on behalf of his sister. Incarcerated at the age of five! Rose was suitably horrified.
But Sherlock interrupted the beginnings of her lecture on rehabilitation versus punishment with a weary, "I know, Rose."
She gave him a resigned smile. He knew a multitude of thoughts were racing through her mind, but she had the good grace to hold off vocalising them all for the time being. He knew he'd have to let her have her say, eventually.
Upon seeing his daughter stirring, Sherlock said, "Let me take Grace up. Then I have one more thing to tell you."
Although Rose furrowed her brow as she gave up her daughter, she replied, "I've got something to discuss with you, too."
"Edinburgh?" he asked.
"How—?"
"Bob told me. It's fine, Rose. Back in a minute."
A quick phone call to Bob just before he entered St George's Fields earlier that night yielded snippets of information, such as Rose's desire to return to Edinburgh, but Bob didn't tell Sherlock how upset Rose had been. Bob was more interested in telling Sherlock that it wasn't a real DX-707, something Mycroft had already confirmed due to the limited amount of damage done to the flat. Sherlock had avoided phoning Rose as well, because it was so late and he hadn't wanted to wake her.
Sherlock took his time settling Grace. He kept her in his arms, rocking her in the dimly-lit nursery, committing her baby-lotioned scent to his somatosensory system. Dopamine was drip-fed into his central nervous system. He needed to store it… just in case.
Sherlock's heart ached with the burden of the information his brother had imparted to him. He'd have to take the bad with the good. He couldn't feel what he did for his baby daughter without other feelings vying for emotional bandwidth as well.
He kept his head bowed, intermittently brushing his lips over Grace's soft, downy hair. Warmth flooded through him.
How could his parents have let anyone take their daughter away? A surge of protectiveness shot through him. He would never let anyone do the same to Grace.
How bad did it get? he thought, addressing his absent parents. She was five, for Christ's sake. How inexplicable and unmanageable was her behaviour for you to let Uncle Rudy take her away?
"That will never happen to you," he murmured to his daughter, gently rocking her in place.
He shared Rose's disgust. At the time Mycroft had told him, though, Sherlock had strived to quell that emotion in an effort to retrieve further information.
"Everything okay?" Rose whispered from the doorway.
Sherlock snapped his head up. Reflexively, he gave a simple nod to Rose, then turned for the cot. Behind him, Rose pulled the door shut a little and left him alone with his baby daughter. He glanced at his watch. He'd been in the nursery for almost an hour!
After placing Grace down in her cot and rearranging the bedding over her, Sherlock slowly closed the door behind him. Downstairs was in complete darkness, and the light spilling underneath her bedroom door told Sherlock that Rose had closed up for the night and was waiting for him inside.
With a heavy heart, he entered the room. Rose was already under the covers, lying on her side facing him.
"Sorry," she said through heavy-lidded eyes, "I'm not going to last much longer. "Can we lie down and chat?"
Sherlock gave her a wan smile as he approached her. It was late, and he was sorry to have woken Rose and kept her up when she quite clearly needed sleep.
Sinking down onto the bed, he said, "Rose, I can't stay."
"I thought so. Your phone keeps beeping." Rose gestured to the table on Sherlock's side of the bed. "I brought it up for you."
Ignoring the phone for now, Sherlock told her, "I have to travel to Sherrinford."
"How far away is that?"
"It's in the Irish Sea, northwest of Malin Head, but not as far north as Scotland. I could be gone for a while. But we need to find out if Eurus is still under lock and key. This is important. Mycroft, John and I will be going."
Rose nodded, then smoothed a hand over the bedsheets.
"Just lie with me a minute," she said. "I still want to talk to you about Edinburgh."
She waited until Sherlock settled himself by her side.
"I'm not breaking up with you," she began, reaching for his hand. He threaded his fingers through hers.
"I know."
"It's just that... it was always going to happen, eventually, wasn't it? You brought me to London knowing I'd go back, didn't you?"
In truth, Sherlock hadn't given the distant future too much thought. He tended to exist from day to day and week to week. He thought their situation was quite manageable, until recent events served to unhinge him.
"I know it's for the best," he said. "And quite frankly, I don't think London is the best place for you to be right now."
Rose emitted a slow and steady breath.
"I think we'll go fairly soon, then," she said.
Sherlock nodded. He was confident Rose and Grace would be safe with Bob and Justine accompanying them.
"I don't know how long I'll be," he said. "But I'll join you as soon as I can. We have to train Mycroft in the finer points of how to be dropped out of a Sea King helicopter by winch." A smile played on his lips as he spoke. The image of the brains behind MI5 and MI6, swinging from a hovering helicopter over rough seas flitted through his mind. "A refresher course for John and me, but my brother..."
He watched as tears once more pooled in Rose's eyes. His heart began to grow heavy.
"I know how important this is to you," she said, a slight tremor in her voice. "I just wish I could help you in some way. Or help your sister. I'm sure I can find someone in my industry—other mental health prof—"
"Rose, it's fine. We just have to see if she's there first. Everything else will follow once we know."
When Rose shuddered out a sigh, Sherlock reached for her.
"And we'll work out a plan for ourselves, hmm? Me visiting you in Edinburgh, and you coming back to London on occasion?"
"Will your flat be okay? I couldn't see any damage from the outside."
"It'll be fine. A few blackened possessions and furnishings. Nothing that can't be replaced. And Mrs Hudson..." Sherlock paused, an idea forming in his mind. His landlady. The poor woman had been in such a state!
"Actually," he said carefully, "there is something you could do for me... before you leave London."
"Clean up your flat?"
"No! Definitely not. And I told Mrs Hudson not to as well. It's just that I didn't get to spend much time reassuring her that everything will be fine. So, perhaps you can pay her a visit? Make sure she's not worrying about us. Let her know there's no structural damage and I'll fix it all up when we return. Could you do that?"
Rose nodded in agreement.
"I like Mrs Hudson," she said. "She's lovely. And she cares about you so much."
Like a second mother, Sherlock thought, outwardly gifting Rose with a wry smile. And he was sure his landlady liked Rose, too. Well, she had repeatedly let Rose into the flat, despite her drugged-out lodger's demand in opposition.
Sherlock straightened up, poised to leave when another thought suddenly struck him. His mind swiftly calculated the ramifications of such a decision.
"Why don't you tell her?" he said.
"Tell her?" Rose asked, her brow furrowed.
"About us. You, me, Grace." When Rose wordlessly opened and closed her mouth, Sherlock added, "The wholesome version, that is. You were my therapist—she thinks that already. You stole your way into my heart..."
Rose laughed lightly, and replied, "The other way around, I think!"
Leaning over Rose, Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. The love and devotion he felt for her ran through him with an intensity that threatened to overwhelm him. He had to let her know how he felt. And this time, with everything around him in disarray, a simple I love you would not suffice. Rose and Grace were the only aspect of his life he felt secure about.
His heart full, Sherlock locked eyes with Rose's and told her, "Every moment I've ever spent with you has culminated in the best experience of my life."
As Rose gazed up at him, her eyes glistening, he added, "In fact, if I die any time soon, I can go to my grave know—"
Rose stifled his words by placing two fingers against his lips and shaking her head.
"I get it," she said, her voice fraying around the edges. "You don't have to say any more."
But the tears he was almost expecting of Rose did not fall. With a gentle tug, she pulled him towards her and met his lips in a long and lingering kiss. The intensity of her emotions, he knew, displayed a hidden strength. She was neither fragile nor vulnerable. She would be okay living in Edinburgh without him for a time. And God help anyone who crossed her or her daughter.
Sherlock's phone once more beeped and vibrated with a message.
Pushing lightly against his chest, Rose said, "You should go."
With a nod, Rose silently signalled her thanks to Bob for escorting her to Baker Street. She knew he would set up a vantage point somewhere in the area. She felt just a bit guilty that she would be warm and dry in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, sharing a cup of tea, while he was stood out in the street with nothing but the gentle patter of rain for company.
Rose once again checked on Grace, peering through the plastic of the buggy's rain cover. Just as she did so, she witnessed flailing limbs, before the unmistakeable sound of protests emanated through the protective cover.
Rose quickly pressed the buzzer for 221A, before reaching down and pulling at the velcro that held the cover in place. In the shelter of the stoop, Rose lifted her baby from the pram. She soothed her over her shoulder, gently patting her back and issuing soft shushes. Grace was due for a feed, and if the landlady wasn't in, Rose could probably feed her in Speedy's café. She hoped the place wasn't too busy. Monday morning. Wouldn't everybody be at work by now?
Rose heard the jiggle of a lock and then the door to 221 opened, revealing the landlady wearing an apron.
"Oh!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. "You've had the baby!" The older woman cooed with delight, having eyes only for the infant in Rose's arms. "Come in, come in," Mrs Hudson gestured, her expression bright with excitement.
When Rose stepped back and pulled the pram towards her, Mrs Hudson enthusiastically offered to hold the baby—exclaiming, "Another baby girl!"—while Rose brought the pram inside. It was a tight squeeze with Rose apologising for Mrs Hudson's floor, now that the wet buggy stood dripping all over the entranceway.
"Oh, don't worry about that, dear," Mrs Hudson said. "I've got soot floating down from upstairs. No matter how many times I sweep down here, another layer settles on it, quick smart. I don't know when that young man is going to get everything sorted. Oh, I'm sorry, Rose dear. If you're here to see Sherlock, he's—"
"No, it's fine, Mrs Hudson. I saw him last night. I just came to see if you were all right, and if you need anything. Sherlock will be back soon enough to clean up, he said. Don't worry about that. Why… why don't I put the kettle on?"
Luckily, Mrs Hudson didn't notice Rose's nervous babbling, her attention once more drawn to the infant in her arms.
"Oh, does she feed well?" she asked as they made their way into the kitchen. "She looks really healthy!"
Rose gave the woman a brief summary of Grace's sleeping and feeding habits, making sure to highlight the easier times. Mrs Hudson was delighted to hear that her baby's name was Grace. Settling into a dining chair, Mrs Hudson lay Grace on her lap, cradling Grace's head in her hands.
"Let's have a good look at you," she said, as Rose filled the kettle. "Oh," Mrs Hudson laughed. "Look at that yawn! Just like your dad when he's bored!"
Rose froze at the kitchen sink. What did she say?
Mrs Hudson was still chuckling down at Grace.
"So clever!" she cooed. "Oh, and those eyes. Taking everything in!" To Grace she said, "You know what's going on, don't you? Processing everything, just like Sherlock!"
A heat spread across Rose's cheeks. No, she hadn't misheard.
"Mrs Hudson," she began.
The landlady looked up.
"Did… do you know… I mean… I never said…" Rose's throat felt tight, and although Sherlock had given her permission to tell Mrs Hudson about their relationship, Rose wasn't quite prepared for this conversation. "About… Sherlock," she continued, her heart beating furiously in her chest.
"Oh, I didn't come down in the last shower, dear. I knew you and Sherlock were mucking about last year. And you still visiting him in your condition when he was acting like a smackhead! You don't live underneath a Consulting Detective without a few observational skills rubbing off on you. I thought you were either a very dedicated therapist, or you were in a relationship with him. Of course, I hoped you were having his baby." She glanced down at Grace. "And look at you! You're so beautiful! Yes, you are! And you look just like your daddy!" Lifting her gaze to Rose, she added, "If you were seeing someone else, I don't know how they felt about you staying the night all those times. But Sherlock didn't say anything about expecting a baby, the great lump. None of my business, I thought... But now that I know, perhaps I should've pulled a gun on him sooner."
Rose gaped a little, her head buzzing. Mrs Hudson knew they were involved last year? And Rose thought they'd kept their liaisons a secret under the guise of therapy sessions. But what's this about a gun?
"A gun?"
"Yes, you know, that day you left all upset, and he was carrying on like a pork chop. I felt so bad for you. You looked like you were about to go into labour!"
Rose smiled ruefully.
"I did go into labour."
"Oh, no!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed. To Grace, she asked, "Did you hear all the shouting? I'll be having a word to your father about that. Fancy subjecting an unborn baby to all that nonsense."
With that announcement, Grace's face contorted into the beginnings of a cry.
"Oh, I should feed her now. She's probably hungry," Rose said, crossing the tiny kitchen.
"No, she knows when someone's criticising her dad," Mrs Hudson said, rising from her seat. "Daddy's girl, this one. You mark my words. She'll have Sherlock wrapped around her little finger one day! I bet he can't put her down, can he?"
Rose managed a tiny smile as she took Grace from Mrs Hudson. His landlady was spot on there.
"He loves her," Rose said, and she felt herself flush. It felt odd talking about Sherlock as a father to anyone other than Bob and Justine. To her friends, "Scott" was just a figment of her imagination. Talking about Sherlock Holmes, in this context, to someone who knew him very well, felt surreal.
"I bet he does," Mrs Hudson remarked, a sparkle in her eyes. "I'm sure he dotes on her. I always knew he'd be a wonderful father. You should've seen how he was with Rosie." Mrs Hudson placed a hand on her chest. "Oh, she's adorable." Indicating the doorway, the landlady added, "Just go through, love. I'll get the tea. Stay as long as you like!"
Author's Note:
Yay, someone else knows! I hope you don't mind that it's Hudders who was the next to know. Although, technically, she may have been the first to know! All those carryings on upstairs... of course she noticed!
