Chapter 116 – We're Going to Have to Give Her Hope
His breathing, slow and deep, against the constant patter of rain outside, were the only sounds to compete with the buzzing inside his brain. As Rose's tongue lathed so expertly, Sherlock threaded his hands through her hair.
The need and hunger welled up inside him and he let out a long, shuddering sigh, dropping his head back against the door, his eyelids fluttering to a close.
Her tongue teased in a leisurely, seductive fashion. Her soft mouth held him with a gentle firmness, just enough to ease the ragged edges of his desire. Her free hand roamed, gently, lightly skimming his thigh before cupping him, massaging him there. The air hummed around them. The rain outside may have settled into a constant drizzle, but the storm inside him slowly built.
Rose's mouth moved avidly. She intermittently trailed her tongue, leaving delicious pulsing aches in its wake. Sherlock knew the pleasure would end all too soon for him, but he had done nothing for her. She hadn't allowed him to. He had needed all of her, but she had given him this instead, taking nothing for herself.
Another erotic slide of her tongue, and a bolt of heat shot through him. He let out a long grateful moan. He was deep inside and the pressure was glorious. His breath grew unsteady, his pulse rate accelerating.
Recent events had scorched his soul, but she had resurrected it from the ashes, lighting fires everywhere else. All he had was Rose to cling to while the world swayed beneath his feet. She was his reality, his anchor, his rock.
Heat shimmered over Sherlock's skin, and he let the soft strand of hair fall through his fingers. They drifted over her nape, skimming the bare skin there. Beyond that, out of reach, her pale skin dipped and rose in curves of lusciousness. Firm and smooth and erotic. He knew every inch of her, her texture, taste and fragrance. He looked down at her, longing to hold her, bury himself in her, run his tongue over her, into her, to incite an insatiable need within her. Should he tell her to stop? But her mouth was so eager and warm and generous, he wanted this selfish pleasure to go on forever.
Rose drew him in, and released him, over and again, until his breath caught just as often, expelling in primitive bursts. Sherlock rocked his hips a little, urging her, silently pleading with her, as blood thundered through his head.
"Rose."
It was a desperate murmur, a plea and a surrender, all in one. She was undoing the knots, unravelling him, until his head spun, his heart stuttered and his loins throbbed with a blissful ache.
He clutched ineffectually at the back of her head. Rose answered each desperate demand and urgent moan that escaped his lips. Sherlock's pulse raced erratically and his body quivered. Every muscle coiled in readiness. Rose's hand gripped his hip. A new determination drove her. She pulled him to the brink where emotion replaced reason. His breath caught as sensations built, rocketed to their peak and swamped him. He shuddered over the precipice. Free falling.
Sherlock's fingers dug into Rose's shoulder. His head fell back against the door. Pleasure pulsated and lashed through him. A moan escaped. A curse highjacked a gasp. His breath was quick and laboured. She drew from him. Consumed him. He gave until nothing was left.
The air stilled. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His eyes had squeezed shut, and when he opened them to slits, the laundry appeared, dark geometric shapes in the evening gloom. His head felt light and he was only vaguely aware of Rose rising from her knees.
The rain pattered on.
Rose's arms encircled him.
"Just let me hug you," she whispered.
Rose gathered up her hair into a pony-tail and left the downstairs bathroom to join Sherlock in the living room.
"That's a bit formal," she said, her expression brightening at the presence of a tea pot, tea cups and saucers on a tray, instead of the mugs and tea bags they'd usually share. "And just before dinner?"
Sherlock gave her a grim smile as she sat down on the sofa beside him.
"I have something I need to tell you," he said.
He was going to open up to her now? She thought he'd go to pieces after his orgasm, given the pent up emotions that led to her performing oral sex on him in the laundry in the first place, but he'd hugged her back in silence, eased out of her embrace, awkwardly thanked her and then they'd both quietly dressed. Perhaps he'd been holding on to his emotions… until such time as… when? When they had a full tea service set out before them? But wasn't John due back from the shops any minute now?
Still, his rounded eyes signalled something else entirely. It was the kind of look—the tiny arch of his brows—that he'd give her when she was emotionally distraught about something. His empathetic expression. That's what it was.
Rose's stomach dropped. For fuck's sake. What was he about to tell her?
"I've already taken the liberty of pouring your tea," he said, quickly redirecting his gaze to the coffee table.
"Sherlock," Rose began, not knowing what she was going to say.
Through the open door from the entranceway, Justine strode in, her expression a taut smile, and she lightly clasped her hands together.
"Oh, you are here," she said, as both Rose and Sherlock looked up. "I thought you'd gone out. When I came down earlier there was no one about."
Rose felt a warmth spread across her cheeks.
"Oh, we… we were…" Rose began, struggling to come up with an excuse.
"John's getting dinner," Sherlock said, talking over her.
"There's no easy way to say this," Justine went on, as if neither of them had spoken. "Bob's upset. He feels as if he's let you down, and he wants to retire. Properly this time. And I have to support him in this."
Rose's chest tightened and her head buzzed. Beside her, Sherlock straightened in his seat.
"Justine," he said.
"I know what you're going to say," she interrupted him, wringing her hands. "We have thought long and hard about this. It's for the best. We'll give you a month's notice and I hope you think that's fair. We'll leave before Christmas so we can spend it with our family, if that's all right."
Rose felt as if she'd been slapped. She gaped a little, in mute shock.
Leaving? To spend Christmas with our family? But… weren't they… weren't we all… family?
Sherlock left the sofa, prompting Rose to stand as well.
"Justine, just hear me out," Sherlock tried again. "It's not entirely Bob's fault. I didn't even notice myself—"
"It's not very professional of us," Justine replied. "There's no excuse for not being more thorough. It could've been a lot worse. And there were babies…"
"It's Mycroft's fault!" Rose burst out. "Nothing like this would normally happen!" Tears pressed against her eyes. She couldn't believe this. Bob blamed himself? And now they wanted to leave, as if Rose and Sherlock and Grace didn't matter to them anymore.
"A month's notice—we think that's fair," Justine said, her expression tightening. She kept her eyes on Sherlock's. "I'll leave you to think about the details. I don't want to go back and forth with arguments. We've already made up our minds." Her eyes flickered to Rose, but she didn't hold her gaze. Lifting her chin, Justine said finally, "Please respect our wishes."
She turned on her heel and left the room, while Rose groped for her voice.
"Sherlock," she said, as her eyes brimmed with tears. She swallowed the sob that had risen in her throat. "Do something."
Sherlock reached for her, but didn't draw Rose into a hug. He rubbed at her arms and eyed her carefully.
"I know it sounds harsh," he said, "but they are right."
"What!"
"I employed them to protect you. You and Grace."
Rose pulled away from Sherlock, her brow furrowed.
"Don't—"
"They made a mistake," he continued, "but so did I. It's not something I'd fire them over. I trust them completely." There was a hint of a smile around his mouth, which confused Rose. "Justine wanted to leave us to think about the finer details. She's forgetting how fast my brain can process problems like this."
Rose tutted, stifling an eyeroll.
"So, how about this," Sherlock said.
He suggested they let Justine and Bob leave immediately for Blackpool. He'd continue to pay them. Holiday pay. The stress of their impending departure wouldn't make for a pleasant atmosphere around the house for the next month anyway and clearly they could do with a long break. Rose quirked an interested brow at Sherlock's unusually sharp assessment regarding other people and relationships.
"They can spend the remainder of the year and Christmas in Blackpool," he said, "and then, early in the new year, we'll see how they feel about retirement. They tried to retire before. Soon after our… operation. Both out of their minds with boredom. Jumped at the chance to work for me. You'll see. They'll be back before Grace is out of nappies."
"That's…" Rose stammered, her mind momentarily distracted by Sherlock mentioning their "operation". "That's… a long time away," she finished.
"You know what I mean," Sherlock replied, his eyes sparkling a little.
Rose had to admit his plan had its merits. She felt only marginally better. Rejection still tapped her on the shoulder, though. An all too familiar dance partner these days.
"So, I'll just go up and tell them," he said, turning for the door.
"Sherlock… wait."
"What?"
Pointing to the tea service, Rose asked, "Is that what this was for? Did you know what Justine and Bob had decided?"
"No," he replied, his shoulders drooping a little.
"So you have something else to tell me."
"Well, now isn't a good time," he said, gesturing between Rose and the tea.
"Are you going to wait until I'm feeling happy and then tell me?"
He gave her a crooked smile.
"Not a good plan?"
Rose rounded the table and sank onto the sofa once more.
"Tell me now," she said with a sigh. "How can this day get any worse?"
Sherlock scrubbed at his scalp and crossed the floor towards her. Heaving out a sigh of his own, he sat down beside her.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice dropping a couple of notches. Reaching for Rose's hand, he added, "What I'm about to tell you isn't pleasant."
Rose's insides twisted. Sherlock would happily tell her about a serial killer, or how he'd acquired a matching pair of eyeballs from the mortuary. A subject that he also found unpleasant? She dreaded to think what it could be.
"You know about my sister and her many disguises," he began. When Rose nodded, he went on. "She was John's therapist, although Mrs Hudson and I interrupted his first session. And she shot him during their second session, but other than that, he thought she was pretty good. Then there was Culverton Smith's daughter, Faith. She showed up as a client. Her information led me to expose the monster behind the philanthropist. John also flirted with a version of her on one of his many commutes… exchanged text messages with her. I'm not sure how harmless they were."
Rose furrowed her brow, wondering where Sherlock was going with this.
"Her motivation for all these disguises was never made clear," he continued. "Perhaps she wanted to see how close she could get to me, observe how I worked, how my relationships with others withstood tests. Maybe it was all a game, culminating in the challenges we faced in Sherrinford. I don't know."
When he dropped his gaze to their clasped hands and rubbed his thumb across the back of Rose's, her mouth ran dry.
"Rose, I'm sorry to have to tell you this," he said, lifting his gaze, "but I'm sure Eurus befriended you, disguised as someone else."
Rose's heartbeat echoed in her ears. Befriended her? Eurus had entered her life, too? She blinked, suddenly finding it hard to maintain eye contact with Sherlock. She cast around for something tangible to help her understand. How could part of his sister's game-playing include Rose? She parted her lips to protest automatically. What he was saying sounded… far-fetched… ludicrous, even.
"I'm sure…" she said faltering, her mind failing to catch on, "I'm sure I'd notice if… if…"
People flitted in and out of her life all the time. Extended family, friends of friends, mother's group members, ex-workmates, clients, classmates, lecturers… the list was endless. So what if she once bumped into Sherlock's sister in one of her many disguises? Another face in a sea of faces. But if she was a friend… someone Rose spent a bit of time with… Oh God. Her stomach clenched and unclenched. Of course she'd know if someone wasn't who they said they were… wouldn't she?
Rose slowly eased her hand from Sherlock's.
"Rose," Sherlock said gently. "I'm quite sure she was Lisa."
The name hit her like a punch in the gut.
Lisa?
Lisa's image flitted through Rose's mind—a blurry montage of their tutoring sessions, coffee outings, and finally, Lisa visiting in hospital after Grace was born. She could feel the blood leeching from her face. But this wasn't right.
"No," she said, her voice straining. Rose shook her head. "I've known her for ages."
"I think she's been capable of leaving Sherrinford for a while."
"We've been friends all year."
"Yes."
That he agreed with her so emphatically threw Rose. Her statement was meant to refute his claim.
Rose reached across the coffee table for her iPad. This was utter nonsense.
"She's a student at Napier," she said, furiously swiping at her screen and bringing up the tutoring website in her browser. "Well, she was, until she transferred to Liverpool. And out of all my friends, I don't know why you've picked out Lisa."
"It was a couple of things you said, and… Eurus… mentioned," Sherlock replied, but Rose still didn't want to entertain the thought. As he started recounting random anecdotes she may have told him once (who could remember these things?) she found her profile on the site, then navigated to the students with whom she had communicated.
"Here."
Rose thrust her iPad into Sherlock's hand. In the window was Lisa's profile, one the mature age student would've created in order to gain access to lists of student tutors available at Edinburgh Napier University, of which Rose was one.
Rose waited while Sherlock studied the screen.
"Is that her?" she prompted. "Is that your sister?"
Sherlock frowned.
"Bit hard to tell," he said. "A low-res image blown up to fit the minimum size requirements. Jaw-line could be hers. Same shape. Obviously wearing a wig. But that's a very poor photo."
It was. Rose could see that now. Because she recognised Lisa from the fuzzy image, she thought Sherlock would be able to pick out his sister. Curious about the wig, though. Rose always thought Lisa's thick red locks were too thick, too… luxurious.
"I started tutoring her in the first trimester," she told Sherlock. "Before you even visited me."
"Yes, but—"
"So how did Eurus know about me that long ago? You and I weren't even together!"
"I think she watched me long before she made any appearance. I'm quite sure she was behind the 'Miss Me' broadcast on New Year's Day to bring me back to London. If she had me under surveillance since I returned—proper surveillance, not that half-arsed rubbish Mycroft relied on—she would've found out about you. I think she's been leaving Sherrinford on a regular basis. She would've been studying what makes people tick, how ordinary people lived their lives, for quite some time. Perhaps from the safety of Sherrinford first, but eventually, she would've planned her first excursion."
Sherlock placed the iPad back onto the coffee table, then reached for Rose's hand once more.
"I don't think she meant you any harm," he said.
"Then what did she want?"
"To get close to someone who was important to me. But what she got was a… a friend." He shrugged and shook his head lightly. "I'm not sure if that was her original intention, but she was obsessed with having a friend of her own. Since childhood. I don't think she's capable of true friendship. Probably never was. Perhaps she just enjoyed the role playing."
Rose's cheeks burnt. That Lisa—Eurus—pretended to be her friend stung. She still couldn't believe it.
Sherlock gave her hand a squeeze.
"You said Lisa kept visiting her son in Liverpool. Perhaps she was returning to Sherrinford during those times." When Rose said nothing, Sherlock added, "I'm… sorry."
Rose looked away, her mind in a whirl.
In the entranceway, the front door clicked shut, and footsteps approached the living area. Rose wiped at her eyes.
"Three kinds of salad," John Watson said matter-of-factly, the rustle of plastic shopping bags accompanying him. Rose turned to look at him, forcing a smile to her face. "Just in ca…"
Who was she kidding. Her eyes were obviously glistening with unshed tears. John clamped his jaw shut.
"I… I keep interrupting you two, don't I?" he asked.
"It's okay, John," Rose said, at the same time Sherlock replied, "It's fine."
"I was just telling Rose about Eurus and her disguises," Sherlock explained.
"Oh… right," John said, ambling further into the room, holding grocery bags in both hands. His eyes were drawn to the iPad on the coffee table and deep creases formed in his brow. He inched forward and stopped behind the sofa. "That's… that's… Elisabeth."
Rose's head buzzed. She slowly reached for the iPad and held it out to John.
"Yes, that's Lisa, my… friend. She hates being called Elisabeth." She sighed and murmured, "Hated." Now she had to qualify her statements. As if Lisa had passed. Died.
John placed one bag on the floor and accepted the device from Rose, his mouth slightly agape.
"Ah," said Sherlock. "The woman John texted. Looks like Eurus re-used the same disguise."
Rose's stomach dropped. Was this confirmation that Sherlock's guess about Lisa was correct? If they had already confirmed John's texting partner was really Eurus, and John identified her from Lisa's profile photo, then...
It was a stab to the heart.
Lisa wasn't actually her friend. She didn't exist. Rose's mind filled with white noise. She only faintly heard John saying, "Edinburgh, huh? Well, she did have a… ahem… a Scottish accent."
He held out the iPad, but she didn't take it back. Sherlock took it on her behalf and set it down on the coffee table. The men exchanged a handful of remarks, none of which Rose listened to. She only heard the dull thuds of her heartbeat. John finally made excuses about serving up dinner, leaving her and Sherlock alone.
"Are you—" he began.
Rose stood up.
"I just need a minute. Alone."
"Rose," he said, also standing.
At that moment, the baby monitor on the coffee table burst into life. Rosie.
Both bedroom doors had been left slightly ajar while the babies slept, with the baby unit monitor on the floor between the rooms, so they'd hear if either infant awoke. Of course, there was also the chance that one would wake the other.
"I'll go," Rose said, immediately making for the door.
Tired and very dishevelled, Rose pulled on her dressing gown. Her limbs felt heavy. She could've slept for a week. Even though she'd gone to bed early, after a very subdued dinner—made only slightly interesting by the distractions of Rosie and Grace—Rose had little sleep. She insisted on feeding Grace when she woke at 10:12pm, 2:57am and 5:30am, even though Sherlock had offered to walk around with her and even lie on the living room sofa with her. Rose wouldn't have it.
But now it was just before nine. Grace had woken, Sherlock had changed her nappy and had informed Rose that the Wilsons were leaving.
"Are you sure you want to come down?" Sherlock asked, as Rose yawned widely. "I can tell them you're still asleep."
"Surely I can at least say goodbye," she retorted, her voice still rough from sleep. Even if I'm not allowed to speak to them, she thought, fuming.
She heard Sherlock sigh behind her as they left the bedroom together.
Rose knew she was taking it out on him. It wasn't his fault Justine didn't want to talk to her. Sherlock had delivered dinner to the couple the previous evening and later informed Rose that they had accepted his suggestion to leave for Blackpool for an extended break, rather than give a month's notice. Though adamant they wouldn't change their mind about retiring, they agreed to touch base again in the new year.
Rose quickly ran her hands through her hair before she rounded the staircase. Bob and Justine were standing by the front door.
"Taxi's here," Justine said, looking up as the family of three descended. Rose noted that Justine had directed her gaze above her head, presumably to address Sherlock, rather than Rose.
As Bob was nearest the bottom of the stairs, Rose drew him into a hug first.
"Bob," she said. The big man enveloped her in a bear hug. "Have a lovely Christmas," she said, "and we'll see you in the new year." Then she added in a trembled whisper, "I love you both."
Bob tightened his hold, squeezing the life out of her.
"You, too, love," he choked.
Justine, however, gave Rose a very perfunctory hug. Rose only had time to gush out a, "Have a wonderful Christmas with your family," before Justine had already pulled away to pat Sherlock on the arm and rub Grace's back.
"Look after them," she said to Sherlock, her mouth set in a thin line. "Bob?"
In a blink, they were gone. As the door clicked shut, Rose's heart felt heavy, but she tried to remain unaffected by Justine's behaviour, keeping in mind the words Sherlock spoke to her in the early hours.
While Rose had been feeding Grace in bed around three, and Sherlock was trying to doze beside her, Rose had voiced her concern about Justine directing her words to Sherlock only that evening.
"She's distancing herself from you," he murmured into the pillow.
"What?"
Sherlock rolled to his back, laced his hands across his stomach and looked up at Rose, who sat propped up against her pillows as she fed Grace.
"It's what she does—what they have to do—when moving from one assignment to another. Especially if they were deep undercover and formed… attachments… to the people around them. It's… it's… dangerous if they don't emotionally distance themselves."
"But I'm not an…" assignment, she thought.
But of course she was, wasn't she? Who was she kidding. Sherlock had hired Bob and Justine to be her security, with a bit of gardening and babysitting thrown in as a bonus.
Sherlock hadn't said anymore, and she was stunned when he suddenly sat up, swung his legs to the ground and declared his need for a cigarette.
The realisation didn't hit her until she had settled Grace and slid under the quilt herself, alone.
… Undercover… forming attachments… danger…
Oh, Sherlock, Rose thought. He had probably triggered the memory of the widow in that village in Poland, the woman who'd had her throat slit when Sherlock had hesitated in taking a shot.
Rose battled with her conscience over going downstairs and finding him, but she decided he'd be horrified if he knew Justine had told her details of his time abroad.
He must've returned to bed eventually, after Rose had fallen asleep waiting for him, because he was in the bedroom for Grace when she woke at dawn.
Now that Justine and Bob had left, the house felt strangely empty.
"Tea?" Sherlock asked, beckoning Rose towards the kitchen where she heard Rosie babbling to John.
"No, I think I'll go back to bed," Rose replied with a sigh, and drawing her dressing gown tighter around herself. "Wake me when Grace needs feeding again."
She spent the better part of the day half-sleeping, in between feeding her daughter. Being awake meant she'd think about the Wilsons and Lisa. She had pushed the realities of both losses to the periphery of her mind.
In the early afternoon, Sherlock entered the bedroom, attempting to stealthily tuck Grace into her cot. Rose shifted so he'd know she was awake. He grinned broadly at her, then made his way over to the bed.
Leaning over her, he planted a kiss on her forehead.
"Would you like lunch?" he asked in a low rumble. "There's some of that soup Justine made. I daresay you'll be the only one who'll eat it."
At the mention of Justine's name, Rose's eyes pooled with tears.
Sherlock tutted and screwed his eyes shut.
"Stupid, stupid," he admonished himself with a shake of his head. "It'll be fine," he said eventually. He layered a few more kisses to her face, murmuring, "You'll see… they'll be back before you know it."
He sat back and regarded Rose for a moment, before his mouth eased into a smile again.
"I'm running you a bath," he said, "Though I'd like to join you in it… can't really… John… bit awkward. But he'll be leaving soon, so you'll have to put up with my conversation for the next couple of days. I'll have to warn you though," he said, leaning forward again, "there'll be a bit of this…" He paused to press a light kiss behind her ear lobe. "And a bit of this…" This time, Sherlock brushed his lips over hers. "And much more besides," he murmured against her mouth. "A few more rooms in the house to explore."
Rose banded her arms around his neck, not wanting him to leave just yet. She wasn't feeling the least bit aroused, but she did crave his attention and affection.
"Thank you," she whispered.
With a wink, Sherlock left her in peace. He returned fifteen minutes later to signal that the bath was ready.
As she sank below the sudsy surface, she asked Sherlock when John was leaving and was stunned to discover he'd already departed. He had wanted to get to the airport early, Sherlock told her, to time Rosie's afternoon sleep for the cab ride.
"He said he'll see you in London on the weekend, anyway."
Rose didn't spend too long in the bath, much to Sherlock's disappointment. She suddenly had a lot of chores to attend to, and went about busying herself with it all, while not thinking about the many things Justine did about the place.
Sherlock planted himself in front of his laptop, intermittently with Grace in his lap, explaining to his newborn baby the rudiments of deductive reasoning while he solved email cases. If Rose had been in a lighter mood, she may have sat with them to soak up these moments between father and daughter, but she couldn't. She felt sick to her stomach whenever she stopped to think and feel.
Exhausted, they both decided they couldn't eat dinner, but later munched on toast and jam. At one stage during the evening, Sherlock disappeared and Rose found him smoking on the balcony outside Bob and Justine's sitting room.
"We'll have to do something about your smoking habit," was the only comment Rose made.
With Grace back in the nursery, Rose anticipated a night of luxurious love-making. But she and Sherlock lay side by side, fingers entwined, staring at the ceiling, for neither of them wanted to enter into any conversation that could potentially upset the other partner. Sherlock turned to his side, kissed her temple and remained there, as if he was about to tell her something.
They both fell asleep.
Sometime during the night, Grace stirred and needed tending to. This happened twice more, and zombie-like, Sherlock and Rose did what they had to.
At some stage, Rose murmured, "We need a fan…. or an old radio."
Sherlock hummed in disinterest.
The next day dawned with a message from Mycroft. A package would be arriving for them, it said. Within five minutes, said package turned up at the doorstep. It was a shiny new laptop for Rose. Encrypted and password-protected, it contained files and video footage concerning Eurus Holmes.
Rose parked herself on the sofa, a pot of tea by her side. She skimmed through a handful of files and watched a few of the videos. Sherlock concerned himself with yelling into the phone at his brother because he wasn't happy with the next lot of packages that were due to arrive in the form of a van full of communications experts who were going to re-do their wifi and phone system.
When the van turned up within the hour, Sherlock wouldn't let them inside.
"Just let them do their thing," Rose said, resignedly. "If I need to email Mycroft from here, then we have to make sure the lines are secure."
Sherlock finally acquiesced, but monitored the comms guys closely. When he discovered one trying to install a micro camera in one corner of the entranceway, he snatched it from him and flushed it down the toilet.
"That's the only place my brother gets to monitor!" he snarled.
The rest of the evening consisted of Sherlock climbing over and peering underneath every piece of furniture to double-check what these so-called communications experts had done. As he passed by Rose, she slammed down the lid of the laptop and said, "I can't watch anymore. I know she's your sister, but I…"
Sherlock's frantic search for hidden cameras came to a halt, and he held her for a long while. Rose couldn't maintain a professional attitude when it came to Eurus. Not right now. Her feelings about Lisa were still too raw.
"Let's turn in early," Sherlock said. "We've got a big day tomorrow."
Yes.
Travelling back to London.
Meeting the parents.
Rose shuddered and clung to Sherlock.
"Make love to me, tonight," she whispered.
"I fully intend to," he replied. Straightening up, a curious glint in his eye, he added, "How about we have sex in every other room? That'll get my brother to switch off the cameras, if I've missed any."
Rose furrowed her brow.
"No. I expect to be in our bedroom, on a comfortable mattress, with Sherlock Holmes doing wicked things to me."
Sherlock pulled her close and rumbled a deliciously evil laugh in her ear.
"Perhaps that was my plan all along?"
Author's Note:
The credits list the lady on the bus's name as "Elizabeth" in The Six Thatchers but I've taken liberties by changing the spelling to "Elisabeth". I've never wanted to give a physical description of Lisa, in case it was too obvious that I was also describing "E" from the bus. The only clue that they may have been one and the same was the Scottish accent!
So close to the end now! Next up: London!
Please take the time to write a comment. I didn't get many responses to my last chapter and I felt so unmotivated and unsure of my writing because of it. Thank you to those who did review. I've sent you all a PM of thanks.
I'd LOVE to finish this marathon of a story on a wave of enthusiasm, rather than the sound of one hand clapping. I'd hate to lose the motivation to complete the marathon, to collapse only a few hundred metres from the finish line! Please spur me on!
You always say the nicest things! Not many chapters left now.
elbafo
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