Chapter 120 – Problem. Someone is About to Die

"Just stop!" Rose yelled at Sherlock. "For Christ's sake!"

"It's all wrong!" he grumbled, tossing another jumpsuit aside. "Can't you see that!"

"No, Sherlock," Mary said, in a much calmer voice. "You really do need to back off now."

Narrowing his eyes, he said, "Two against one, is it?"

"Yes," Mary said, placing her hands on her hips. "When you start sorting baby clothes by thread count, yes it is."

Sherlock's glare ricocheted from Mary to Rose and back again.

"Fine!" he said, storming off.


"Sherlock!" Rose gasped, aghast, as dozens of boxes of condoms spilled out of his shopping bag and lay claim to the precious real estate on the kitchen counter.

"A well-researched blog post is nothing to sneeze at. Don't you want to contribute something meaningful to the world? The standardisation of packaging! Have you forgotten?"

"We're not resurrecting the condom test and your stupid spreadsheet so you can post it on your blog!" Rose said, plucking out the bag of carrots—the sole item she'd actually asked him to purchase.

He bought boxes and boxes of condoms from our corner shop along with a whole bag of carrots! I can never show my face in that shop again!

"There are no stupid spreadsheets. Only stupid…" He paused, as if scrambling for the right words. "Computer operators! We don't have to publish our real names. I'm just trying to put more meaning back into your life."

Rose gaped a little before attempting to retrieve a little of her sanity back.

"Right now," she said, maintaining an even tone, "raising Grace is my main priority. Wrangling a wayward puppy, a close second. That's all the meaning I need in my life at the moment. Being a mother and a—"

"Oh, being a mother's child's play. Anyone could do it with one arm tied behind their back." Sherlock's eyes widened and blazed green and gold. "Oh! That gives me another idea for a Cluedo prop! Where did Bob keep the key to the garden shed? What are you doing right now?" Raking his eyes over Rose's attire, and waving a limp hand at her, he added, "Just wear an overcoat and nothing else underneath. I'll be in the back garden."


"Where's Sherlock?" Mary asked as she strolled in with the groceries. "I bought that roll of wire he wanted."

"On the roof," Rose said, sliding the tray of roast lamb into the oven.

"Satellite dish?"

"Something like that."

"Jesus fucking... Christ!" came a yell from the back yard, with the accompanying clatter of a ladder falling.

"Or he's in the garden," Rose said, closing the oven door. "And with any luck, sporting a broken neck."

"If he hasn't got one already," Mary said, determinedly striding for the laundry and its access to the back yard, "do you want me to give him one?"

"Yes, please."


"Quick, run!" Sherlock urged in a fierce whisper.

Rose sprinted until her lungs felt ready to burst. Cold air whipped against her cheeks. Sherlock pulled her along by her arm, her heart pounding at every turn, every duck and weave and climb of chain link fences.

Finally, they arrived in the darkened laneway adjacent to their house, chests heaving.

Rose started giggling. This was getting ridiculous now.

Once she'd caught her breath, she asked, "Why… did… we…?"

"I thought I saw a curtain twitching."

Rose snorted out a laugh again, her sides aching. Sherlock's deep chuckle floated through the darkness beside her.

Gathering her up in his arms, he said, "Did you enjoy that?"

She felt his warm breath against her lips, and in lieu of a reply, she stole a kiss.

Sherlock pressed Rose up against the fence that bounded the outside of their property, their lips locked. His pelvis ground into hers. Pushing him away from her, Rose grabbed at his waistband and unzipped his trousers.

"Was that foreplay?" she asked, breathless.

"Yes," he replied, his voice taking on a rough edge. "Yes, it was."


"Don't you like my lessons on keen observation?" Sherlock mourned, when Rose sat under the covers, a novel open in her lap, refusing to budge.

"Yes, I love them," she said, turning over a page. "I enjoy our walks." Glancing at Sherlock she added, "Spotting the regular joggers, watching the post get delivered and identifying anomalies in the bin collection schedule. It's thrilling! Spying on our neighbours through their windows at midnight—not so much."


Rose and Mary surveyed the carnage in Bob and Justine's former sitting room on the second floor. Plaster from the ceiling crumbled beneath their shoes mixed with broken glass and an unidentified sludge. The fallout from the explosion still filled the air in something resembling glitter since it reflected the light filtering in through the windows.

"London?" asked Mary, switching off the gas on an over-turned Bunsen burner.

They regarded the slightly dazed figure who had been blasted against one wall on the opposite side of the room.

"London," Rose agreed with a sigh.


"Well, John was glad I was back. At least someone is happy to be in my company."

"I'm happy in your company," Rose said, leading Sherlock by the hand through the kitchen towards his bedroom. "Not the company of that maniac who had been deprived of oxygen for the last four weeks."

Sherlock's mouth had turned down at the edges. He was going to milk this for all it was worth.

"Well, it was nice of you to come crawling back to London to apologise for sending me away."

"This isn't an apology," Rose said, closing the bedroom door with a light laugh. "This is Grace and I visiting you after needing one week to get the house back in order."

"So why are you attempting to seduce me in my bedroom?"

Pulling on the lapels of his dressing gown, Rose whispered, "Because I have needs. And Grace is asleep."

Standing tall with a defiant chin, Sherlock tried not to react as Rose pressed light kisses to each corner of his mouth.

The trial was well and truly over. He'd clearly failed in his efforts to not be Sherlock Holmes. Summarily dismissed from Edinburgh! And he had solved a case given to him by his brother while he was there, even though he'd received nothing more injurious than a mild paper cut. Lord Gorot's pocketing of money from the Diogenes Club's social fund had resulted in a stern talking to by his peers. Case solved. It wasn't Sherlock's fault he had directed all his pent up energy into household maintenance and experiments. And he'd given Rose basic training, where he found Mary's tuition had been lacking. He hadn't exactly been idle!

"Are you actually going to contribute here," Rose asked, as she started unbuttoning his shirt, "or do you expect me to drop to my knees and give you a spectacular blow job?"

"How spectacular?"

"Sherlock! I'm not here to apologise!"

"All right. Fine. Get your clothes off then."

Rose huffed a humourless laugh and turned from him, muttering, "It's going to be like that, is it?"

Slipping off his dressing gown, Sherlock asked, "How long are you staying?"

Rose finished pulling her jumper over her head.

"Just for the weekend. But we won't be back in Edinburgh for long. We're coming back for Christmas at your parents' house, remember."

"Oh. Christmas," Sherlock repeated, heaving out a sigh as he hung the gown on the hook behind the door. "Not exactly the conversation to have during foreplay," he added, turning around and reaching for the button on one of his shirt cuffs.

Rose gaped, her jumper poised to drop onto the chair in the corner of the room.

"This is foreplay?" she asked. "'Get your clothes off then', is foreplay?"

Sherlock shrugged. He began unfastening the buttons Rose hadn't managed to get to.

"Well, you're getting your kit off. My request must've worked in some respects."

Rose tutted and shook her head as she turned her back to him. She slipped her top over her head as Sherlock slid his shirt from his shoulders.

"Well I think Christmas at your parents' house will be the start of a wonderful tradition for Grace," Rose remarked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling while his penis remained determinedly pointed in the opposite direction.

"Tradition," he scoffed. "Well, I can't wait til Grace is old enough to continue the tradition of trap building. When she can wield a blow torch—"

"What?" Rose asked, unclasping her bra and turning her head. "Did you say 'trap building'?"

"Yes. It's a Christmas tradition," Sherlock replied, unzipping his trousers.

"In what country?"

"This one." Shoving his trousers to the floor, he explained, "For many years I set a trap for Father Christmas. Until the year Mycroft told me he wasn't real. I think he just got bored of all the baiting and waiting."

As Sherlock stepped out of his trouser legs, Rose spluttered, "Sherlock… that's…. that's not…"

Her skirt pooled around her feet and she stepped out of it.

"Don't tell me you've never heard of it?" Sherlock asked, shaking out his trousers as Rose stood stunned, her hands on the waistband of her tights. "A white-haired, bearded man, with a ruddy complexion and known form…" He paused to drape his trousers over the arm of the chair, "… lugs around a huge sack of what-not, breaks into people's homes and scatters some of his rubbish about. Why wouldn't any child set a trap?"

"It's not rubbish!" Rose said, emitting a kind of scoff-laugh as she finally shoved down her tights. "They're Christmas presents!"

Sherlock turned down the cover on his side of the bed, muttering, "I clearly remember them as rubbish."

Rose pulled her tights from her feet, then moved to her side of the bed.

Turning down the covers as well, she said, "And most kids just leave out a mince pie and a glass of milk."

Sherlock stood in his black boxer trunks, his eyes widened as he stared unseeing at the wall behind Rose.

"Poison," he murmured. "Why didn't I think of that?"

With a deep sigh, Rose slipped between the sheets. Then she tutted and flung the sheet from her, stood up and began sliding down her knickers.

This action roused Sherlock out of thumbing through his Mind Palace card indexes on 1001 Ordinary Household Poisons and Their Uses in Incapacitating Loved Ones and Associates to skim his eyes over Rose's nude form.

Ah, he thought, before removing his own underwear. Best be fully prepared. His penis stirred a little at the thought of what was coming next.

"Oh, where's the monitor?" Rose said in exasperation, once more sitting rigidly between the sheets.

Sherlock stared at her. Rose stared back. She raised her eyebrows, signalling that the Battle of Wills had commenced...

… and one Sherlock was destined to lose, because he was still standing and nearest the door.

"Okay, fine!"

He turned for the door and grabbed at his dressing gown. Hoping like hell nobody was standing in his kitchen at that moment, he swiftly exited the bedroom, only then attempting to wrap his gown around him as he strode through to the living area. The dressing gown was still gaping when he returned to the bedroom, monitor in hand.

After flinging the door shut, Sherlock crossed the room and plonked the monitor onto the chest of drawers.

"There," he announced, once more rounding the bed for his side.

"Right. So it's going to be angry sex then," Rose said as Sherlock hung up his gown.

"This isn't Angry Sex," he said, glaring at Rose. "At least Angry Sex is interesting. It involves walls and…. pushing things off tables. This is only Mildly Irritated With Each Other Sex."

A smile teased at the corners of Rose's mouth, and she cast her eyes over Sherlock's entirely naked body.

"Aw," she said, brows arching in sympathy. "And you're not having a good time, are you?"

As she left the bed and made her way over to him, Sherlock frowned. Was she talking to him or his penis?

Pulling up in front of him, and twining her arms around his neck, she said, "Let's start again."

"How can we start again? We're already naked."

"Then this should be so much easier now, shouldn't it?"

Rose enticed a kiss out of Sherlock simply by the hold her eyes had on his. A need quickly built inside as he took the kiss deeper. He ran his hands over her, feeling her shudders of delight. Those lush curves. Her soft, firm skin.

He directed them both, not to the bed, but away from it. Rose broke their kiss, the beginnings of a protest on her lips. Sherlock reached for his gown and tore it away from its hook. His mouth covered hers again, muffling whatever she had to say, as he pressed her against the door. Their tongues entwined. Desire rippled through him.

When his mouth left hers to blaze a trail over her jaw, she finally gasped out, "What… what are we… what are we doing here?"

Sherlock straightened up a little, his fingers still skimming, still smoothing wherever they wished.

"This is Mildly Irritated With Each Other Sex. I've just composed it. A few standard pieces mixed in here and there with something delightful and surprising sprinkled throughout."

"O-kay," Rose replied, her voice trembling a little—Sherlock hoped in eager anticipation.

His fingers reached their intended destination and Rose's sharp intake of breath was music to his ears.

His mouth continued to nibble and suck, teeth nipping into her milky white flesh. His fingertips massaged Rose in torturously slow circles and he listened to her soft gasps and moans. When he reached the soft swell of her breast, she arched, pressing into him with a fierce need. But he continued downwards, running his mouth over her ribs.

Removing his fingers for now, Sherlock grasped the back of Rose's knee, bending and elevating her leg. He slowly sank to his knees, brushing his mouth over her stomach, eliciting primal urges from her.

Her leg now slung over his shoulder, Sherlock lifted his gaze, reverence sparkling in his eyes. Rose's were dark and glazed with passion, her cheeks flushed—a stamp of arousal.

"You might recognise this tune," he said.

Sherlock assumed she would. It always began with her gasping pleas that turned into desperate moans.


Bodies slick and tangled, they lay in silence for several minutes. The baby monitor continued its steady crackle. Rose smoothed a hand over Sherlock's chest as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering there to inhale the wondrous scent of apple-pear shampoo.

"When's she due to wake?" Sherlock asked.

"Mm, don't know. Mrs Hudson's hoovering… I expect she'll like the steady background noise. She slept for ages the other day when Mary was doing the carpet on the stairs."

Sherlock threaded his fingers into Rose's hair.

"What was Mary going to do while you're here?" he asked.

"She's got all sorts of projects planned for her cottage. I did say she could stay in the house—she was with us most of the time anyway—but she's adamant she should have a nice place to stay nearby when we want some private time for ourselves."

"Good," Sherlock said. "As long as she doesn't make it her mission to resurrect the tennis club. I'm not sure what Mycroft was thinking buying the place and installing Tracey Moore as the caretaker. He's supposed to ensure nobody ever goes near the place."

"Don't worry. It's just the caretaker's cottage she wants to make comfortable for herself not the tennis courts." Rose stopped her soothing caresses and turned to look up at him, propping her chin up on her hand. "But if it's too comfortable," she said, "then how are we going to get her back to London?"

"I don't know, yet," Sherlock said, raking his fingers once more through Rose's silky strands. "The fact that she's back in the UK at all gives us hope. Now that Mary has a new identity, and her past, once again, belongs to another person entirely, perhaps John can meet her in another context. There's no reason why they couldn't start a new relationship once John gets over his initial shock. Well, 'new' as far as the outside world is concerned."

"They can meet in another context," Rose repeated faintly, as if hearing these words for the first time.

Suddenly she sat up, her expression pensive, her lips slightly parted.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked. He studied Rose's expression for a few seconds. It was unreadable. "Has… Mary… met someone else?"

Rose stared into space for quite some time before exhaling a shuddering breath. Her nostrils flared.

"Rose, what is it?"

Rose's eyes had pooled with tears. When they finally locked onto Sherlock's, she attempted a smile. It fell short by an inch.

"You wanted to give it all up for us," she said.

"Um," Sherlock replied, still bewildered. "Yes."

"That was the wrong way round."

A smile was desperately trying to make it's way through Rose's expression of hopelessness.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said. He pulled himself to a sitting position. It was with desperation that he confessed to this. Rose was behaving very strangely.

The smile broke through and Rose took Sherlock's hand.

"I've always thought I wanted a simple life. I had plans to go to uni, to get an internship, to work hard at my chosen profession. Maybe even marry a nice army soldier. But at every turn, I made some really bizarre choices."

Sherlock's insides twisted. He had a very bad feeling about this journey of self-discovery Rose appeared to be undertaking.

"And I've ended up here. With you. All of my choices led me here."

The smile again was really disconcerting, because Sherlock had no idea what was going on.

"But I went back to Edinburgh to live, where I was supposed to go to Mothers and Baby Coffee Mornings and visit my dad on the weekends and babysit my cousin's kids. But none of that worked out. And you…"

Sherlock's eyes widened in alarm.

"You tried to fit in there. Sherlock Holmes. Not in your native habitat. How stupid were we to think that was the solution. And anyway, my life there doesn't make any sense. My family have disowned me. My friendships can never reach any kind of depth because I always have to keep a part of me a secret. The most important part of me. You."

Sherlock cleared his throat. He had nothing to add.

"I didn't see it. Not until now. Not until you just said the very thing we should've realised long ago. I'm meant to be here. With you. This is the life I choose. Another bizarre choice, but it's the right one."

"Rose… it's not often I don't follow… And I'm sure I've always said that—"

"John and Mary!"

"What?"

"John and Mary! Meeting in another context entirely."

Rose suddenly moved away from Sherlock and slid from the bed.

"John and Mary? … Wait, where are you going?"

Rose had pulled on her underwear and was rounding the bed for the rest of her clothes.

"Come on," she said, her demeanour bright and cheery once more. "You're coming too."

"To where?"

"To get dressed! We have to ring Mycroft! Can't talk to him when we're naked."


"Now don't forget to drive a lot slower in this weather," Mary said.

"Yes," Rose agreed, attempting to click Grace's safety harness in place.

"And I've replaced the windscreen wiper blades, so you can at least see now."

Rose made no comment. Her nerves were buzzing.

"Rose," Mary said.

"I'm fine, Mary," Rose replied, distracted by the damn harness's three point… fucking… connections. You mother-fucking… fucker. Get – in - there!

"Here, let me do it," Mary said softly.

Rose stepped back from the baby capsule, her heart thudding dully in her chest. Grace was sound asleep. If she was awake and upset, would Rose be able to handle doing this right now?

Suddenly Mary was in front of her, taking Rose's hands in hers.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Mary asked.

Rose felt an enormous pressure building up inside. Of course she was fine. She had to be fine. She nodded to Mary, attempted a weak smile, then made the mistake of blinking. A rather telling fat tear escaped.

"You don't have to do this."

"No, I do. It's been planned," Rose said, sniffing. "The weather conditions are perfect. People are wait—"

"Mycroft will understand. Look, it doesn't have to be today, if you need more time. It could be next week or next month… or next year if you want. Or never. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"I know. I really do. And we've thought about this a lot. Too much, maybe. We've had weeks." She pulled her hands out of Mary's and wiped at her face. She attempted to mask her sorrow with a reassuring smile. "I once heard this quote in an old movie and it stuck with me. It was so lovely, but I always thought it was a fantasy, and it would never apply to me. But it's so true now. Something about, when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

A broad grin lit up Mary's face.

"When Harry Met Sally," she said.

"That's it!" A sheepish smile crept across Rose's face. "I watched it for the fake orgasm scene, back when I was… you know."

A chuckle escaped Mary.

"Please don't tell me you used that on—"

"Oh, God no! It was far too over the top. For me anyway. And Sherlock would never… Well… he's Sherlock Holmes. Not so easily fooled. But I'm pretty sure some of the other girls…"

She stopped abruptly as the familiar warm flush of shame stole across her face. Mary's expression softened in sympathy.

Much more subdued, Rose said, "You once asked me what would I do to keep my past a secret. For Grace's sake. For her to never find out about how Sherlock and I met. And this is it. This is for Grace, more than Sherlock and I getting to canoodle in Baker Street."

Mary silently nodded.

"And it hurts, so much that…" She paused, her words becoming ragged. Drawing in a steady breath, she continued, "That there's nothing for us here. There's nobody." Rose jutted her jaw forward in an attempt to dam the torrent of emotions now backed up. "Everyone who cares about us is in London. And they're all… wonderful."

Mary's own eyes had glazed over.

"Yes they are," she murmured.

"And you," Rose said, reaching for Mary's hand. "You'll be there too, some day. Don't make me come and get you."

"Rose."

"I have the skillset now."

A hearty chuckle escaped Mary.

"Oh, come on, Rose. Learning how to break and enter with Sherlock, and then fleeing the scene only to end up having sex in the laneway… What sort of skillset did you acquire?"

Rose's jaw dropped.

"You guys tripped the sensor," Mary said, shrugging. "The alarm went off on my phone. What sort of security guard would I be if I didn't check it out?"

Rose couldn't help herself. A bubble of laughter erupted from her and she couldn't stop giggling when Mary joined in. As their laughter rose and fell, tears rolled down her face. All too soon, the light-heartedness that floated through the air drifted downwards until it settled.

"You're going to have an amazing Christmas," Mary said.

"You would, too, if only you'd come."

"Nope. I told you. Surf, sea and sand. That'll be my Christmas. On a beach in Australia. It sounds so bizarre I have to do it just once."

"And then you'll be back?"

"Try and keep me away from this princess."

Rose studied Mary's eyes before she ventured, "But you have your own."

"Rose, please."

"What are you planning to do? Watch her from afar? Through the school gates?"

"Yes. Probably. Where's the harm in that?"

"How will you be able to resist running up to her when she falls over and scrapes an elbow? Her first bike ride? What if she crosses the road without checking for traffic? What if she falls in with the wrong crowd and ends up doing drugs, and…"

"John would never allow—"

"—and ends up on the streets and selling her body?"

"Rose."

"When will you step in? Because you will want to at some point. And will she accept help or advice from a mother she doesn't even know? If you're going to be around so much, you may as well be there for her from the beginning."

Mary cast her eyes downward and exhaled a weary breath. She took a moment before she looked up and gave Rose a rueful smile.

"I don't know, Rose. But now isn't the time for this conversation. You have a small window in which to do this, yeah?" She drew Rose into a hug and said, "Now get going, you, or I'll drive you to Jedburgh myself. You're a bloody pain in the backside."

"I do what I can."


John drained his cup of tea and held the newspaper out in front of him. A quick glance at the sofa revealed an exhausted Consulting Detective struggling in vain to stay awake while patting the infant girl on his chest. A smile tugged at one corner of John's lips. He dragged his eyes back to the paper and the article that had caught his attention.

Furrowing his brow, he read:

A female driver and an infant have died after the car they were travelling in hit a tree and burst into flames in foggy conditions near the Scottish border town of Jedburgh. A police spokesman said the vehicle was completely destroyed and investigators are currently looking into why it caught fire after the collision.

Road crews had been carrying out maintenance work along the roadway earlier in the week, including ditchwork and trimming vegetation. Detours for all vehicles had still been in place over the weekend, so it is not known at this stage why the driver hadn't heeded the traffic control signs that were in place.

A local farmer, who discovered the smouldering wreckage, said, "This is the worst fog I've seen in a long time. There was no visibility on these roads all weekend, which is dangerous for those who don't know them well. It's a terrible tragedy for this mum and her bairn."

Much of Scotland and England have been blanketed in heavy fog and forecasters warned that visibility could be reduced to less than 100 yards. The Met Office have issued a yellow weather warning.

Highways England urged people to allow more time for travel and to take extra care in fog, heeding all traffic control signs and barriers.

The driver is believed to have been a 29-year-old female from Edinburgh, travelling with her three month old infant daughter. Their next of kin has been contacted.

Police have appealed for witnesses.

John opened his mouth to make a comment to Sherlock, when he noticed his friend's hand had stilled and his face had slackened. John folded up the paper with a grim smile. Behind him in the kitchen, there was a tinkling of crockery.

"Another cuppa, John?"

~ THE END ~

A/N: Don't unsubscribe just yet. There's still the epilogue to go!