Author's Note:
Apologies for the delay. I had a bit of vacation time (including a trip to the UK… woohoo!) then found it difficult to finish writing this chapter. Since there's a bit of a time jump between this chapter and the previous one, perhaps the delay is a good effect anyway. I've included flashbacks to fill in some of the gaps, because huge, unexplained gaps in time make my eye twitch.
The name 'Katherine Cusack' in this chapter comes from the ACD story The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, in which 'Catherine Cusack' is a maid-in-waiting. It's hard finding female names to borrow from ACD adventures, but I always like making some connection back to canon.
Anyway, on with the epilogue, the REAL final chapter, I'm sorry to say!
Epilogue – Saving Her Forever
Nine Months Later
"If you could just…" Lestrade paused, gesturing with fingers splayed. He heaved a sigh, deflating in the process. "Look, just play nicely. She's on loan from the Secret Service—your brother's people. So if you could be… a little accommodating... We might like to use her on a regular basis, so don't put her off."
"I really don't see the point of getting someone else in," Sherlock said, trying his best to sound offended.
"Because we need the paperwork done, Sherlock. That's all it is… for the most part."
"Paperwork?" Sherlock repeated through narrow eyes. He turned the concept over in his mind and found it seriously wanting.
"Well… yeah," the D.I. continued. "We can't have you swanning in, making your usual lightning speed deductions and then pissing off again. We can't use something like that. It needs to be done by the book. The T's crossed and the I's dotted."
"You want bureaucratic-speak, is that it? And a form filled in with all those little boxes ticked?"
"Yes. We do. And this… this Katherine Cusack can do that. She'll have her own professional opinion, of course, but if you two work as a team…" Sherlock tutted loudly, barely stifling an eyeroll. "… then maybe she can turn some of your deductions into something the department can actually use."
"I'm not making any promises."
"Then just… just promise me you won't deduce her."
"Why would I care to?"
"Because that's something you do. For fun." Lestrade's face slackened, his shoulders echoing the same movement, like some kind of weary Mexican wave. "Look, just don't make her cry."
"Since when have I ever made one of your people cr—"
"Detective Constable Petersen last week. Well, he'd just lost his dog that morning, but still…"
Sherlock scoffed, then made a show of checking his watch, even though he knew what time it was to the nearest minute.
"And is punctuality one of her specialisms?" he asked.
"Er…" said Lestrade, scratching the back of his head. "I think she's had a bit of trouble with the… er… babysitter… shouldn't be too long."
Sherlock furrowed his brow. Babysitter? That can't be right.
"I do have other appointments," he said, striving to project a nonchalant air.
"So… yeah," Lestrade went on. "Well, she's a single mum. I know that for a fact. Try not to make a thing of it, all right?"
"And you know this information… how?"
"'I've got people who know people."
"And is it relevant?"
"Well, you wanted to know why she was late."
"That's… not what I asked."
"Oh, and another thing," Lestrade said. "She prefers to go by her second name."
"Oh, for God's—"
"Yes, William Sherlock," Lestrade interjected. "Her second name. Some people prefer that, I believe."
"Anything else, Detective Inspector? Her favourite colour, perhaps?"
"Ah…" Lestrade said, indicating the door with a nod of his head.
A WPC led a young woman onto the floor. Sherlock's chest swelled at the sight of her. She wore a navy blue single-button jacket with matching slim-fitting trousers and a white blouse. Quite the professional look. A lanyard holding an identity card hung around her neck. With the exception of mascara, she wore very little makeup. Her wavy blonde hair was swept up into a tight bun, but a few strands had escaped and fell about the wire-rimmed glasses that framed her face.
"Oh, did you pull Mummy's hair out?" Sherlock heard her say in his Mind Palace.
"That's because she wants Mummy to stay home," his own voice volunteered.
"I think it's Daddy who wants Mummy to stay home today."
Sherlock's heart ached with the memory—his daughter's chubby little fists firmly holding a strand of her mother's hair. Well, he'd only had her back for one night before she had to hit the ground running with this new assignment this morning. He'd not had her company for eleven days. Eleven!
Sherlock firmed his jaw, thus creating a stony visage.
The WPC gestured toward the pair, and the visitor nodded her thanks.
"Ah… Ms Cusack?" Lestrade said, extending his hand. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I spoke to you on the phone."
"Yes, hello," she replied, her expression bright and friendly as her hand was engulfed in Lestrade's mitt. "Lovely to meet you finally, Detective Inspector. And please call me Rosalie… well, Rose, actually..." Her smile widened. "Easier," she added, shrugging lightly.
"Yes, well… Greg, then if that's… ah.. easy…. Oh, and this is—"
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Sherlock muttered, before spinning on his heels and marching away.
Behind him, he heard Rose say, "Just give us a few minutes, would you, Greg? I assume he's Sherlock Holmes. I did want to have a word in private."
Ah, thought Sherlock, as he strode towards the interview observation room. MI6's newest Forensic Psychologist, Katherine Rosalie Cusack—on a super fast-track courtesy of one Mycroft Holmes—so, she was determined to have a few quiet words with the World's Only Consulting Detective, was she? Circumvent his usual sociable manner? Well, she had another thing coming.
Sherlock entered the tiny room and stood with his hands folded behind his back as he stared into the empty interview room through the one-way glass.
The door clicked shut behind him.
"So this is what it's like to meet the famous net detective for the first time? I'd forgotten. Although, you were a lot nicer to me initially."
Sherlock's mouth eased into a half smile as he turned his head.
"You didn't have a clue who I really was back then," he replied. "But perhaps I'm getting grumpier in my old age."
Rose's hand slipped into his, and he curled his fingers around hers.
"No, I think you're ageing perfectly," she said, "but I'm guessing you secretly like this persona."
He turned to face her and found himself lost in her adoring gaze. Eleven days! And her return the night before offered limited opportunity for snuggling, what with Grace up and down, a party to plan, and paperwork to peruse by the morning.
"Hello, Rose," he said, before ducking his head.
Rose's eyes immediately widened and she stopped his kiss with flattened fingers.
"We can't do that here!" she whispered fiercely.
"Nonsense," said Sherlock. "Lestrade has to fill in a form—tick lots of little boxes, while he flirts with the desk sergeant. Then he'll duck into the loos for a nervous piss."
"Sherlock!"
"Well, this is an important interrogation for him. Career-defining and all that rubbish. That's why he's brought in the experts. And now he has someone else to impress. That's you, by the way. But we've got ten minutes at least. Right then… where were we?"
Placing a hand on the small of her back, he drew Rose towards him and touched her lips with his. After applying a small amount of pressure, he felt her respond through parted lips. He savoured the taste of her, their tongues meeting briefly, but he reluctantly drew back. That was enough for now. Wrong place and all that.
"That… that's why you didn't want me wearing makeup," she murmured. There was no mistaking her arousal, Sherlock observed, even through the lenses of her glasses. Darkened pupils. It had been eleven days and nights for Rose as well.
"Mm, no. There's another reason."
She raised a quizzical brow, but Sherlock had other matters to clear up first. He released her from his embrace.
"Why were you late?" he asked. "Lestrade said something about trouble with the babysitter, but Justine and Mary have a rost—"
"It wasn't the babysitting. You're right." Rose gave Sherlock a grim smile. "I… I got my period. Unexpected… sorry. Had to go back and change." Sherlock felt a little jolt in his heart, but he let Rose go on. "At least now we know I've got my cycle back," she said.
She held his gaze, her eyes studying his, probably for signs he may be upset.
But of course he wasn't. Was he?
"Yes… yes… no, it's fine," Sherlock said, blinking a couple of times.
He should never have built up his expectations like he had. Own fault really.
Rose reached out and rubbed his arm.
"We had a lot of fun trying," she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Sherlock cast his mind back to their antics in the main bedroom of Rose's new house in Notting Hill.
"Conception will occur in about twelve hours. Mark my words."
A particularly confident statement he'd uttered post-coitus a fortnight ago.
He leapt from the bed, grabbed Rose by the ankles and pivotted her around. She yelped at first, and then giggled as Sherlock propped her legs up against the wall above the head of the bed.
"Stay there!" he ordered her.
"For how long?"
"Oh… a couple of hours. Don't want to lose any. I told you… I'm feeling pretty potent at the moment."
"Sherlock! I'm not staying like this for two hours. I've got things to do!"
"I'll bring you a cup of tea."
Yes, they'd had fun trying.
All those months of wondering if Rose was even ovulating when the breastmilk began to dry up. Grace was still feeding just before bedtime up until a month ago, and that seemed enough to keep up a small amount of milk production, a situation Rose couldn't help feel guilty about.
It wasn't something she'd like to sustain in the long term—this working mother business. It was what she needed to do to establish herself in the industry; Mycroft actually made her work for her credentials during a brief but rather intense period in a special section of MI6, ending with eleven days in Prague. The new assignment to Scotland Yard would now provide her with the perfect opportunity to "meet" Sherlock Holmes.
During one conversation, Rose told Sherlock she longed to stay home and raise their children herself until they reached school age. And then she'd blushed and corrected herself.
"Child, that is," she said. "I mean, when Grace reaches school age."
"No," Sherlock said, taking the tea towel out of Rose's hand. They were standing in the kitchen, making up bottles of formula. "You were right the first time. When our children reach school age."
As Rose's eyes grew large, Sherlock could barely suppress a smile.
"What?" he said, feigning innocence. "She can't be an only child. I mean, you're an only child and look how you turned out."
"Wow, thanks!"
"And if they're going to have me as a father, then I think they'd want each other for support." He blinked, suddenly feeling awkward. "I'm… probably not going to be… conventional… perhaps not even... adequate."
"Don't say that! That's entirely untrue!"
"And you're the other parent, so they can't share horror stories with you. They'll need to console each other."
"You're going to be a wonderful father," Rose said, taking the tea towel back. "You are a wonderful father. Maybe not conventional, yes, but that's what makes you even more amazing! Grace lights up whenever you're in the room. Don't ever doubt yourself, Sherlock! But you're right…" She turned back to the kitchen counter and reached for the kettle. "I'd love Grace to have a sister or brother some day."
As she poured boiling water into the first baby bottle, Sherlock added, "And I don't want there to be a huge age gap between her and her siblings…"
When Rose jolted, obviously stunned again, almost spilling boiling water over her hands.
"Yes, siblings, plural," Sherlock confirmed, reaching for the bottle of water and its cap and lid. "Four's a nice number," he said, screwing on the lid. "I don't know why people always stop after three. There's something about the number three. And if they're going to outnumber you, you may as well keep the numbers even."
He pulled two more of the empty, sterilised bottles towards Rose and raised his eyebrows.
Rose clamped her mouth shut, her eyes watering as she filled the second bottle. Why was she getting so teary, Sherlock wondered.
"Two sounds nice," she said faintly.
"Mm, no. I think four," Sherlock said, capping the second bottle. "So, we should get a move on before you get too old and..." Rose froze, the kettle hovering over bottle number three.
"You know, that's really insens—"
"Whereas I," Sherlock went on, without pausing for breath, "I could produce semen forever. Now, there's seven years between Mycroft and I. That's far too big an age gap. Mycroft seemed like another parental figure to me, another person to nag me, be disappointed and…"
His rambling came to an abrupt halt as if he'd just run full pelt into a brick wall.
Thoughts battered his mind: Mycroft rescuing him repeatedly over the years from whatever drug den he'd found his little brother passed out in. Another twinge of guilt.
"And," Sherlock managed to say, swallowing the lump in his throat and reaching for the last bottle, "…and though he's always been very supportive, I would've preferred someone near my own age as wel—"
Oh, Christ. It just didn't get any better. He bowed his head and breathed out.
Play with me, Sherlock.
Sherlock's heart-rate accelerated.
"Despite what she said," he murmured, resolutely screwing on the lid for the last bottle of boiled water, "we did play together on occasion. She taught me the violin, after all."
Rose gave him a reassuring smile. Reaching for his hands, she said, "And you're playing the violin together now. You've progressed quite a bit in the last few months. You still have a connection there."
"Mm," he agreed. There had indeed been progress. No conversations just yet, but the little piece he had once hummed to Grace all those months ago had evolved into a duet he and Eurus had just recently performed in front of their family. Progress.
"So, yes, four," he said, shaking those thoughts loose. "Let's get started then."
Rose had reached for his hands in much the same way she had during that conversation in the kitchen.
"We can time it properly," she said, "now that we know we're at the start of my cycle."
"It would be easier if you just let me take your temperature each morning."
"Sherlock…"
"There's nothing wrong with using a bit of basic science, Rose."
"You really want to have sex at just the right time, don't you?" she asked. There was a trace of humour in her tone.
Not at just the right time. He had needs that hadn't been met in eleven days and nights!
But there wasn't anything wrong with not wasting one drop. Speaking of the right time… Sherlock glanced towards the door. They still had a few minutes before Lestrade and company arrived for the interview with their prime suspect. Sherlock had to get a move on. He eased his hands out of Rose's grasp.
"Well, I was going to ask you out for coffee after work today… then a bit of sex back in my flat…"
"Mr Holmes… that's moving things a bit fast, isn't it?"
"No, no. Call me Sherlock, please. It's… easier."
She grinned. "Arsehole."
"So in light of recent revelations," Sherlock said, standing taller and folding his hands behind his back, "perhaps just a bit of heavy petting instead?"
"Still a bit much for a first date."
"A quick snog?"
"Mm. Perhaps." Rose reached for his lapels and tugged on them. "Whatever we can fit in before our guests arrive."
Guests? Oh… The party. Sherlock's shoulders sagged a little. Why did a soon-to-be one year old need a party?
"And if you're nice to me this morning," Rose added.
"Nice?" Sherlock repeated with a wry smile. "Sherlock Holmes doesn't do nice." Turning from Rose, he proceeded to slowly pace. "Two things," he continued. "Lestrade said don't deduce you and don't make you cry. I shall endeavour to do both."
"Really? But it's my first day!"
"I'm Sherlock Holmes. This is what I do."
Rose had turned in his direction as Sherlock began a slow circuit around her.
"Lestrade already told me you were a single mother," he began.
"Did he?"
"You're on one income with a dependent, yet you're wearing a tailor-made suit… Savile Row, if I'm not mistaken."
"You're cheating. You were there, insisting on getting your tailor—"
"Shh! Deducing here…"
Sherlock continued his slow circuit around Rose in the confines of the interview control room. "I'm simply saying everything anyone with basic observational skills can glean from you right now. Those half-wits out there could've picked up on this if they had a mind to." He cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes. "Now… where was I? Oh yes."
Sherlock stepped forward, stooping a little, and took a deep inhale in the vicinity of Rose's collar. She giggled and hunched her shoulders.
"Male cologne," he said, straightening up. "Top shelf. Obviously a man with expensive tastes. And he embraced you. Not the quick hug of a colleague or family member, but a prolonged embrace." Taking a quick sniff closer to her neck, he added, "A lover then."
"Still cheating."
"It's all there," Sherlock said, waving a hand at her as he began his slow circuit once more. "Now," he said, taking a few seconds to navigate around the back of Rose as his eyes scanned her from head to toe. It was a good thing he'd decided to wear his black suit today. They hadn't wanted to wear matching outfits.
"Mm," Sherlock said, frowning as he focussed on the finer details.
"What?" Rose asked, her brows raised as if in alarm.
"Not just any lover."
Rose tutted. "Please don't tell me you can deduce how amazing in bed he is."
"No, no. I can tell that by the confident smirk on your face."
"Liar," she said with a light chuckle.
"I'm looking at this."
Sherlock stopped by Rose's side and reached for the strand of hair that had been mercilessly pulled from her neat bun by a moody infant.
"And in particular, what's attached."
He slid his fingers along the strand of hair, pulling from it a dried brown substance. He held it out between pinced fingers, before popping the substance into his mouth. Rose grimaced.
"Cereal," he said. "Or more specifically, baby cereal."
"Oh…" Rose said.
"And not just in your hair."
"Really?"
Sherlock plucked another sample from Rose's collar.
"Oh my God!" she exclaimed, her brows knitted together in a quiet horror.
"Don't worry. Nobody would've spotted it unless they were standing this close to you." Sherlock flicked the sample to the floor. "But it does tell me what kind of lover he was."
"Oh, please," Rose said, disbelief evident in her tone.
"You held your infant, the one who grasped your hair with breakfast all over their fingers, after you had dressed for work. And you embraced your lover after you had dressed for work. Therefore the infant and the lover were in your presence around the same time. Not just a casual fling or a one-night stand. Why would you allow a casual lover around your child? And it's Wednesday morning. You didn't go out and pick up on a Tuesday night. This is a serious relationship, then."
Sherlock took a step back and lifted Rose's left hand. Running a thumb over her fingers, he said, "Lestrade told me you were a single mother, and the absence of a ring tells me you're not even engaged. And it's not as if you've removed any jewellery you usually wear. No indentations or tan lines."
Sherlock lifted his eyes and held Rose's gaze.
"Which prompts me to ask," he continued, "why would a man with exceptionally good taste…" He paused and quirked a smile. "… who is amazingly handsome and outstandingly good in bed…" Rose rolled her eyes. "… and who has no qualms about being in a domestic situation with you, want to continue being single when he could have you? The only conclusion I can come to is…" Sherlock stopped for effect, folding in his upper lip before he spoke again. Going in for the kill, so to speak. "An engagement is imminent."
Confusion flitted across Rose's features as Sherlock released her hand and reached into his breast pocket. His breath hitched a little when his fingers felt the smooth velvet box nestled inside. Rose's eyes were already pooling with tears when he pulled out the box.
Everything had gone so smoothly, but now Sherlock's pulse thudded in his ears. Up until now, it had all been theoretical. But the air had stilled. This was happening in real-time.
Rose's lips were parted, but when she spied the ring box, she took a sharp intake of breath and covered her mouth.
"Rose, I am a ridiculous man," Sherlock began, using the very words Rose had written on his behalf once upon a time for his best man speech.
"No, Sherlock," Rose half-sobbed, stepping back. She held up a quivering hand as if to stop him. "Not now. Not… not here."
Sherlock discarded his prepared speech for the moment and quickly narrowed the gap between them, dropping the hand that held the ring box as well.
"Yes, here," he said, his voice raking over gravel. "It has to be."
Rose's eyes continued to fill, and she lifted her glasses to dab at her eyes. Sherlock scrambled for an explanation.
"If it were anywhere else—a fancy restaurant, behind the clockface of Big Ben, Edinburgh, Paris, our bedroom—you'd know straight away that something was up. I wanted to surprise you. And it had to be now, because I had the realisation that we'd be exposed. Our new found relationship. This was our plan—your plan: to meet under entirely different circumstances. And with our courting underway, there'd be pressure, eventually. My parents, our friends, perhaps the wider world, if they're still interested in gossiping about Sherlock Holmes and the company he keeps… pressure from them for me to do this."
He lifted the ring box and held it between them again.
"And I wanted you to know that this is all me. Nobody else's idea. I want this, Rose. For us. You and me and Grace and three other yet-to-be named children."
A tiny laugh escaped Rose as tears streamed down her face.
"So may I get on with my propos—"
Footsteps approaching caused him to halt. Sherlock immediately took two steps backwards, shoving the ring box back inside his breast pocket just as the door to the corridor opened.
Sherlock stood taller, neatly folding his hands behind his back, his face defaulting to its neutral position.
Rose, however, hid nothing. Her face was tear-stained and flushed, her mascara smudged, and the tip of her nose had turned pink.
Greg Lestrade looked from one to the other, his mouth slowly forming an 'o'.
"Sorry, Greg," Rose said, sniffing and dabbing underneath her glasses again. She made for the door, saying, "I just need to freshen up… a bit." Bowing her head, she brushed past the stunned D.I. and escaped into the corridor.
"Bloody..." began Lestrade. He paused long enough to quickly shut the door behind him. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! What did you do?"
"I simply deduced her and told her the truth. I don't know why people cry when they hear the truth."
"What! Didn't I…?" Greg raised his hands into the air, as if at a loss for words. "What did I tell… I said… Oh, fucking hell!"
Lestrade pulled at the roots of his hair, the colour draining from his face.
"Go… now…" he said, clearly seething far too much for coherent discourse. He reefed open the door. "You have until eleven to get her back here."
"Oh, relax, Greg," Sherlock said as he made for the door. "She's… moderately intelligent. A so-called expert on the human psyche. She'll figure me out." Stopping on the other side of the threshold, he turned to the D.I. and added, "I could probably work with her, if I have to. Teach her a few things. As a peace offering, perhaps I'll ask her out for coffee afterwards. Isn't that what people do?"
"Don't you dare!"
Sherlock quirked a smile. "She's single, did you say? I can be charming when the situation calls for it."
"Sherlock!"
As he strode along the corridor towards the bathrooms, Sherlock affectionately patted his breast pocket, a smile stretching wide on his face. He resisted the urge to whistle a merry tune.
Rose examined her eyes in the mirror behind the sink, having removed her glasses. She no longer looked like a panda. Thank God for that. Bloody Sherlock.
But her heart fluttered all the same. He'd proposed to her! Hadn't he?
Well he was going to, so maybe that technically counted. A warmth drizzled through her for all that this gesture signified.
She closed her handbag but was startled when the door to the bathroom swung inwards and a beaming Consulting Detective strode towards her.
"I haven't quite finished," he said.
"Oh," she said on an exhale, deflating. "I've just cleaned myself up."
"No, you still look like a sobbing mess."
"You're so romantic."
"I know," he said, grinning from ear to ear.
"Sarcasm, Sherlock."
Stopping in front of her, Sherlock said, "Just let me get this proposal out. I've prepared a speech. I even rehearsed in front of Grace… Admittedly, she threw a wooden block at me halfway through, but I'm sure she's on board."
"Sounds promising."
Rose folded her arms in front of her, then felt it was too defensive a gesture. Hanging her arms uselessly by her side made her feel as if she didn't care, so she gently clasped her fingers together. She saw Sherlock's chest rise and fall, as if he drew in a steadying breath. He pulled out the ring box once more and held it in an open palm.
"Rose, I am a ridiculous man."
Rose felt her eyes well with tears once more. He really was going to make a speech! Emotion bubbled inside her. She didn't think she could stand there and listen to him. Not now. Not in the female toilets of the Metropolitan Police Service.
"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock muttered, obviously annoyed at Rose now hiccupping into her hands.
He moved quickly, enveloping her in his arms and patting her back.
A bit too firmly, Rose thought. With a touch of… impatience.
"Yes," she said, her voice shaking. Looking up at Sherlock through tear-stained eyes, she said, "Yes, I will. I do."
Sherlock tutted.
"I haven't actually posed a question yet. Rose…" He released his hold on her and took a step back. "Please allow me…"
"Fine," she said, wiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands.
He sighed again, and once more held up the ring box.
"Rose, I am a ridiculous man…"
Rose's gaze rested on the box.
"Oh God, is that the ring you used on Janine?"
"Oh, for Christ's sa— No. No, it's not."
He opened the box and Rose gasped at the delicate platinum ring housing a solitaire oval diamond with smaller diamonds set along the band.
"I chose this just for you," Sherlock said, easing the ring out of its enclosure. He dropped the box onto the counter beside the basins and held out his hand for Rose's. "Your right hand," he said. "Don't want people to think you're engaged just yet. This could've been handed down from your mother. Katherine Cusack's mother, that is. Family heirloom or something. Sentiment. Which is why you'd be wearing it."
Rose held her breath as Sherlock slid the ring along her finger. To breathe was to become a blubbering mess, so she wouldn't.
"Rose," he said solemnly.
"I know," she replied, dragging her eyes from the engagement ring and meeting Sherlock's gaze. "You're a ridiculous man."
"And I have a speech."
Rose slid her arms up to encircle Sherlock's neck.
"You always have a speech," she said. "You've made a lot of speeches over the past year. I get it. I understand. We've been through this. Yes, you deserve me, so don't say you don't. Yes, you're still learning, but so am I. We're growing together. And yes, I've made a great sacrifice for us all and you don't know how your actions will ever compare. But they do. Every moment of every day. You're a wonderful, amazing dad to our daughter. Beyond comparison. And I…" Her mouth dried up and she found it hard to swallow. "And I wonder how I deserve you." Her voice crackled a little. "And I've chosen you for life… we've chosen each other… for this extraordinary life we're going to lead. But please don't make a speech. We've got work to do, and now I look utterly shite… and… and that's all I have to say."
Sherlock touched his forehead to hers, a smile forming on his lips.
"Thank God for that," he said, "because as far as speeches go, that was rubbish."
His smile broadened, the little crinkles appearing around his eyes.
"But let me say this," he went on, "an addendum, if you like." His hands cupped her face and he smoothed a thumb over one stale tear track. A warmth trickled through Rose as she gazed into his glistening eyes, before Sherlock spoke again.
"I've dealt with serial killers, gangsters, assassins and psychopaths, gone to hell and back all for a case, but you've saved me from my worst enemy ever. Myself. I shudder to think about the man I may have become if I hadn't met you. You helped me see myself through your eyes. You've given me a reason to live a good life, to be a better man, a good father and a… a loving husband, if you'll have me."
He paused to inhale as a lump formed in Rose's throat.
"Rose… you know I'm committed to you for life… I've already told you that in so many ways… so this gesture isn't telling you anything you don't already know." He smiled briefly—a little unsure of himself? Rose thought. He let his hand drop, smoothing it along Rose's arm and coming to rest around her waist.
"It may seem like a waste of time," he went on, "but as we're living in a world of convention and ritual, and a small portion of the world seems interested in me… and probably us… eventually… that's all of us: our children, too… then I want to make these small gestures of normality to help them… and us… slot in a little easier. Hiding in plain sight." A smile grew on his face as he spoke. "They'll have us for parents after all: square pegs in round holes. So this…"
Sherlock gently lifted Rose's hand, brushing his thumb over the engagement ring.
"This…" he continued, his brow furrowing, "is as much for them as it is for us." His chest heaved as he drew in another long breath. "Rose… will you marry me?"
His brows arched, as if he really didn't know what to expect for an answer.
Rose's face split into a broad grin. So much for not making a speech!
"Yes," she managed to rasp.
Before she could catch her breath, Sherlock gathered her up and kissed her softly and tenderly, sending an unexpected ripple of delight all through her. She tasted his passion, his desire, his… joie de vivre.
Rose eased back, the air humming between them.
"If only…" she began, breathlessly, "… we weren't… here…" Her voice, thick and rough, left her as she met Sherlock's lips with hers once more. She intended only to sample briefly, one more time, but her skin felt flushed. Sherlock, with his clever tongue, deepened their kiss until Rose's body throbbed, a sweet ache taking hold.
When he slid his lips from hers to brush her throat, Rose stammered, "We really… shouldn't…"
But excitement was rising in her. Sherlock emitted a deep chuckle, causing a ball of heat in her belly.
"Oh… kay…" Rose said, pressing against his chest. Perhaps she shouldn't have fallen asleep in his arms last night, with the promise that she'd "only close my eyes for a minute." Her late flight had exhausted her, and with Gracie so restless, probably because she knew her mother had returned, and Mrs Hudson in a bit of a panic about the birthday party the next day, there was no time for intimacy of this nature. And she had felt his absence only too keenly throughout her entire body while she had been away.
"Don't worry," Sherlock murmured before straightening up. "I'll fix this."
The dizzying scent of his aftershave still lingered around Rose and she rubbed at her face before realising what Sherlock was up to.
"Wait…" she said, "Why do you have a key to the cleaner's cupboard?"
"Because," Sherlock said, closing the small red door adjacent to the hand dryer, "you never know when you'll need it."
Sherlock strode to the exit holding a bright yellow plastic object in his hand. He quickly opened the door and placed it onto the floor in the corridor. Rose now could see that the object was a free-standing "Cleaning in Progress" sign.
"So…" Sherlock said, latching the door before making his way back to her. He glanced at his watch. "Lestrade said we have until eleven. That's a quarter of an hour away." His eyes full of purpose, he loomed closer, making Rose back up against the tiled wall behind her.
"This is… unprofessional," she said, smoothing her hand over Sherlock's shirt.
Sherlock hummed in agreement.
"And…" she went on. Lowering her voice as her hand glided southward, she said in a half-whisper, "Irresponsible."
"Yes. It is."
As she tugged at his waistband, pulling them both towards an empty stall, Rose whispered, "Fifteen minutes did you say?" Locking her eyes on his, she asked, "What could we possibly achieve in fifteen minutes?"
THE END
-oOo-
Author's Note:
Thank you so much for reading all the way to the end. This epic has spanned five years of my life, and I've learnt a lot about writing during that time and met some really lovely people. This story started out as a bit of fun—initially a one-shot, and then after that it wasn't meant to go beyond the first 12 chapters. I'm so glad I came back to it after S3 aired. Rose clearly had her story to tell, and I decided she had been in the background of the series all along! I was surprised by the interest that grew during that time.
Perhaps some day I'll go back and fix the multi-POV scenes in the first 40-something chapters and change them into single POVs. And maybe that'll inspire me to write a one-shot or two.
There was a bonus chapter I sent to regular reviewers as a thank you, where Lestrade, as the only character left who doesn't know, finds out. I may post it as a bonus scene some time in the future if there's any interest left. Or I could just leave it as it is.
If you enjoyed my writing style, please check out my other stories!
Thanks for reading and much love to all!
elbafo
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