Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).
Pairings: developing Rose/Sherlock, deep Irene/Sherlock.
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family.
Word Count: 1,534 words [excluding End Note].
World/Story Setting: Slight AU. Inception concept. Future-fic. Post-Season 3 [BBC Sherlock], post-Journey's End and in Pete's World [Doctor Who]
Rating: T/PG-13. There will be cussing though.
Summary: Between moving on and letting go, Sherlock rediscovers what it is to be human, and how Rose Tyler fits in the aftermath.
Author's Note: 1,907 words. So, how about another chapter? Enjoy.
ahead
strength
Philippa was everything Rose had imagined her to be, and so much more.
Under the quiet persona (an enigma) she possessed, Rose inwardly praised over the plump shape of her cheekbones, no doubt inherited from her father, the long lashes that went on forever, the soft yet sharp eyes when she glanced over, the pale rosy lips she had albeit slightly chapped and swollen on the moment, the deep, rich colour of her dark hair, stopped just as it reached her shoulder blades.
She looked over, bare and warm.
At least her fever wasn't as bad, Rose rinsed off the young girl's hair and was still astonished at the fact that it didn't take a lot of attempts and empty promises to have the eight-year-old agree for a quick bath. Sure, Rose'd seen the uncertainty flickered in her young warm eyes, but it was though one look at the situation, she knew what was the better choice. Her father had been quiet, resided in his mind palace, the refusal to even talk hung still in the air, but he did not move to stop Rose― he gave her a harsh stare, briefly, but that was that.
Rose stood up and took the towel, wrapping it around Philippa's small body, and smiled a she watched her curled in utter relief at the contact. "There you go," Rose heard herself say, taking a smaller towel and began to dry the young girl's hair. "Fresh, yeah?"
Philippa didn't answer, not at first. "Are you going to stay here, miss?"
Rose blinked.
And then: "I, uh―" She settled with another smile, a quick sigh escaped her lips. "Not for long, no. I don't think your father would have liked that."
"He's trying his best." Philippa said instead, voice a meek, eyes strained on the bathroom's floor. Rose watched, suddenly a pang of guilt and remorse flushed over her system, and she questioned herself if it was the right decision to stay. Perhaps it wasn't. She'd underestimated the situation. Philippa continued nonetheless, bravely meeting Rose's warm hazel-brownish eyes. "He's trying his best to take care of me, but I don't think he's very good at taking care of himself."
Rose laughed at that, a little bit both on the humour and the humourless side, because there's a part of her that agree, the other felt just pathetic from the situation. "Well, he's learning. That's as good as any, right?"
"I suppose." Philippa hummed, a thoughtful expression passed over her pale features and Rose tried not ponder much on how much she resembled both of her parents, yet at the same time, didn't. "You helped him, didn't you? He wounded himself and you helped him up. That's why you're here. And you came here so early too. Your shirt's still a little damp from the rain."
Ah, Rose nearly break out a huge grin. The art of deduction had been passed along after all. She settled with another smile instead, though this time it's stretched wider and ran her hands down her towel-covered arms. "You're right. Your father called me just a few hours before. He was hurt, and I couldn't leave him alone. He's a friend."
"So, you'll stay?" Philippa's eyes fluttered, and in there, Rose detected hope. "Daddy doesn't have a lot of friends, and Uncle John's always so busy nowadays."
"Daddy's been a little lonely, huh?" Rose finally stood up, urging them to her small bedroom. "Though I couldn't imagine why, he's got you."
From the corner of Rose's eyes, she caught Philippa smiled at her sentence and she climbed quickly to her bed once she's in her bedroom, snuggling more against her blanket. "I figure Daddy needs an adult friend, and you're not very afraid of him, so that's good."
"It's good, huh?" Rose laughed then, a quiet chuckle.
Philippa performed a small smile, "I think I'm feeling a little bit better now."
Rose smiled at her, eyes wide, "Oh yeah?" She asked, and naturally leaned in to plant a kiss against the eight-year-old's forehead, feeling her temperature through her lips. "Yes, less warm. Better, yeah?"
"Much." Philippa cooed, a shy smile shimmied out from her lips. "Thank you for being daddy's friend, miss."
"It's Rose." Rose responded back coolly, pulling out a few of her clothes from the drawers. "You could always call me Rose, okay?"
Philippa nodded, and averted her eyes to the windows. "Okay."
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"Eat, Sherlock."
She said, her eyes flown over to the sunken part of his cheeks, the hollow curves on his wrists and tried not to give away of how tired she really was, as she stood there, pushing the plates of chips in front of him. Even an idiot could tell he'd lost more weight that he should, and it's only been a month. A month. How could he―
"No." He retorted, harsh and cold and definite, his eyes scanned to the door. "You should leave. John will be here any moment."
"That's rubbish, and you know it." Rose glanced at the clock (she knew Mary hung it, and it's still late by five minutes which was ridiculous but it reminded her of human error, and over the course of years stranded alone, feeling separated from the rest of humanity, Rose found comfort it in, like an inside joke nobody really understands ―) and knew Davies' speech competition always began, earliest, by nine and ended around eleven to noon. It had only been 9:30 by then.
His left eye twitched but he spun too soon that Rose wasn't so sure, her gaze fell back to his tall back, layered with the all-too-familiar black suit. "It's not healthy, Sherlock." She began again, allowing herself to sigh, just a little. "Can't keep on going like this. Philippa―"
"Leave―" he growled, deep and low, fixing his gaze over his shoulder. "―my daughter out of this."
"I'll leave it once you stop acting like a child!" She hissed, coming forward and bravely stepping over the boundaries to which she knew he constructed mentally around him, like a shield he put to keep everyone in the correct distance, and met his eyes, something at the back of her skull had wanted to do more than that, the fiery (nasty) anger burning up and igniting old, painful flame from their rest, but she held her breath, and counted back from three― he was just as lost, wasn't he? "You have a responsibility in a form of a beautiful eight-year-old, Sherlock, and you're right here, trying to pull an act that everything's fine, trying to create a picture perfect image that everything will settle back to how it once were, all dainty and innocent, as though you've never left, but you're making a mess out of yourself and for goodness' sakes, William, your daughter's too smart for that."
He glared then ― loathed to be called by his first given name ― while she kept a good, hard stare. "You're not perfect," Rose finally let out, though there's no threat in her sentences this time: just crumbling clarity, a little drip of the truth that she wanted him to hear. Desperate for him to hear. "You don't have to be."
She watched him clenched his teeth, his sharp eyes fixed on her, before it trailed over her cheekbones, down to her lips and back to the lashes around her eyes; she swallowed, and he said:
"Get. Out."
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Pondering for a second, blinking, she thought: what happened here? until her gaze found his bandaged hands and the heat from their proximity finally reached to her acknowledgement. She blinked again, for good measure.
(―and, you know―)
she left.
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But she came back the next morning, (―she'd wanted to greet him first but decided to go hell with it once she discovered he was asleep with Philippa snuggling to him with the morning lights barely making its way up to their faces, and she―) fixed their breakfast, stacked some of the light groceries she bought in the section where a body part wasn't left rotten, and made him tea. She knew half-way through her work he was already up and awake, alert by the foreign presence in the apartment, but did nothing other than standing there when she hummed the softest tune of an ancient lullaby she'd learned as a child from her mother and washed some dishes.
He disappeared before she could say anything first, but she quickly went on to wake Philippa up, fixing her bath. Her fever had lessened over a night and she'd insisted she could wash herself on her own, but they made a deal that she'd do it all by herself as long as Rose was allowed to come in and check every five minutes.
Sherlock played the violin over the next twenty-minutes, just as she served the tea and invited breakfast.
He ignored her, as usual.
But there's a set of clothes on the table (her old clothes, to be precise, from the time when she's spent a night or two here, back when they still had the Inception mission to go through―) when she went to the kitchen, and a towel folded besides it. She could almost hear the hint of disgust in his voice, snarling when she ran her fingers over the fabric: "Might I recommend a decent shower, Miss Tyler? Surely just one wouldn't hurt your stubborn pride."
He played the violin louder, but her fingers curled over the clothes, and she grinned towards his way.
―and she supposed, it was the thought that counts.
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(He met her grin, but played pretence that he didn't see it.
He still didn't understand how a hollowed-out character such as her would still do that,
would still be able to smile like that, like the earth had just give a new life to her breath, when the space
itself doomed her here, expelled her to where she fits nowhere,
until she wounded up here.
In his apartment, making his tea; how could she do that he had no idea―
but she smiled anyway.
Because that's Rose Tyler for you.)
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And then, he guessed.
He really didn't mind it.
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(―her smile reminded him of tomorrow. another way to wake up, get hurt, fall in love and still lives.)
End Note: I have no idea where this leads to (but it's just so fun I can't help it)― I'm sorry?