The Silent Banker
The Silence
Walking through the door of 221B, Rose headed straight for the kitchen pulling out four mugs and started to make tea for them all and coffee for Sherlock.
Sherlock went to the living room and went to collapse on the sofa but soon caught himself as he saw Sarah asleep on the long piece of furniture.
He huffed and called quietly. "John, your date is on the sofa."
John walked into the living room, seeing Sherlock looking at the sofa puzzled and as though he wasn't sure what to do, and Sarah lying on said sofa. John just chuckled, "Then your going to have to sit somewhere else Sherlock."
Sherlock frowned, but smelled the coffee in the kitchen. He went to go sit at the table, after clearing off his experiments, not wanting them to be wrecked by spilt drinks. John soon followed, and pulled out a chair as Rose put drinks on the table for them, not pouring one for Sarah, in favour of letting her sleep.
"Sit down, Rose." He said motioning to the chair, and going to the living room to get something. She sat down, knowing that it was needed and arguing would only prolong the uncomfortable experience. Sighing, she took a sip of her tea, letting the hot drink burn away the roughness of her throat.
John came back to the kitchen, green first aid box in hand. Putting it on the table, he took out an antibacterial wipe, and started to deal with the cut of her face, wiping away the dried blood. He worked quickly and gently and soon he was putting a couple of butterfly stitches over the cut.
"So nine mill…" He started.
"Nine million, yes." Said Sherlock.
"Nine mill for jade pin, black dragon, tramway." Finished Rose, having been shown the photo and the translations on the way home.
"An instruction to all their London operatives." Explained Sherlock. "A message, what they were trying to recover."
"What? A jade pin?" Said John, glancing over to Sherlock, as he started to undo the makeshift bandage, putting the bloody material on the table.
"A jade pin worth nine million pounds, yes." Confirmed Sherlock. "It told them to bring it to the tramway."
"But hang on," said John, looking confused. "A hair pin? Worth nine million pounds?"
"Apparently."
"Why so much?" Asked John, astounded that a hair accessory could cost so much.
"Depends who owned it." Rose said, taking a sip of her tea. As she did, John checked her wrists.
"I'll wrap up your wrists as well." He told her. "You'll need to change them in the morning."
She groaned at the added medical attention. "Can't I just take some bandages and do it myself?" She looked at him hopefully.
He thought for a moment. "Hmm, I suppose. As long as you do it properly."
She gave him a bright smile and downed the rest of her tea. "Well, I'm off to bed." She got up, put her cup in the sink and went to the door, picking up the bloodied bandana and a couple of bandages on her way, but as she walked through the frame, she turned to her two friends sat at the kitchen table. Hearing her pause they looked up to see her looking more vulnerable than either had ever seen her, including half and hour ago, when she had been tied to a chair and had been tortured. "Thanks, both of you." She said quietly.
John just smiled, Sherlock giving no reaction, as always. "Don't worry about it." Said the doctor.
"But, really," She insisted. "Thank you."
"Night Rose." Smiled John.
"G'night guys." She replied, going off to her room.
As he heard her door close, Sherlock looked up to his doctor friend. "John, I want your opinion on something…"
Closing her door, Rose turned to her room, the silence ringing out louder than any word. Sighing, trying to repress the emotions creeping up on her, she crossed the room and turned on her music, the rhythmic tones of an acoustic guitar softly filling the room as she did so.
She got ready for bed falling asleep relatively quick, but she soon found her dreams were full of images of fire and the darkness, complete with a suffocating feeling of loss and a choking pain.
Waking with a sudden jolt, she sat up in her bed, wiping away tears before they ran into the cut on her cheek.
Checking her phone, she saw she had only been asleep for a couple of hours, and was still very tired. So she went upstairs and got a glass of water from the kitchen, going back down to her room, having finished the cool drink mostly by the time she got back.
On entering her room, she saw one of her most treasured things, bloody and discarded on the side of the table. It was the final little crack in the dam keeping her emotions from flooding her mind, and suddenly she heard a loud smash and realised she had thrown the glass at the opposite wall in her anger. She slid down the closed door, sobbing like she hadn't done in years, feeling everything from the past few days collapse around her. For the first time in who knows how long, she just cried, letting it all out.
She thought about everything that had hurt over the past few years; both her brothers leaving, their pets dying one by one, the argument with her parents, moving out, coming to London to find her brother didn't actually care, wondering if he ever did, the frustration of not finding a job and having bills to pay piling up faster than dust, wondering if she were to be arrested in a drugs bust, having a stranger kidnapped and having to find him with help from another stranger, seeing a man die in front of her eyes, finding Van Coon dead in his apartment, having Soo Lin Yao murdered just meters from her as soon as she turned her back, being kidnapped and tortured, and nearly being killed herself.
And as she sat on the cold floor, the draft breathing against her skin through the gap under the door, she found herself wondering, is it all worth it?
John had gone to bed shortly after Rose had, and Sherlock was sat at the desk, Rose's laptop in front of him, trying to find out its secrets. He only felt a fraction of the exhaustion that his worn out flat mates felt, and so decided he could afford a few hours of work put towards trying to break into the locked laptop.
The puzzle infuriated him, but at the same time, he loved a challenge more than anything. He knew that he wouldn't give up until he worked it out, but after half an hour, he decided that he need to think better.
He went to the kitchen and set about searching for his nicotine patches. Taking the box, he went to sit in front of the cold fireplace. Slapping on a flesh coloured patch, he stared into the blackness of the unlit hole in the wall, thinking over everything that had happed, her reactions to it all, and what she herself had told him.
He didn't know how long he sat in his contemplative, meditative state, but he was brought out of it at a sudden sound on the stairs, heading towards him. Turning his head to see who had interrupted him, he saw a sleepy Rose go to the kitchen.
He frowned at the sight of her; something wasn't right. Her hair was dishevelled, her pyjamas wrinkled. Her feet were bare as they padded in an automatic way over to a cupboard, her hands shaking slightly as she reached for a glass. She scarcely made a sound, apart from the running of the tap, as she leant over the sink, drinking heavily.
In her shaky and sleepy state, she hadn't noticed him in the armchair and so he carried on watching her as he thought about why she would be awake at this hour. Surely regular people need more sleep than what she had gotten, he thought absently.
As she turned towards the stairs again, glass holding only an inch of water left in it, Sherlock caught a glimpse of her face. The empty look in her eyes unnerved him; which only served to unnerve him more. He didn't get unsettled by a lot, but the empty look in those dark blue eyes that were so usually full of life had done it.
He felt a strangeness in the pit of his stomach and he wondered what it was. After a few seconds he realised what it was, and the conclusion shocked him more than anything else had in the past few days.
He was worried.
Him. Sherlock Holmes; who had been told by many a person that he was heartless, that he didn't care. He even admitted to a room full of people, to John and Rose, that he was a sociopath. He had accepted long ago that he wouldn't have friends and had always tried to not be hindered by useless emotions, worry being one of them.
But as he heard a loud smash come from the young woman's room, the feeling only increased, and his mind recalled his musings in the museum. Quicker than he had identified his unusual feeling of worry, he knew what had happened.
She had finally snapped.
When he told John his idea, his doctor friend had said that it was a brilliant idea, but the detective should give her some time before suggesting it to her. Sherlock had asked why, not understanding what John meant. Seeing his friend's confusion, John had explained that she hadn't properly dealt with all that had happened, and that she may be a little unpredictable for the next few days. Sherlock had shrugged off the warning, saying that she could handle it. Now the detective wasn't so sure.
He contemplated going to see if she was alright, but as he heard the quiet sobs coming from downstairs, he though better of it. One crying woman was too much for Sherlock to deal with for one day, never mind two.
With that thought, he sighed and headed to his bedroom, putting the weeping woman out of his mind, thinking about what they would do tomorrow.
But it the back of his mind and in his gut, the worry still squirmed, and silently he hoped the woman would be alright in the end, but he would never admit it; not even to himself.
On instinct, she fell completely silent at the sound of foot falls on the floor above her; she couldn't risk being caught in her state at the moment. Pulling herself together, she got up off the cold floor, the draft having chilled her substantially, and made her way back to her bed.
She would deal with the glass on the other side of the room tomorrow, but as she lay shivering under her sheets, the emotions snuck up on her again and she cried herself to sleep.
When she got up the next morning her emotions were under control once again but she was still feeling pretty down. She went for a shower - her wounds stinging painfully - re-dressed her arm and wrists, leaving the one on her cheek. Her neck ached painfully, but she took a couple of paracetamol and knew she would be fine for the day.
She flat out refused to go running about that day, so decided to just get some house work done. Dressed in a black t-shirt and her regular jeans and trainers, her wrist felt empty without her old bandana. Sighing, she went up stairs with the plan of doing some shopping, then cooking a decent meal for her and her two flatmates, possibly doing a bit of cleaning at some point to top it off.
However, looking around, she found the flat was empty, but she did see a knife sticking straight up in the desk and smiled slightly at Sherlock's madness. Walking over to remove it, she found it was actually holding a note in place.
Rose,
Gone to the bank to sort everything out, thought we'd let you sleep.
Sarah's fine, just a little tired, took her home this morning.
Be home about two-ish I think, if all goes to plan.
Hope you slept well,
John
She smiled at his caring thoughts, then folded the letter, putting it in her pocket for safe keeping. Looking up at the clock, she saw it was almost ten, and that they would be a while yet.
Not wanting to be reminded of recent events just yet, she put the thoughts aside again, picking up her shopping list and heading for the door.
Three quarters of an hour later, she put several shopping bags on the table - still clear of its usual contents - and started packing away the shopping. After she was done, she took out some vegetables, cutting them up and putting them in a pan for later. She also took out and prepared a chicken for the men, and a small quorn pie for herself. She had planned a full blown cooked meal for the three of them when the guys came home; she hadn't cooked in a while, but didn't see the point in cooking for one.
Seeing she was done with the food for now, she went to the living room to start packing up all the books they had left about from the other day. She was done with that soon though and looked around, observing her work. She smiled a sad half smile, but her eye caught the graffiti on the windows; she glared with determination at the offending paint.
She turned, lighting a cigarette on her way and went to find a bucket and a cloth. Five minutes later she found what she was looking for and filled the lime green, plastic bucket half full with warm water, adding what she hoped was a little bleach - and not one of Sherlock's experiments that were starting to seem like bad practical jokes - to the mix. Picking up the bucket and a cloth she had found, she went to the living room.
She put on her mp3 player, putting on 3OH3's "I'm not the one" and dunked the cloth into the luke warm liquid, singing along to the lyrics softly, setting to work.
"You're way too young to be broken,
You're way too young to fall apart.
Your way too young to play these games
But you better start,
But you better start…"
John got out of the cab, and went to open the door, Sherlock having paid the fair. As he opened the door however, he was hit with the mouth-watering smell of a roast dinner. Frowning, he stepped forward, holding out his keys in his hand to put them on the table in the hall, only to find something was on it.
It was a flat, square, dark box, a little bit bigger than half a sheet of A4 paper. On the top was a yellow post it note with one word written in a flowing writing. Rose. Frowning he picked up the package and showed it to Sherlock silently. The detectives sharp eye scanned the word carefully, but didn't recognise the handwriting. Feminine, but not written with any emotion, he thought, wondering who it could be from.
He was about to reach up a hand to take the box for further inspection when a voice came floating down the stairs, catching the attention of the curious men. They listened a little harder.
"Officer, officer, tell me the truth.
How many times can I get in trouble with you?
Before they lock me up for all the bad things that I do
But you don't, and that's why this feels like déjà vu."
John and Sherlock looked at each other, Sherlock giving the man a raised eyebrow, clearly saying, what is going on? John just shrugged and carefully climbed the stairs, wondering the same.
Sherlock followed his friend, not knowing what he would find, and certainly not expecting what they did find.
Walking into the living room, the smell of food getting stronger, the men found that all the books were in boxes again, and that the paint was off the windows. Things had been straightened out and the place generally looked cleaner.
Looking into the kitchen to see if it had gotten the same treatment, they found Rose, headphones in, humming to a tune they couldn't hear, back to them, stirring something in a pan that was boiling on the stove, moving slightly to a beat that seemed to match the young woman's humming.
Checking on the broccoli and cauliflower mix in the pan, she stirred it a few times. Her music had changed substantially from the slower and sadder lyrics to more upbeat and happy songs, taking her mood with it. She had always found that music cheered her up whenever she needed it.
Turning to take the meat out of the oven she found a confused looking Sherlock and a very amused looking John. She jumped in the air at the surprise, not having heard them come home through the loud music.
Taking out her headphones, she turned off her music. "Christ, guys!" She jokingly scolded them. "Give a girl a heart attack, why don't you?" John just chuckled, Sherlock going to sit at the desk in the living room. "I'm making lunch, if you want some." She offered, knowing at least John would accept the offer of food.
"Smells good!" He said, as predicted.
"Not hungry." Stated Sherlock in the next room, also as predicted.
"Sherlock?" She called in a light voice, positive in her skill to get anyone to eat. "You haven't eaten today. You didn't eat yesterday. And I doubt you ate the day before that." He pulled a face and she knew she was right. "You're eating your lunch." Her tone left no room for argument and he knew it too; so he just grumbled, opening John's laptop.
John put the kettle on and turned to Rose again. "You did a good job straightening out the place, by the way." He said.
"Really?" She had not been expecting the praise, but welcomed it all the same. He just nodded and she grinned brightly. She then noticed the package on the table, not reading the note though. "What's that?"
"Oh!" Said John, forgetting about the strange parcel at the thought of the delicious smelling food. "We found it on the table in the hall. It's for you."
Her eyebrows raised in curiosity. "I wonder what it is…"
"Why don't you open it?" Suggested Sherlock, also curious to see what it was, but trying to hide it.
She smirked. "I will later, lunch is ready." With that she dished up the food and they all sat down. Rose got compliments on the "amazing grub" from John, and Sherlock said nothing. He ate it quickly though and finished before either of them had gotten half way through their meal. Rose looked up to see him frowning slightly at his empty plate and held back a smile. "There's more on the side if you want it, Sherlock." Without hesitation the man got up and dished himself another large plate of food. John and Rose just shared a knowing look.
Sherlock however used his time getting back to the table to think about how to go about telling rose his idea. Sitting back down he looked at John, flicked his gaze over to Rose and looked back to the doctor, raising an eyebrow. John caught the look and replied with his own glance down with his eyebrows raised. Your funeral, he was saying and the detective just rolled his eyes at the man.
"Rose, I had and idea I wanted to talk to you about." He started, and Rose looked up. She knew that if he had an idea, it would be more likely that he would go to John than her, and she hadn't missed the silent conversation. It made her both curious and wary. He's up to something again.
"Go on." She said, listening carefully and watching his every move. He saw this and smiled internally; she's learning.
"Well, your looking for a job, and I've been thinking of getting an assistant of sorts." He explained.
Her eyes widened as she heard what he was saying. "What about John?" She said looking to the man in confusion. "Surely if anyone-"
She was cut off though, by the man himself. "John has a job at the clinic and can't always be here to look after this idiot." Earning himself a light glare from said idiot. "Besides, I'm not half as observant as you are." Rose blushed slightly at the compliment and smiled at him.
"And John can help on any case he wants if he gets bored." Said Sherlock, earning a grin from John.
"Of course." Grinned the doctor.
Rose took a bit of food, thinking on what it would mean to officially work with the consulting detective. "Alright, say I were to accept your offer - just hypothetically, I'll need to think about it first - but say I were to accept it. What would that mean?" She asked, wanting to know exactly what he was offereing.
"You come with me to consulting sessions, sometimes go in my place. If you want a case, but it's a boring one, you can work it yourself. If we get given one cheque for the work, we split it evenly." He looked her in the eye to enounciate his last point the most. "It will be dangerous, no doubt about that. But it will never be boring." "He half smiled, slyly.
Looking at the young woman across from him, saw the spark in her eyes at a challenge, at something interesting. He knew then and there, it may take her a bit of time, but she would accept. But he also saw the hint of the shadow he saw in her eyes from the night before.
"Fifty, fifty split is a bit unfair, we both know your better, and I would just be an assisstant." She said, modestly in Johns opinion.
"What do I need the money for? I only spend it on cab fair, nicotine patches and the odd bribe. You keep buying the food anyway." He said bluntly, a flicker of a shine in his cold eyes. Both him and John knew that she wouldn't be just an assisstant.
"Alright." She said with a ghost of a smile. "Can I get back to you tomorrow? I still want to think it through properly."
"Of course, take your time. I wont be looking for a case for a day or two anyway." She just chuckled at his reply and the three friends carried on eating.
After they were done, John went to relax with a book, Sherlock went to the sofa, laying back and assuming his thinking position. Rose cleaned and put away the dishes and sat at the table, pulling the package towards her, curiosity showing again.
Pulling off the sticky note, she looked at the handwriting. It looked like Ethel's - loopy and quite old fashioned - but there was something odd about it. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she knew it wasn't her friends. Frowning, she opened the box, taking off the lid.
Inside the box was a folded piece of paper, placed on top of a what looked to be folded fabric. She reached out a hand and looked at the paper itself, not unfolding it just yet. The paper was heavy and felt expensive, but it hand a feel to it that just said standard. So it was from a well off person, using expensive paper, but uses said paper practically everyday, she deduced.
Oh, god! She thought suddenly, I'm starting to sound like Sherlock!
Shaking her head from such weird thoughts, she opened the note and read the words writing in black ink.
Thought you may want a replacement, my dear.
MH
She pursed her lips at his calling her dear again, though she had to admit it was loosing its touch. She was getting use to it now. But she frowned at the words themselves, replace what?
She looked back to the box and recognised the design on the material. Eyes widening, she pulled out one large square that had been folded to a quarter of it's size.
It was a bandana; the same, basic, common design as her old one, but instead of white lines of the black backing, the white was replaced with a midnight blue.
The thought of replacing her old one hurt her - it had been one of the few gifts she had from her older brother - but the thought behind the one in her hands was more than any words could have comforted her on the situation. It wasn't expensive or in anyway unique as far as she knew; and that's what made it so special to her.
As a watery smile crept onto her face, John got up from his chair and went to make himself a cuppa, but found Rose sat at the table, a lone tear steadily running down her face, both eyes closed.
"Rose?" He asked gently. Sherlock heard the tone in his voice and looked up, watching the people in the kitchen. "Are you alright?"
Rose looked up at him, opening her eyes. She saw the concern in them and knew instantly what she would do. She had been debating leaving, as she had many a time, but she knew now, undoubtedly that she couldn't. Upon realising it, she secretly knew she never could have done it. "I will be."
With those words, she got up from her seat, wiped away her lone tear and walked into the living room, marching right up to where Sherlock was now sitting up, wondering what she was doing. She came to a stop in front of him, holding out her right hand in between them.
"When do I start?"