The Silent Game
The Silence of Problems
A few days later, back in 221B Baker Street, John Watson ran up the stairs of their flat on hearing gunshots.
He flew into the living room, hands covering his ears, only to find Sherlock slumped in a chair, arm outstretched, gun in hand, pointing in the direction of the sofa. Said sofa was currently occupied by Rose Spencer, book in hands, jaw clenched in concentration. Behind her was a smiley face in yellow spray paint - that though they hadn't said, Rose and John thought had come from the smugglers case - painted onto the wall.
"What the hell are you doing?" John shouted.
"Multi tasking." Sherlock said, though he sounded very bored.
"In a very clever way." Expanded Rose, not looking up from her book. John had wondered if working for Sherlock would have a good influence on him, but now he wondered if it was simply the opposite.
"Multi tasking?" Asked John, trying to understand the method behind the madness.
"A new trust exercise." Elaborated Rose.
"And desensitisation to gun fire." Said Sherlock, pushing himself up off the chair, aiming at the wall again.
"No..." Said, John, covering his ears again.
But Sherlock just fired the gun a few more times, aiming behind his back then standing straight to inspect the damage to the wall, pulling his dressing gown straight. "Also bored though." He said, moving over to the sofa, which he promptly threw himself on, causing Rose to scramble away quickly. She pushed his arm lightly, and decided to sit on the chair next to him, still reading her book.
"And you think the wall is good sacrifice material?" said John, taking the gun off Sherlock as he passed, turning the safety on again, and emptying the cartridges, storing them in a draw in the desk before going to sit in another chair. He'd have to keep an eye on the gun from now on, he decided.
Sherlock just sighed. "The wall had it coming."
"What about that Russian case?" Asked John, who had been asleep when they got in late the night before and had to leave for work before either got up that morning.
"Belarus? Open and shut domestic murder." Explained Rose, looking up slightly.
"Not worth my time." Muttered Sherlock.
"Oh, shame." Replied John sarcastically before going to make himself a tea.
"I see you've written up the taxi case." Sherlock said a few minuets later after John had sat down.
"Uh oh…" Rose muttered, sinking in her seat a little bit, knowing what was to come. John saw this and frowned slightly.
"Um… yes." John was weary of Sherlock now, wondering what the unpredictable man would do next.
"A Study In Pink. Nice." Sherlock complemented. It only made John more apprehensive about what the man would say.
"Well, you know. Pink lady, pink case, pink phone; there was a lot of pink." He though about his next question before asking it, figuring he may as well. "Did you like it?"
"Umm…no." Sherlock said, throwing John off a bit.
"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."
Sherlock put down the magazine he had picked up, looking over to John, Rose just watching conspicuously behind her book. "Flattered? Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things." Sherlock had found he was quite offended by the words from his friend.
"Hang on a minute, I didn't mean that…" He tried to say, but he was cut off by his temperamental friend. He hadn't even thought Sherlock would read his blog.
"Oh, you meant spectacularly ignorant in a nice way." Sherlock said, is sarcasm levels getting a little higher since Rose had moved in he noticed. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's prime minister…"
"Yeah, I know." Muttered John, remembering that particular conversation. He doubted he would forget it.
"…or who's sleeping with who…" Sherlock carried on.
"Or whether the earth goes round the sun…" Carried on John for him.
Sherlock just sighed, rolling his eyes at the useless topic. "Oh, not that again… It's not important!"
The more she thought about it, the more she saw Sherlock was actually right; what difference did it make what the earth did, or the little details about things that she really would never use. She just didn't understand how he didn't remember these things.
"Not impor..?" Muttered John incredulously; he still didn't believe that the genius hadn't know that particular little fact. "It's primary school stuff! How can you not know that?"
"Well, if I did I've deleted it." Sherlock said, thinking that it would be the end of the matter. He was wrong; just for a change.
"Deleted it?" John asked, Rose putting down her book, deciding that the conversation was getting far too interesting now.
Sherlock sat up, pointing to his right temple with a bony finger. "Listen. This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their head with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?" He implored his friend to understand, knowing that Rose, though she may not fully understand, would at least let him get on with whatever he wanted to do.
John looked at him for a second, then shrugged. "But it's the solar system!" He implored.
"Oh, hell!" Sherlock cursed in frustration, rubbing his hands over his face. "What does that matter? So we go round the sun. If we went round the moon, or round and round the garden, like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference!" Rose noted he looked a little insane at one point, simply raising an eyebrow and picking up her book again. "All that matters is the work; without that my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or, better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!" With that final snide comment, Sherlock pushed a magazine on the table and curled up on the sofa, facing the other way.
Rose just sat there - knowing from arguments between her brothers in the past to simply let them sort it out between them - as John got up again, leaving his tea behind and grabbing his coat.
Sherlock turned over at the movement though, watching as John moved to the door. "Where're you going?" He asked, as though they hadn't just had a row.
"Out! I need some air!" John called back, slamming the front door on his way out.
Sherlock jumped up, going the window to watch as John crossed the street. "Look at that Rose." He said absently, making her look up in worry. She knew they were close and probably the best of friends, but Sherlock didn't quite understand that; not just yet anyway. She hoped they would patch things up soon. Sherlock carried on quietly. "Quiet. Calm. Peaceful." He sighed. "Isn't it hateful?"
"I'm sure everything will turn our alright, you know. It always does. And people can never stop killing for long." Rose replied in a soft voice, trying to cheer him up a bit.
"Can't come too soon." He replied.
Rose looked up to see what he had done to the wall. "Jesus, Sherlock!" She exclaimed quietly, getting up for a closer look, looking back to him with a shocked expression on her face. He just grinned a wide and obviously fake grin to her, letting it drop and looking towards the kitchen.
In that moment, Sherlock flew forward, Rose flying backwards as the windows exploded inwards, dust filling the room, alarms filling the air that remained.
Sherlock groaned as his body ached, the aftermath of the explosion causing him to just want to got to sleep right where he was. He soon remembered he wasn't along though, and pushed himself up, choking on a bit of dust, trying to find his remaining flatmate. He heard a groan from the other side of the room and made his way over to her, quickly but carefully, minding the broken glass on the floor.
As the dust cleared, he found her, pulling herself into a sitting position, using the sofa to help her. "Sherlock?" She called worriedly.
"Here." He answered, her head snapping to him. "You alright?"
"Yeah, just a bit out of it. You?" She asked, coughing slightly.
"Fine." He answered as she pulled her self to sit on the now very dusty sofa. As she did so he noticed she winced as she moved her right knee, going a slight shade paler and swallowing.
He moved over to her now sitting frame, sitting to her right. On closer inspection, he saw a large cut in her black jeans, exposing bloodied and pale skin. He frowned, knowing that it would be best to deal with it as soon as possible. Knowing that John wouldn't be home for a while, he thought he may as well take a look at it himself.
He pointed to her injured knee. "Let me take a look at that for you."
She immediately paled, shifting away from him slightly. His frown deepened at this, and her quick answer of, "No."
"Rose…" He said, thinking that though she may not like being doctored, this was not her usual reaction to the offer; she was hiding something else. "Let me see." He said, making his voice a little softer, hoping she would let him treat her wound.
She saw that he was not going to give up and resigned herself to the fact that he would find out sooner or later; he was Sherlock Holmes after all. She gulped again, moving her knee closer to him so he could see it.
He pulled out the first aid kit that was conveniently stored next to the sofa and took out an antibacterial wipe to clean the wound. She noticed with a little surprise that though he may not be the most soft worded man, he worked quickly and gently.
She saw when he froze though, closing her eyes and turning away from him, crossing her arms, nails digging into her palms to distract her from the long since felt sensation of a cut in her skin. It was a different feeling from anything else, making her feel guilty at remembering how it had felt so many years ago; it was not a feeling that had changed.
Sherlock wiped the blood away from the cut, revealing a shallow slice of a cut in her pale, smooth skin, just a few inches in size, but that wasn't the only thing he found. Amongst the drying scarlet were six, four inch, thin white scars, too clean to be accidental by any means. The realisation hit him like a train; she had been a self harmer.
He looked up to see her not looking at him, tensed as though about to be shouted at, knuckles white. She was ashamed of her past. He could understand that, but didn't want it to hold her back. He had admitted that though he was never addicted, his life was hardly a good one back then, and he was better for having quit - even if he still did want to feel the familiar substance running through his veins again every once in a while.
He wondered what he was meant to do to fix the young woman, not wanting her to feel ashamed for what happened in her past. He remembered the first day he had started to teach her and she had asked why he had quit smoking. He had lied but she still tried to make him feel a bit better, giving her own experience to try to relate to him a little bit. Should he do the same?
Rose awaited the accusations and whatever else he would say, but they never came. She still didn't move though, only opening her eyes slowly when she heard her name.
"Rose." He said quietly, sounding oddly comforting. She saw he had pushed up his left dressing gown sleeve up to just above his elbow. She frowned and tried to find what he was obviously trying to show her. It didn't take her long.
In the crook of his arm were several small white scars, so small she almost missed them. She remembered the first night after moving in with the two men; the drugs bust, the insinuations. It was true, she thought with dull surprise. She looked up to meet his eyes, seeing the emotion in them, seeing they had something in common.
"There's no need to be ashamed for having a past." He said quietly, pulling down his sleeve again. She just nodded a little, still feeling ashamed, but not so alone in it anymore.
She sighed, pushing her feelings away again, suddenly wanting to sleep and just not get up again. "Come on, lets leave this all for now. I'm too tired to clean, I'll do it in the morning. I don't know about you, but I'm gonna go to sleep."
He looked at her as she stood, looking at him expectantly. He noted the tiny cuts and scrapes that were along her arms, a couple on her face as well. "Good plan." He said finally, closing the topic of pasts and what they once held. He saw she didn't want to talk about it any more, and so let it drop. "You go get some sleep." He told her.
She just huffed slightly, giving him a half smile and going to the door way, looking back to the dust and glass covered room. Her gaze fell on Sherlock again, still watching her. "Can you not tell John please? Like you said, it's in the past." She asked him, hoping he would comply. He nodded though, making a smile tug at her lips in gratitude. "Thanks Sherlock." She said, meaning more than just his promise of silence. "G'night."
As he heard her door close, Sherlock sat back on the sofa, thinking over what had happened with both John and with Rose. He would find out more about the explosion in the morning, but his flatmates were his priority at the moment. After an hour or so of thought though, he decided that he should sleep, knowing that tomorrow would be a busy day; Mycroft would surely call in, John would still be annoyed with him and Rose would be watching to see if he had kept his word. On top of that he would have to deal with the explosion and possibly a new case, if he was lucky enough.
Laying in his bed half an hour later, Sherlock found himself drifting off to sleep. But before he got there, he discovered he was worried that Rose would be alright about what had happened. He fell asleep before he could push the thoughts away however.
It seemed that her and John were having a humanizing effect on the Consulting Detective.