As Mycroft's driver merged the car into traffic, the much put-upon eldest Holmes watched his drunken sister out of the corner of his eye and wondered where he'd gone wrong with her. Any such musings were quickly cut short as he heard Rose beginning to sniffle. "Oh please, sister mine. You'll have plenty to cry about later," he scolded, not feeling particularly sympathetic just then.
"You smacked me in public!" Rose accused, crossing her arms over her chest.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and heaved a great sigh. "I did, yes. Your point?"
Rose continued on as if she never heard his response. "You ruined my rebound!"
Silence descended on the car as Mycroft took thirty seconds to process and interpret her usage of the word 'rebound.' When the interpretation was complete, he groaned loudly. "Dear God, please don't say anything else Rose."
"I wanted Billy-Bob's number so he could be my rebound! I need a rebound and you ruined it!" Rose grumbled. "You're horrible Mycroft, the most horriblest ever."
"That is not a word and I'm being completely serious, please don't discuss this with me," Mycroft pleaded.
"Louise said I had options and option one was a rebound relationship with mad sex-" A horrified Mycroft clamped his hand over her mouth to prevent her from finishing her thought.
"Please, Rose," Mycroft begged. "If there was ever a moment in your life to listen and obey, it is right now. We just… no. No. We cannot have this sort of conversation. You will not drunkenly tell me about your romantic conquests, past, present or future. I would prefer to remain in the state of bliss that is continuing to pretend that you're… you're…" This was his worst nightmare, well above and beyond the chaos of the dance club they'd just left.
Rose looked at him, blinking almost owlishly as his hand remained on her mouth while she tried to process the nonsense coming out of his mouth.
"That you're…" The proper word was a virgin, or virginal, but that sounded horribly vulgar. Luckily, Mycroft had a very extensive vocabulary and was able to select from a wide variety of appropriate synonyms. "That you're chaste and untouched. It doesn't matter if you marry someday and have children; I am now and forever going to remain in the happy, delusional frame of mind in which you continue to be virtuous. Now, please, if you have ever loved me for even five seconds of your life, you will have mercy on me and stop talking about your sex life and allow me to go on believing that you don't have one. Please." Mycroft removed his hand and tried to brace himself for more of this completely horrifying conversation while simultaneously wondering if it would be considered wrong to tape her mouth closed if she wouldn't shut up.
The youngest Holmes looked at her brother with the blankest of expressions and Mycroft began clinging to the hope that she was going to be quiet for the remainder of the ride, which was surely the longest he'd ever experienced in the entirety of his life. But no, whatever gods existed in this world were clearly not smiling on him today.
"You said sex!" Rose exclaimed before collapsing against the back of the seat in hysterical giggles as if it were the funniest thing she'd ever heard, completely oblivious to the pained look on her brother's now brightly blushing face.
By the time they arrived at Baker Street, Rose was still giggling though Mycroft wasn't sure why as he'd stopped listening for his own well being. He practically hauled her out of the car and retrieved a key for the front door of the building.
"You got keys? Who gave you keys?" Rose asked, watching him unlock the door as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
"Of course I have a key, Rose, and no one gave it to me. I had one made," Mycroft explained. "Now please be quiet so you don't wake up your landlady."
"Do you have keys to everything in all the world?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes, refusing to engage in further conversation with her just then. He'd already been scarred for the remainder of his life in the car. With any luck he could escape Baker Street relatively unscathed, the relativity depending on whether or not he could forget the conversation in the car. Somehow, and he would never be entirely certain how, he managed to get Rose up the stairs with little manhandling and without her ending up rolling down the stairs. Once more a key was inserted into a door and he stepped inside the flat with Rose. John was half-asleep on the couch watching some telly and Sherlock was busy with a laptop; John's, of course, not his own.
"Mycroft, why are you here?" Sherlock asked without looking up.
"Remember that conversation we had after Rose returned, something to the effect of how you'd handle things since she was practically going to be living with you?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock looked up this time, his eyes narrowing. "Yes…"
"Oh good! Handle her then," Mycroft said. He let go of Rose and tried to exit the flat, but Rose was swaying a bit on her feet so he couldn't in good conscience let her fall on her face. Not that she wouldn't deserve it for being so drunk.
His brother's tone was far too joyful for Sherlock's taste and just as he opened his mouth to comment on it, Rose decided to speak instead.
"Mycroft ruined my rebound," Rose whined, swaying a little on her feet.
John was suddenly wide awake, panic coursing through his veins. Was she going to tell her brothers that they'd kissed? This was really, really not the best time or place for that to become a topic of conversation. For one thing, he hadn't put all his affairs in order yet!
"Sherlock, don't ask questions. Trust me, don't even acknowledge the remark because it will go down a dark path you don't want to find yourself on!" Mycroft warned in a rare showing of brotherly concern.
"God, she's really drunk isn't she?" Sherlock asked with a sigh.
Mycroft nodded. "Very much so; to the point I had to go and retrieve her from a club. It was an unforgettable experience in the worst possible of ways, I assure you."
"So you retrieved her and brought her here because…why?"
"In order for you to handle it, of course," Mycroft replied rather gleefully. "Welcome to being the main disciplinarian. Try not to let her drown in her own vomit once she gets sick and then tomorrow I would suggest a good spanking is in order. I'm certain you can sort it out all on your own. Have fun, brother mine." Mycroft smirked delightedly before making a quick exit from the flat.
"You had a grand old time, didn't you, love?" John asked Rose, chuckling as she nodded very enthusiastically. "You'll wish you didn't come morning, trust me." When she started swaying once more, he got up from the couch to steady her, rather amused by how disconcerted Sherlock appeared to be.
"I was on a rebound. Going brilliant. Me and Billy-Bob… going places," Rose told John very seriously, holding on to the doctor with both hands to steady herself. "Louise said I had options, and then Billy-Bob appeared like magic and I was like 'YES!' Very pretty, Billy-Bob. Mycroft hurt him, that was sad, but Billy-Bob got away. Isn't that a funny little name? Billy-Bob, Billy-Bob, Billy-Bob," Rose sang out the name.
"I'm going to murder Mycroft," Sherlock grumbled.
"Let's get you sitting down before you fall over, yeah?" John carefully led Rose over to the couch and sat her down. Her drunken chattering was somewhere between amusing and horrifying and John couldn't decide if it was appropriate to laugh or not.
"I decided I like whiskey. Really, really good, that whiskey. Pirates drink whiskey and I'm in love with Killian but I can't go to 'merica and have him for a rebound. Dunno where he lives. I was a pirate once, did you know? I had a ship. And a hook. My wouldn't play pirates. Hadda save the world, no time for pirates. That's okay, because we had tea parties, and Sherlock was my pirate. Isn't that a nice story John?" Rose asked.
John and Sherlock tried their best not to start laughing, but both men failed miserably. "Do not misconstrue my laughter, Rosenwyn," Sherlock advised as he tried to stop laughing. "Because I am not pleased with you. Getting this drunk is not at all appropriate."
"Huh?" Rose asked, looking and feeling very confused.
"Not appropriate. Drinking to excess is not appropriate and it's irresponsible," Sherlock explained.
Rose crinkled her nose. "I don't unnerstand."
Sherlock let out a sigh and shook his head, trying to think of a simplistic enough way to put it so that she'd understand. "You've been naughty. Just because John and I are laughing at what you say right now, doesn't mean you haven't been naughty." He watched her face light up, as though a light bulb had turned on.
"Oh. I don't think I wanted to do that," Rose said slowly. She fell silent for a moment and leaned back against the couch. "Why are we spinning in circles?"
John, who'd dealt with many more hangovers in his life than Sherlock ever had, immediately knew things were taking a turn for the worse for Rose. "We're not love. You're not feeling well are you? Let's get up and go to the loo in case you get sick." He didn't really wait for her to decide that was a good idea before he helped her to stand up and began herding her down the hallway.
"Sherlock, go get something for me to tie her hair up with," John added. Her hair was already in a ponytail but it was long enough that he feared it would get in the way of the throwing up he knew was coming. "Maybe something more comfortable for her to wear later while you're at it."
Two hours later, John and Rose made their sixth trip to the loo with Sherlock right behind them. Each time Rose got sick, John held her- both for comfort and to make sure she didn't fall over- and rubbed her back as she threw up. "That's it love, get it all out," he encouraged. "I'm right here; I'll take care of you. You're such a silly thing." She was so utterly miserable that John was doing just about anything to help her through the worst of it. He couldn't help but think that this was partly his fault. Rose had been hurt when he'd rejected her the night before. It was the right thing to do, John was certain of it, but it had hurt her deeply and if her comments about 'rebounding' were anything to go by, that hurt was at the heart of her presently drunken state. When she was finished with her dry heaves, Sherlock carried her out to the couch in the sitting room.
"I think she's done for now," John commented to Sherlock. "Hopefully she can sleep. Poor thing is going to be completely miserable in the morning." He sat on the couch, letting Rose rest her head in his lap while he gently stroked her hair. "I remember my twenties. Early twenties, my glory days; I had my fair share of hangovers."
"Are you trying to convince me to not be too hard on her?" Sherlock asked bluntly as he took a seat on the other end of the couch.
John shook his head. "I might feel bad she's miserable, but I don't approve. She's not aware of her own limits, or is aware and willfully ignores them. One of these times she could give herself alcohol poisoning, not to mention the number of blokes out there who would jump at the chance to… Well, you know." He didn't like to think of anyone else touching her, with or without Rose's permission, let alone while Rose was drunk. Really, he was going to have to get over this. If he wasn't going to be with her- which he wasn't- John knew he couldn't keep her from finding someone else. That was what he wanted her to do, wasn't it? Find someone else, someone her own age with greater prospects in life.
"That's what I worry about," Sherlock admitted. "That she'll end up naked in an alley somewhere, completely out of her head because she just doesn't stop to think. We're too much alike, she and I."
"I can see that," John chuckled. "You're both impulsive; act without thinking. A bit impatient at times, more than a little careless about your health, do things that you shouldn't with a sort of consequences be damned attitude. Yes, you're both very much alike." Yet other than worrying about their health, John didn't think he'd want them to be any other way. Though he had to admit that Sherlock could definitely stand to work more on his people skills, but John wasn't going to hold his breath.
"Do you think she's an alcoholic?" Sherlock asked very quietly, despite the fact that Rose had passed out once more.
"No," John hurried to assure him. "Drinking past your tolerance level isn't the best of habits to foster but right now I think she's just an idiotic twenty-year-old, just like the rest of them. We'll keep an eye on her though, make certain she doesn't start going down that road. You're really worried though, aren't you?"
Sherlock nodded, his concern etched in his face. "I don't want her to go through the things I did," he admitted, carefully avoiding mentioning the word cocaine. He'd been clean for six years before he began using again, harder and more often than he had while living at home, desperate to combat his boredom as he struggled to get NSY to listen to him and not think him an amateur. Sherlock had really only cleaned up the second time because Mycroft had again threatened not to let him see Rose anymore. Admittedly, he'd 'fallen off the wagon' as that idiotic saying went, several times while Rose had been missing. The last thing Sherlock ever wanted was for Rose to suffer the way he had.
Sometime around 530am John fell asleep on the couch, an arm around Rose as she slept like the dead with her head in his lap. Sherlock didn't sleep at all as he wrestled over what to do with his sister. He had to take a hard line with Rose, make an impression on her. Drinking in and of itself was fine. Drinking herself into a stupor was not and he needed to make certain she knew the difference and would think twice the next time she went out partying. He'd do it, because he loved her, but he wouldn't like it. He'd never liked it, even as he got better at hiding that over the years and all the many, many times he'd had Rose over his knee. As he sat there continuing to think over the options, his mobile vibrated in his pocket.
'How is our darling sister? M'
'Asleep. What do you want? SH'
'Just checking in. M'
'We're fine. I'm capable of handling this. SH'
'I worry about you both, constantly. Rose especially. M'
'She's too much like you Sherlock. M'
'Rather me than you. SH'
'You were pouting as you typed that weren't you? M'
Sherlock scowled, angry that his brother had known that. He knew there weren't cameras in the flat, he'd removed them two days ago, which meant Mycroft really did know him and his habits too well for Sherlock's comfort.
'Piss off. SH'
'I find it amusing that you've never changed. God help us if Rose really does take after you. M'
Sherlock growled and shoved his mobile back in his pocket.
It was nearly noon before Rose woke up, signaling that she had done so by groaning softly. "Too much light," she whimpered. "Oh god my head. Coffee, need coffee, need ibuprofen, or I'm going to die."
"Good morning!" Sherlock called loudly. "Or should I say afternoon?" He watched as Rose whimpered again and covered her ears with her hands momentarily.
Rose cracked her eyes open slowly and looked around her. "Why am I here?" she whispered.
"Because you were drunk and Mycroft dropped you off with me," Sherlock explained. "You weren't exactly in a condition where we could leave you on your own. Hence your sleeping on the couch."
She looked and felt incredibly confused. Her stomach ached, her head was pounding violently, for some reason she was wearing pajama pants and her jacket had disappeared. "Mycroft… So that wasn't a dream." Rose's face flamed red, more than able to imagine what sorts of nonsense she must have said to him, not to mention the fact she really had been dragged out of the club. She had remembered that, but she'd also been dreaming about it and had hoped it wasn't actually true.
"No, that was not a dream. What's the last thing you remember?" Sherlock asked.
"Being pulled out of the club, getting smacked and then a car ride. Beyond that I don't remember anything at all," she admitted. "I'm sure I was quite entertaining though. God, what a mess."
"We won't hold it against you," John said, suddenly appearing beside her with coffee and something for her head. "At least not what you said, at any rate. Being that drunk we will hold against you," he commented, his tone taking on a stern edge. After giving her the drink and pills he retreated to his chair by the fireplace to finish his tea.
"Very much so," Sherlock echoed. "You are in a great deal of trouble, Rosenwyn."
Rose gratefully began sipping the coffee, using it to wash down the pills John gave her. "No, Sherlock, I'm not. If how I feel at this moment is the way I'm going to feel all day, that's plenty. Trust me on that. Besides, what is it with you and My and me and alcohol? I'm legal and just because you don't like it doesn't make me…un-legaled. 'Sides, I'm twenty; I'll do what I want."
"Yes, because nothing says you're a responsible adult like using the 'I'm old enough to do what I want' argument," Sherlock replied, his voice dripping sarcasm. "There is nothing wrong with you drinking, provided it is in moderation. If you have a hangover afterwards, that wasn't drinking in moderation. You know your limits and you specifically ignore them each and every time you drink. Not to mention the fact that you were drunk twice in less than 24 hours!"
She rolled her eyes and immediately regretted it when she suddenly felt dizzy. Rose leaned back against the couch, clutching her coffee as if it were the only thing standing between her and sudden death. "John, tell him he's over reacting," she requested.
"Oh no, don't look at me to rescue you," John warned, his Captain Watson tone coming to the fore. "You weren't all that far away from alcohol poisoning Rose and you know how I feel about risking your health. Be happy I'm not going to blister your arse alongside your brother. That's the only leeway you're getting out of me and I can certainly change my mind." He gave her a meaningful look that said he was not in the mood to have yet another row over her health.
"What is this, pick on Rose day?" she whined. "My whole body hurts, my head is going to explode, and I was humiliated at a dance club by being dragged out of it by Mycroft-"
"All of which is your own fault," Sherlock countered, crossing his arms over his chest. With her sitting on the couch it wasn't hard for him to cut quite the imposing figure of authority as he stood over her with a stern look on his face. "I don't like your attitude and I certainly don't care for your lack of respect for yourself. If Louise was in a similar state as you last night, what would have happened had you poisoned yourself? Or what if instead of waking up on the couch and being given coffee, you woke up in some strange man's bed, if not naked in an alley somewhere?!"
Rose glowered at her brother, eyes narrowing dangerously. "I had everything under control."
"Then why did Anthea feel the need to tell Mycroft things were getting out of hand?" Sherlock asked. Anthea wasn't one to exaggerate, nor needlessly bother Mycroft, whether it was a government matter or Rose.
"Because Mycroft's level of 'out of hand' is heavily inflated, as is yours," Rose retorted. "I can't believe he had her following me. It's like he doesn't trust me at all!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course he trusts you; just not when it comes to alcohol. You worry us both Rose! You haven't got the sense in your head to stop and think about how much you should drink and not surpass an appropriate amount. The fact that Mycroft had to remove you from a club justifies our concern!"
"Stop shouting Sherlock, please. I'm in very serious pain right now and I think you're being very unfair. I'm not a baby, you can't baby me my whole life and you can't just spank me for forever in perpetuity either because it's not fair," Rose whined. She momentarily debated on throwing her coffee mug at him, but decided against it. Instead, she put the mug on the floor and slowly rolled over to face the back of the couch.
John almost started laughing, because Sherlock had done that to him so many times when the consulting detective hadn't gotten his way. The look of outrage on his flatmate's face reminded John on his own and he was forced to cough several times to keep from laughing.
"Rosenwyn, you will sit up and you will listen to everything I have to say," Sherlock ordered sternly. "I'm not in the mood for your petulance nor am I going to cater to the hangover you gave yourself. Sit up now and put your listening ears on-" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. Put your listening ears on? My god, he was turning into Mycroft! He quickly shook his head, almost as if trying to shake such a horrifying prospect right out of it, before giving Rose his attention once more.
"I'm going to count to three and you're not going to like it if I get to three and you haven't sat up properly yet. One…."
She didn't move or even acknowledge him.
"Two…"
Again, Rose didn't respond. Sherlock reached under the couch for one of the slippers John had left there earlier that morning. "Rose, get up. This is your last warning…. Three." He smacked the slipper across her bum, hard and followed that first smack with several more before Rose finally decided to cooperate.
Or so Sherlock thought.
Rose, however, had other ideas. Spurred on by the raw emotions that had gone up and down and up and down over the last few days as she'd tried to sort things out with John, not to mention the serious hangover, Rose had had it. She went into complete meltdown mode and got up off the couch, ignoring the dizziness thanks to the anger that allowed her to overcome it momentarily. Rose wrenched the slipper out of his hand and threw it across the room, narrowly missing John's head as he sat there rather horrified at the fighting between brother and sister. Instead the slipper hit the skull on the mantelpiece, knocking it to the floor.
"I HAVE HAD IT!" She screamed. "EVERYONE JUST SHUT THE HELL UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE!" Rose added a stomp for emphasis, in case either of the men weren't entirely certain that she was having a tantrum.
"No, no, you are not going to have a tantrum over being lectured," Sherlock said firmly. "Sit down and listen before you're in more trouble than you already are!"
"PISS OFF!" Rose shouted back at him. "I don't want to hear anything from you Sherlock! You are the last person on the freaking planet to lecture me about drinking! Who do you think you are? You're the brother that was doing cocaine after tucking me into bed and nearly died right in front of me for god's sake!"
Suddenly, Rose wasn't angry anymore and was instead completely horrified. She put her hands over her mouth, her face going pale as she stared at Sherlock, waiting for him to do or say something. Instead, she watched a mask of indifference descend over his face, but it couldn't hide the hurt in his eyes; not from her.
Rose felt tears beginning to slide down her cheeks. "Sherlock… Sherlock I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that, I swear. Sherlock say something please. I'm so sorry." As she reached out for him, desperate to make him understand she hadn't meant to say something so horrible, Sherlock turned away from her. If she'd thought it hurt to be rejected by John the day before, it was nothing compared to the pain and fear she felt as Sherlock went to the door, retrieved his coat and left the flat.
"Sherlock! Sherlock please!" Rose called after him, following him onto the landing. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please don't walk away from me, please Sherlock."
Her pleas went completely unanswered as Sherlock exited the building, slamming the front door shut behind him. Rose sank to the floor. Pulling her knees up to her chest, she pressed her face against them and began sobbing. What had she done?!