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Chapter Text

It was getting dark when the taxi cab stopped on the pavement at 221 Baker Street. It was also raining, pouring almost, the rain falling in shiny streams from the black sky.

The woman who got out of the cab was wearing a long black coat, and that was all that a casual observer could notice. She ran to the doorstep quickly, escaping the rain, and disappeared behind the door soon enough.

Inside, her tiny, delicate figure now more visible in the light, she climbed up the stairs in firm steps, and then knocked on the door to 221B without hesitance.

She ran her pale fingers with nails painted dark red – the colour of coagulated blood – through her long, straight, pitch-black hair. The door opened in front of her and she went inside, a smile staining her perfect, heart-shaped lips.

Sherlock was sitting I 2bn his chair, and looked up at her briefly, before picking up his violin and plucking absently at its strings.

“You summoned me, and here I am.” The young woman's voice was low and a bit hoarse. “Long time no see, Sherlock.”

“What do you reckon, then?” He asked, his voice almost disinterested.

“I presume you got lonely.” She smiled an almost-smile, only the ghost of an expression on her lips. “John all busy with his family life?”

“I believe your presence may prove...useful.” the detective said hesitantly.

“You want me to... replace... John?” She stated-asked.

“I'm offering you a room to rent,” he corrected.

“And I'm of course all eager.” She shrugged. “I was bored on my own.”

“I know.”

“You always know, don't you?” The woman smiled, a genuine smile this time, but still it was somehow restricted. “What else do you know about me? Go on, entertain me.”

Sherlock's eyes moved over the woman's silhouette for a few seconds.

“You have a medical degree. You are single and have been for a quite a long time. You have been rarely going out since the last few months, however you have several friends, which indicates you experienced a depression episode again and you're back on your meds. You still smoke. You have a steady job, presumably at St. Barts. You rent a room on your own.” His eyes never left hers. “And, obviously, you're still clean.”

She raised her brows, but smiled. “I'm impressed as always.”

“So?” He asked, impatient as always.

“When can I move in?” She ran a hand over her hair again.

Sherlock shrugged. “Tomorrow will be as good as any other day, I suppose.”

“All right.” She looked around. “I would ask you to invite me for tea, but the sooner I start packing up my things the better. Also, I expect my sister to show up at any minute to tell me how wrong my life choices are. I can't wait to hear that.” She buttoned up her coat and tied the wide, black shawl over her arms. “Bye, Sherlock.”

He stood up, opening the door for her, and smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. “Bye, Rose.”

When she left, the detective sat back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, and listened to the fading click of her heels down the stairs.

Chapter Text

Two days after that evening, John decided to pop over to see Sherlock – he hadn't visited him in a while – and almost had a heart attack, after having the door opened by a tiny, black haired girl, dressed only in a black, silky bathrobe. After the initial shock he realized he knew her from somewhere, and after a couple more minutes, came to the conclusion that she was in fact a new clinical psychiatrist at St. Bart’s, and he’d seen her in the canteen a couple of times. He vaguely remembered that he’d considered her very pretty, but certainly not his type, and rather intimidating, as she never seemed to talk to anyone and moved with a natural grace and self-confidence one could only be born with.

But why she was now standing in the door of 221b dressed only in a bathrobe was for John inconceivable.

“Oh, hello.” She said, her voice sharp and low, a bit unusual for a young woman, but pretty nonetheless. “John Watson, right? I suppose we haven’t been introduced properly yet. Rose Lilac Breathless. And Sherlock is still asleep, I'm afraid. Or whatever he’s doing locked in his room.”

“Er, hi.” John was more than a bit lost. “Nice to meet you...Rose. Your name is pretty...flowery, huh?”

“What can I say.” She shrugged, inviting him in, “My parents were way too imaginative for their children’s good. My sister's name is Violet Amaryllis. I'm the luckier one there. Do you want some tea or whatever?”

“No, thank you.” John looked around, still lost. Rose put the kettle on and busied herself with preparing tea. John realized she’d taken two mugs out of the cupboard, one of them Sherlock's and another black with a picture on it that John had never seen before.

“Sit down, I'll be back in a minute.” She smiled, and then knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door.

“Wake up, sunshine!” She yelled. “John's here!”

John just sat and stared at her in disbelief. Surely she wasn't dating Sherlock?

It was impossible, John was pretty sure his ex-flatmate was as asexual as it was possible to be, he never saw him even looking at any woman – or man – like that. Of course there was Irene Adler, but it wasn't like that, was it? She was simply fascinating to him as a person, as a case, not as a sexual object. So was John, for that matter. Not that he didn't try. He did, he very much did, but after all of his little hints and flirtatious glances were firmly dismissed, he just gave up.

And he was happy. With Mary, who was soon going to give birth to their little girl.

Anyway, what was this intimidating, flowery-named young woman doing there? She seemed very comfortable and was acting so confidently like it was her own home...

Sherlock's bedroom's door opened, and the detective emerged from inside, yawning, and breaking John's train of thought. Meanwhile, Rose positioned herself in another chair, making John realize that his old chair had disappeared and had been replaced by a black, velvet one. Sherlock sat – or rather fell – onto the couch, not sparing him a single glance.

John, feeling surreal and weir, and simply wrong took place in Sherlock's chair.

Rose was sipping on her tea, watching them over her long, charcoal lashes, her long, pale as chalk legs bent. Her robe was pulled back a little bit and to his surprise John saw net of thin, short scars all over her thighs, a couple of shades paler than her almost white skin.

She saw his look, and cast him dark glare.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I'll go and dress more appropriately.”

Just as she left – and, at least John hoped, was out of hearing range – he immediately stood up and positively loomed over his friend, whispering sharply. “What the hell, Sherlock?!”

The detective stood up, slowly, still yawning, and took his cup from the counter.

“Rose. My new flatmate. Don't be obtuse, John.”

“Your new...your what?” John frowned.

“Flatmate. Don't make me repeat myself.”

“But why?”

“Well, since you are so wrapped up in your family life, I considered it appropriate to find myself someone to share the rent with.” Sherlock shrugged.

“How the fuck did you find her?”

“She's my... friend.” Sherlock hesitated a bit, which made John suspicious.

“Your friend.” He repeated. “I thought you didn't have friends?”

The detective shrugged again.

John sighed, his long-suffering sigh he should have had patented by now.

“Where do you know her from?” He asked.

Was it his imagination, or did Sherlock blush a little?

“Sherlock?” He repeated patiently.

“We've been to rehab together.” Sherlock blurted out.

John breathed in through his nose and breathed out through his mouth, just like Ella was teaching him. Then he repeated the process. Twice.

“Excuse me.” He said. “Could you repeat that? Cause for a second I thought that you said you know her from fucking rehab.”

Sherlock avoided his eyes, and kept silent.

“Jesus, Sherlock, you're living with another sodding addict now?” John was on the verge of a mental breakdown. “Are you back on drugs? How long has it been?”

“I'm not!” The detective snapped. “She's clean now. So am I, I assure you.”

“Forgive me for not believing you.” John said sarcastically. “How long has she been clean? A month? She's too fucking young to...”

“To what?” A cold, calm voice interrupted him. Rose was standing in the door, dressed in black jeans and black, silk button-down, buttoned all the way up to her neck. Her dark hair was tied into a knot on top of her head. “I've been clean for 7 years, just for your information, Dr Watson. If you were curious, I'm 27 now.” She took place in her chair, and continued calmly. “I work as a clinical psychiatrist, I have shifts twice a week. I'm not married, and I don't intend to be. My criminal record is nothing but clean, and the worst crime I can say I commit is fucking smoking.” Her voice trailed to the verge of threatening. “So please, if you would be so kind, don't talk about me behind my back. I believe Sherlock is a grown man and can easily make his own decisions himself.”

John looked at her, quite impressed. And, being the polite man that he was, he apologised.

“I'm sorry. I must admit I...”

“I'm glad we have that settled.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Now, I assure you that there won't be any cocaine involved. You can sleep peacefully. All I intend to do here is live and pay half of the rent. And, I suppose, buy milk. Also, I promise not to be a threat to your hopeless crush on this man.” She pursed her lips, as John's ears went bright red.

“She's a doctor, John.” Sherlock said, his voice as disinterested as it could possibly be.

“A bloody good one.” She added.

“And I need someone here now that you're...away.” He rolled his eyes. “I am bored.”

“As well as I.” Rose completed, and, looking John straight in the eye, took a silver cigarette case from the nearby table and lit a thin, long, cherry cigarette, exhaling smoke slowly with her perfect mouth. “And since Sherlock was so nice and asked me to help him on the cases, I believe we'll entertain each other just fine. Now, do we have your blessing, Dr Watson?”

John couldn't help but notice how she switched from calling him by his first name to his surname. She didn't behave so, being all sarcastic, but he realized she must've been really offended by his suspicions over her person.

“I am truly sorry.” He said again. “I guess I was just...surprised.”

Sherlock's phone buzzed just at that exact minute, cutting off John's explanation. He practically flung himself in its direction, read the text at the speed of light, and exclaimed “Perfect!”

John and Rose both looked at him, asking in perfect unison, “Case?”

“Yes! Oh, I feel like its Christmas!” Sherlock positively glowed with joy, a wide grin spreading over his face. “Double homicide, Lestrade needs us immediately.” He rushed to the door, putting on his coat on the way.

Rose followed him, putting on and buttoning her own coat, and letting her hair fall all over her arms. She grabbed her purse on the way, and looked at John expectantly. “Aren't you going?”

“He has you now.” John shrugged.

“Oh, come on, you look like he’s cheated on you.” She rolled her eyes. “Come with us.” She urged.

“Rose!” Sherlock exclaimed from the door. “Hurry up!”

She threw the keys to John, who almost dropped them, turned away and went.

And John, because he had feltlike Sherlock had just cheated on him, and also because he was a tiny bit curious, followed soon after her.

Chapter Text

Three weeks passed, bringing cold and rainy January to London, and another two cases to Sherlock. Rose turned out to be more than useful, having psychological and psychiatric training which John lacked, and which let her have a better insight into people's motives. She also turned out to be the perfect flatmate for Sherlock, being probably even more insufferable than the detective himself, and making poor Mrs Hudson curse the day of John's wedding.

She, however, didn't quite get along with John, not being able to forgive him the initial offence.

Anyway, life at Baker Street went its usual way, with Sherlock setting things on fire with his experiments, and Rose setting things on fire by leaving her cigarettes lit.

It was a particularly chilly morning, when Sherlock burst into Rose's bedroom, turning on all the lights and waking her up suddenly, and rather unpleasantly. Rose Lilac Breathless was a lot of things, but a morning person wasn't one of them, so she cast him an exceptionally vicious glance, and cursed loudly.

“Come on, there's a case!” Sherlock was positively glowing with excitement.

“And I had a night shift yesterday, during which one of my patients tried to commit suicide by strangling himself.” She responded. “I am fucking tired.”

Sherlock knew better than trying to argue with her. He’d known Rose since she was 17 and he was 25, and even then as a skinny, always high, and particularly foul mouthed teenager, she’d had something in her that made Sherlock respect her. Even more so, after, as a 20 year old, she’d finished rehab twice as fast as he did and, unlike him, had never ever relapsed again. So he didn't try to convince her now.

He did, however, pout and look at her with huge, pleading eyes.

“Oh, for God's sake!” She exclaimed, but climbed off the bed. She was wearing a huge Nirvana t-shirt which ended just above her knees, and her hair was sticking out in a halo over her head. Nonetheless, she looked very pretty. Sherlock couldn't help but notice, with his all-seeing eyes. He frowned. He didn't usually pay attention to people's appearances. He saw what he needed for his deductions, but to find someone aesthetically pleasing, that was new. He made a mental note to explore the subject later.

“Give me 10 minutes.” She said, and disappeared into the bathroom.

After said 10 minutes, she emerged, dressed, like usual, in dark jeans and a buttoned all the way shirt, dark red this time. She made herself coffee quickly, and even managed to make Sherlock drink his own coffee, all while glaring at her impatiently.

They left, in shared silence, and proceeded as such the whole way to the crime scene. It was a pleasant silence, a comfortable one, silence between two people who understood themselves completely and didn't need words to fill empty space.

Rose caught herself looking at Sherlock's profile while the detective wasn't watching. Since she could remember, she’d found him very handsome, beautiful even, in an extraordinary way that she really, really liked and appreciated. She also, however, remembered the skinny, huge eyed, regrettable version of him, whilst living on the streets. She remembered him, trembling and whiny when unable to find another dose. She was also aware that he remembered her that way. It was a shared understanding between the two of them never to mention this part of their joint past.

But, while living with Sherlock on daily basis, Rose was very much aware of how handsome he was. For fuck's sake, the man was walking around the flat in nothing more than a sheet!

And she liked him. They were so alike, but somehow managed to coexist together just fine. She might’ve even developed a tiny crush on him.

But, judging how much of a disaster all of her previous relationships were, she was more than content to remain nothing more than friends. Love was a messy affair, and her lack of sex drive made it somehow even messier. She remembered quickly – her face flinching involuntarily – her last girlfriend, who had left after calling her 'nature's most beautiful joke' in a sad voice. Maybe she was. But she didn't want to know what name Sherlock would come up with for her after dating her. She liked him way too much to let her asexuality ruin things between them, just like it did with her previous not-lovers.

Immersed in her bitter thoughts, she didn't even realize when they’d arrived at the crime scene, which was one of the modern apartments in the city centre. She awoke only when Sherlock pulled her door open.

The detective rushed into the door of the building with a swipe of his coat, and Rose followed after him, walking firmly and not very femininely in her converse sneakers. Life taught Rose lots of things, and one of them was not wearing heels when it could be avoided. Even if it made her tiny frame look much better.

When they arrived onto the 6^th floor – the elevator was broken, which left Rose cursing soundly all the way up – the forensic team was already done, and only Lestrade was awaiting them.

While initially he was a bit surprised by Sherlock's sudden change in assistant, after their first two cases he must admit that he grew if not to like, then at least to admire Rose. She was not only, like she herself had told John, a bloody good doctor, but she could also keep Sherlock in his more or less proper behaviour most of the time. She was witty, and though just like the brilliant detective, she couldn't keep her mouth shut, and she was pretty much as annoying as Sherlock himself even at her best, but she had something softer, more feminine in her, what made up for her lack of empathy. He kind of liked her, though not as much as John.

When Sherlock leaned closer to examine the bodies, two men, one of them in his mid-twenties, the other a decade older, both killed by a shot to the head; Lestrade told them that they were found by the older man's wife, who had come back home after work at the florist’s only to find her husband and an unknown man dead on her kitchen floor.

“Have you got any ideas who could have done it?” The DI asked.

“The younger man died before the other.” Sherlock murmured, distracted by flipping through the victim's phone. “And he was the wife's lover, the messages are stating it pretty clearly. Her husband found out, she probably forgot her phone. Oh, people are so stupid.” He rolled his eyes. “The husband texted him, masquerading as his wife, and arranged a meeting. Then he killed him. Did you find the gun? Nevermind, I'm sure it belongs to the husband. But there's still question of who killed him. It must have been just before the wife came home. A stranger? Unlikely. Then it's the wife. She was furious, acted in rage and...”

“She has an alibi.” Lestrade interrupted. “Her colleague stated that she hadn't left her job till after 4pm.”

Sherlock was silent for a while, then he turned around. “Give me some time.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Sure. Take your time. It's not like we need to catch a murderer or anything.”

But Sherlock didn't listen to him – not that he ever had – and had already left the room.

Rose rolled her eyes, and followed him, murmuring a silent “Bye” to the DI.

On their way home Sherlock was talking the whole time, coming up with ideas of how the wife could possibly get home so quickly and manage to kill her husband. Rose listened to him, not actually paying attention to his words, but rather listening to the warm, deep tone of his perfect voice reverberating through her. He really had a marvellous voice. He should be a radio broadcaster. Or maybe a singer? She imagined turning on the radio or a CD and listening to that voice for many long hours.

But wasn't now better? He was talking to her after all, even if he didn't pay any attention to her person...

But Rose was wrong. Sherlock was paying attention. He looked at her from the corner of his eye, while talking. He was always able to lead several trains of thought at the same time, so it wasn't a problem for him now.

He thought about how different she was from any other boring, tedious, awfully mundane people, with her cutting responses and always the weirdest possible ideas when he asked her about something. How unpredictable she was. How she always smelled faintly of cherry cigarettes and coffee and how it was somehow the most intoxicating smell Sherlock had ever known. And how she was always washing her hair in the early evening after work or after they came home from case, and how endearing she looked with wet strands falling slightly on her pale face.

Then he stopped abruptly, both talking and thinking. Did he really use the term endearing just a second ago? What was happening to him?

He faintly remembered feeling this way before, at Uni, when there was Victor and...

But, first of all, Rose was a woman, and he’d never really been attracted to women before, but then he’d never been attracted to anyone before. Of course there was the whole flirting with John, he was aware of that, but that was a game, it was thrilling and entertaining just because John was so firm about the whole “I'm not gay” issue, just because even if it meant something it didn't lead to anything. It was a game, just like with Irene Adler, or Moriarty.

Now with Rose it was different. He didn't want to play her, didn't want her as a cure for his boredom. God, did he really want her...?

“Sherlock?” She looked at him concerned. “Are you all right? You stopped in the middle of your sentence.”

He waved his hand dismissively, trying to keep his façade from giving anything away.

“I was just wondering if you'd like to come to this concert tonight?” She asked suddenly. “There are some young artists playing Yann Tiersen's pieces on the piano, I thought that maybe it would be interesting enough? I could go alone but I have a spare ticket.”

Sherlock blinked, startled. He didn't expect that. Was she asking him on a date? And if so, then why? He’d never seen Rose Breathless dating anyone. They’d spent the majority of their time together on the streets or in rehab, true, but even then she had been cold and distant to anyone who seemed attracted to her. Pretty much like Sherlock himself.

“We're on a case.” He rolled his eyes, trying not to seem too eager.

“I am perfectly aware of that.” She said calmly. “Still, I don't see why we shouldn't go. You know, he's my favourite composer. I used to play quite a lot of his pieces.”

Now that was new. Sherlock didn't know, didn't deduce it about her. He wondered how many other things he didn't know.

“All right.” He tried to sound like it was a sacrifice. He failed.

“That's settled then.” She smiled a lopsided, distant smile. “Tonight at 9pm.”

Chapter Text

Rose pretended that she didn't care about their evening together. She told herself a thousand times that she could have easily gone alone and it would’ve been the same. Sherlock was just a flatmate and a colleague. And it was not like she was interested in him, of course not. She didn't care how perfect his voice was, or how beautiful his face was, or how tall and lean he was, or how he made her feel both safe and in danger at the same time and how thrilling that was. How lovely his curly hair looked. How she wanted to lace her fingers through them. Or kiss those heart-shaped lips. She didn't care at all.
She choose her favourite dress, a dark red one with long sleeves, which made her look even paler and thinner, and she put on a pair of heels with it. She even curled her hair, though she didn't usually do it.
And she wasn't nervous, of course she wasn't. She was absolutely, perfectly calm. And her hands didn't tremble at all.
She straightened to her full height of 160 centimetres and walked into the main room, trying to smile. Sherlock was waiting by the door, looking as utterly beautiful as always. He looked at her, straight into her, and she saw a flicker of appreciation in his eyes. She blushed slightly.
“So.” She tried to sound nonchalant. “Let's go then.”
Sherlock smiled at her and it was almost a warm smile. They went out in silence, casting shy glances at each other.
By the time they reached the small theatre the concert had started, and the silence between them was strangled and uncomfortable as they both avoided each other's eyes. Rose started to panic. It was her idea after all. What if Sherlock thought she’d asked him on a date? It wasn't a date, of course it wasn't, it was just two friends going out together, nothing special about it... She knew she was lying to herself, but she couldn't face reality, not now, not when it looked like this was going to be a disaster.
By the time they took their places, Rose was trembling all over and Sherlock looked almost as pitiful as he did back on the streets.
By the time the first piece ended they were both sitting stiffly and trying desperately not to look at each other.
But when a young, maybe 15 year old girl started to play la valse d'Amelie, Rose's favourite piece that she used to play on the piano back in her family house at unholy hours before she left, she slowly started to relax. She enjoyed the performance, it was brilliant, and even though she promised herself never to ask Sherlock out ever again – though it wasn't a date, not at all – she let herself get immersed into the music. And soon she was listening with her whole body and soul and not paying attention to anything else.
Sherlock, however, wasn't listening at all. He was watching Rose, at first from the corner of his eye, and then forthrightly, not even hiding it.
At this point – though he wasn't sure exactly how it had happened – he knew he was already lost. How come he didn't realize it earlier? He’d gotten infatuated by this tiny woman, who was now watching the performance with huge eyes and slightly pink cheeks. She was so beautiful that it made his heart ache.
He had never felt like that, and he hated himself for it. Love was a weakness. He shouldn't have felt it at all.
Besides, Rose of course didn't love him back.
He watched her face change, just as another teenager started to play another melody in sweet, lingering tones. Her fingers were moving involuntarily on her lap, she had her eyes closed and he suddenly felt the overwhelming need to kiss her, just there, where everyone could see, to claim her as his.
He was completely astounded by his feelings. He was positively sure that he had never, never felt the need to kiss someone. Even back then in his first and last relationship, it was always Victor who initiated the kisses.
He spent the rest of the concert with his eyes locked firmly on the scene, not daring to even peek at Rose.
When they left, it was freezing. Their breaths were coming out in white puffs of air, and Rose was trembling slightly in her light coat. The wind was so strong that when she tried to light a cigarette, she couldn't. She cursed under her breath, and put it back in the case.
“Let's go home.” She said, her voice a bit hoarse, and weary, like she was very tired.
They tried to catch a cab, but there were none there.
“Oh, come on, let's walk.” Rose shrugged. “I'm fucking freezing and if we're going to stay here any longer I am going to turn into an ice statue. We can take the tube.”
They walked quickly, Rose's heels clicking. She had her eyes fixed on the ground, and was replying monosyllables when Sherlock tried to maintain conversation, just so they didn't keep so silent and awkward.
“Oh for fuck's sake!” She exclaimed suddenly, pulling her coat tighter around her. “Why the fucking hell is it so fucking cold?!” Her voice was angry and she was on the verge of crying. “Ugh!” She stamped her feet on the ground angrily.
“Wait.” Without thinking, Sherlock put his arm around her, then realized what he’d done, and froze, mortified.
She looked at him, startled, but didn't say anything.
By the time they reached 221b it had started snowing heavily. White snowflakes were falling in Rose's hair, and got stuck on her eyelashes and she was blushing prettily from the cold and...
Sherlock closed the door behind them, caught her carefully by the wrist and kissed her, just a tiny brush of his mouth against hers. She gasped, surprised, and for a split second he thought that he’d made a horrible mistake, that he’d just ruined everything. But then she kissed him back, a close mouthed but nonetheless perfect kiss, and brushed her fingertips through his hair, raising on her tiptoes.
He put his hands around her waist, and pulled her closer, when she broke the kiss and tried to pull away.
“Now that was surprising.” She whispered, her voice hoarse.
For the first time in his life Sherlock couldn't find the right words to say.
She looked him in the eyes, her expression soft and caring. “But I didn't say it wasn't appreciated.” She breathed, and kissed him again.
They stood, entangled together, kissing slowly for what felt like an eternity and only seconds at the same time.
“I think there's a high possibility I might be in love with you.” Sherlock's voice was barely a murmur over her ear.
“We should run some tests to see if this hypothesis is right.” She smiled over his lips. “Because there's an enormous probability I may be in love with you too.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5

PART ONE: T onight Just Be The Death Of Me.

They went up the stairs slowly, their hands brushing. Rose looked up, and Sherlock smiled at her, a genuine smile so rare on his face, and her heart was suddenly warmed by the enormous love she felt.

They unhurriedly shed their coats and then the detective turned Rose gently, and pressed her into the door, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, and cradling her waist with the other.

They kissed slowly, sensuously, mouths sliding and tongues tangling, with no rush and no doubts, sure of each other. He let go of her hands, and she tangled her fingers in his hair, that hair she’d dreamed of touching so often.

It was perfect.

But life is rarely so perfect.

Rose's heart ached when she delicately pulled away, but she had to. There was no sense in lying, she couldn't change herself, she’d tried enough times, knowing it would be a catastrophe.

“Sherlock.” Her voice was an octave higher from anxiety, and she felt her hands trembling once again. “I can't. I'm sorry, it's not that I don't want you, it's just...I don't want anyone. Not in that way. I love you, I truly do, but...”

“Rose.” His voice was warm, he looked her straight in the eyes. He marvelled for a moment about how wonderfully green they were, how dark and deep now, with pupils dilated due to the lack of light. But it was no time for this now, he needed to focus. “Rose. I know. Don't you understand? I deduced that much.”

“Oh.” She seemed confused. “But...”

“I wasn't exaggerating when I said you were perfect.” His gaze was piercing and Rose felt for a while that he wasn't looking at her body but at her soul. “You are. In everything.”

“But you... Are you... You aren't...” She stammered. The flicker of hope burned so bright in her heart but she was afraid to believe it just yet.

“I am just like you are.” He said simply, and kissed her, a closed mouthed and sweet kiss.

“So we can skip the whole sex part and go straight from kissing to cuddling?” She asked, finally daring to smile.

“That's an excellent idea.”

And they kissed again, and it was perfect.

Because though life is rarely perfect, there are still moments, when it truly is.

They fell onto the bed when it was almost dawn, after almost falling asleep on the couch, where they’d lay, tangled together, and watched one ridiculous movie after another, complaining about the lacks of plot, the tedious dialogues and the actors' inability to really act. They drank wine and kissed and talked about life and love, and Sherlock forgot that he was on a case and Rose forgot that she hadn’t smoke since they left the theatre.

When they’d almost fallen asleep, or rather when Rose had, since Sherlock was too absorbed by watching her sleep, they went to Sherlock's bedroom, holding hands and smiling at each other softly. Sherlock closed the door behind them, and then there was a moment of awkwardness when none of them knew what to do. Finally Rose, blushing rather prettily, as Sherlock couldn't help but notice, turned so she was standing back to him.

“Could you...?” She tugged at her dress' zipper. “Zipping it up before we left was quite a challenge, I must admit.” She laughed lightly.

She felt light headed, and so, so happy, like she was floating on air.

She shed her dress, not looking at him, and then took off her tights, staying only in a tank top and knickers. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him, still blushing, and adorable, and Sherlock realized he was tugging off his clothes impatiently, all too eager to kiss her again, to touch her and feel that she was real, that this somehow perfect dream wasn't just a dream.

He sat over her, and cradled her face into his hands, kissing her gently.

They both fell asleep, entangled around each other, and they slept peacefully, just for once not haunted by any bad dreams.

PART TWO: There's Always Time For Second Guesses I Don't Wanna Know

Rose woke up from her dreamless sleep feeling warm and safe in Sherlock's arms. He held her close, arm tangled over her waist and their legs entwined together.

He was awake, looking at her and smiling lazily.

“Hi.” She smiled too, kissing him gently.

They lay in silence for a while, just looking at each other.

“You know,” Rose started suddenly. “I remember those months we spent together back then so clearly. I never thought it would end this way.”

“I remember seeing you.” He said quietly. She looked at him, not understanding, so he continued. “Not deducing you, when I was looking at you, but actually seeing. You were always a mystery to me.”

“Nothing mysterious in me.” She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Just bad decisions and wrong life choices.”

“Tell me.” He demanded, gathering her closer.

“There's not much to tell.” She shrugged. Her hair was all over the pillow, like a black curtain. “You know my family story, don't you?”

“That's not what I meant.” He looked her in the eyes. “Tell me about you. Not your family.”

“It all started with my first girlfriend.” She closed her eyes and talked silently, remembering what she really didn't want to remember. “She 'introduced me' to drugs. I was shy. And reserved. I didn't talk much, I didn't like being touched. I didn't wanted to have sex with her. And drugs had been making me more...pliant.” She spat the world like it was poisonous. “And I wanted to fit in. Wanted her to like me. Wanted to be more like her, more like other people. And then I stopped caring and it was just all about another dose so as not to be myself. You know the process. And when I was a 'proper addict'” She laughed bitterly. “She broke up with me. At this point I was escaping from home regularly. But they always managed to find me and bring me back. You thought I was being mysterious and leaving when in fact they made me.”

“They sent me to rehab when I was 20, and sick and tired of life.” She continued. “And good thing I met you there. I doubt I would’ve made it otherwise.”

They looked silently at each other, lost in memories.

Rose broke the stillness, sitting up, and revealing her arms and legs from under the blanket.

“When I went out I pretty much just wanted to die.” She said. “But I remember thinking that it would be not fair now, not after I managed to end that fucking rehab.”

Sherlock sat up as well, and gently ran his hand over her white arm, touching pearly, pale scars covering it all over. Some of them were covered by a complicated, swirly tattoo on her forearm, roses tangled with letters and inky, curly lines.

“You were a cutter.” He said quietly.

“Thought you’d say something yesterday, when I took off that dress.” She whispered. “You were always so...”

“Impolite?” He smiled wryly.

“Straightforward.” She corrected, tangling their hands. “Thank you for not doing that.”

“You do peculiar things to my eyes.” He looked at their laced hands. “I only see you. Not details.”

She smiled and it was warmer than before.

“I tried to hide it from you.” She admitted. “From everyone. It's not that easy, though, to always cover myself.”

“Where?” He asked simply.

Instead of answering she just took off her tank top. She cast him a look and closed her eyes.

Her heart was pounding in her chest like it wanted to escape. Rose had always hated being naked, even before, when her skin was immaculate, untouched. Her body was an inconvenience she could barely stand. It made people want her in the wrong ways, ways that she had no interest in. She knew she was considered pretty, knew other women looked at her silhouette with envy, and it was nice. It was nice to wear beautiful clothes and to know she looked good in them, it was nice to look at her own face in the mirror and like the way it looked. But she felt like she didn't belong to this body she was captured in, like it was a prison that held her soul. She looked into the mirror and saw a pretty, golden cage. Sometimes she wondered and thought she would prefer to be born a man after all. Not a woman in a world that only seemed to appreciate women’s bodies, not their minds, not their souls.

She knew she was safe now, with the man she loved and who loved her, who loved her soul and mind, not only her body, and who wasn't only interested in her body, but she hated it anyhow.

She flinched, when he gently followed the line of her scars all over her breasts and belly, on her thighs, all over her collarbone and sternum. She was covered with them, scars mapping her body and making her look like a warrior of the war she fought with herself.

“I tried cutting in only one place, so no one would see, no one would know.” She said hoarsely. “But it didn't work. I needed to see the scars it left. I needed to see that it affected me. I hated who I was, how I looked. I was only happy when all...this...” She run her hands over her sides. “Was destroyed. I needed pain and blood as well. It was like any other addiction, just like cocaine.”

He embraced her delicately, awkwardly, both of them unused to being touched.

“There was a stream of girlfriends and boyfriends, of course.” She continued, her eyes closed, but leaning into the touch. She didn't see the compassionate grimace that appeared on Sherlock's face for a second, indicating that he knew, knew exactly, what she was going to say. “No one stayed longer than three weeks. But I still wanted someone to love me, you know? So I just let them mess with my head, and tell me I was fucked up. It was always the same. At first, they would tell me it was okay that I didn’t want to sleep with them. Then they would try to convince me. And then they'd leave. And I just let them. I never respected myself, but it was the only thing I wouldn't let them do to me. Force me. They tried to persuade me, telling me that it must've been because of my bad past experiences. But the thing was, it wasn't.”

“Don't explain yourself.” He said suddenly. “I know. I've been told that thousands of times.”

She let her head fall onto his arm.

“And well, then there was Charlotte. I met her on my third year at Uni. She was a literature student, and she was...she was smart. And she cared. She sent me to a psychiatrist. I got meds. She was with me when I was relapsing and when I wasn't taking my meds, when I had hallucinations and heard voices. And I got better. Recovered. She was the first one to tell me that maybe I was asexual. She left, but first made sure I was better.” She shrugged. “The rest is simple. I finished my studies. Became a psychiatrist, because I understood that was a way to use my experiences in a good way. Moved here, as far from home as was possible. And then you called me.”

He didn't say a word.

However, he kissed her, and it was better than words, because there was comprehension and compassion in that kiss, there was love and an amount of care no words were able to carry.

And it was okay. They both found the place in life where they were no longer broken, no longer wrong and misunderstood, no longer mistreated.

And it was okay.

Chapter Text

Couple of days passed, days full of tender kisses, little signs of attention, prolonged glances and tiny smiles. Rose stopped hiding her arms and legs and started to hover over the flat in only her underwear, and Sherlock used to gently touch or kiss scars on her arms when she was sitting near him. They were perfectly happy, two broken souls finally complete in each other's presence.

The case was still yet to be solved and they were lost completely in it, Sherlock lost in his mind palace and Rose doing research on her own. It was getting more and more tangled, more and more complicated, as it turned out the woman's lover had been blackmailed since couple of months and her husband was involved into affair with Hungarian government, and owed lots of money to several parliament members.

When John popped over to visit them on one sunny Saturday, he almost had heart attack once again, as he opened the door and saw them tangled on the couch together, Rose straddling detective's lap and kissing him passionately.

John stood in the doorframe, dumbfounded and suddenly lacking words to say anything. He tried to clear his throat loudly, but there was no sound. He tried again, and this time it worked.

Rose and Sherlock slowly untangled, though she was still straddling him, and blushed in sync.

“Er...Hi.” Rose stammered.

“We meant to tell you, John.” Sherlock's cheeks turned bright pink, though he was still smiling that ironic, lopsided smile John once thought was reserved just for him but now wasn't so sure.

“We just...” Rose run her hand through her messy hair. “Kinda forget. There is a case, you know and...”

“Oh.” John tried not to look as shocked as he felt. “Okay.”

Rose turned, so she was sitting on a detective's lap. She was wearing only huge grey t shirt, and looked like she just woke up though it was already afternoon.

“How's Mary?” She asked.

“Great. We're...great.” John still looked a bit uncomfortable. “So you're...a couple now?”

Sherlock nodded once, firmly, tangling his arms around Rose's waist.

“Yup, we are, but listen, this case is just wonderful!” Rose literary jumped on Sherlock's knees, clapping her hands. “The husband killed the lover. But who killed the husband? The wife has a motive, but she couldn't do it as bunch her colleagues saw her in her florist's at the time murder was committed.”

“Furthermore, the husband was probably involved into huge affair, he had worked for Hungarian government undercover, and as far as we know might have been an assassin.” Sherlock continued.

“And the wife is emotionally unstable, I talked to her and she shows all symptoms of bipolar depression.” Rose smiled.

“And we're almost hundred percent sure it was her.”

“Just...how?” Rose jumped again.

“And there the fun begins.” Sherlock's eyes were beaming. “The husband had been blackmailing the lover with old letters from when they were lovers. He had no idea he was sleeping with his wife now. And the lover had no idea who's wife was his mistress. Then the husband found out and decided to kill the lover. But someone came to the flat and killed him too. It must've been someone whom he know, since he let him in. So – rational conclusion – the wife. But the thing is she was in florist's then! Ten people saw her.”

“Jesus Christ on a vespa.” John was looking between two of them. “Nice to see you so happy.”

“Don't you see? It's finally a challenge!” Sherlock kissed Rose on a cheek as she stood up and busied herself with making tea. “We just need to know how she did it.”

Sherlock's phone, lying on the kitchen table, buzzed. Rose took it and threw at him, not even looking, holding kettle in another hand.

“Rose!” Sherlock exclaimed, tapping the answer. “It's Lestrade. We need to go.”

“What happened?” Rose tiptoed to him, looking over his arm at the screen. “Oh!”

Sherlock looked at John, smiling widely, and, John must have admit, a little bit scary.

“The wife was found in the flat. Shot to the heart.”

Rose literally ran to, what John couldn't help but notice, was Sherlock's bedroom – apparently their bedroom now, and emerged after a while in a dark jeans and white button-down. She put a oversized, black jumper over her head, and started to button up her coat, just as Sherlock put on his.

“Are you coming?” He asked, turning over to John.

“Of course he's coming, he must've been horribly bored, he hasn't seen a crime scene since ages.” Rose smiled perfectly at him, as she left the door.

Chapter Text

 They rode in silence, or rather John was silent and Sherlock and Rose kept whispering to each other about the case. He soon gave up listening to them and just watched the world outside the window, lost deep in thoughts what decision in his life exactly took him where he was now. Like he life wasn't weird enough before.

When they reached the crime scene, the same flat that witnessed two murders before, Rose was first who stormed out of the cab, and John looked as Sherlock followed her – the man who never followed anyone, who were always the one to lead, who made John follow him for such a long time.

He cursed under his breath. What was in that tiny woman with scarred arms and inscrutable eyes?

When he got to the flat, elevator working now but ride taking ages, Sherlock was already kneeling next to the body, and looked at him visibly lost in her thoughts. Lestrade greeted him warmly, long time not seen, and they talked for a while, when suddenly Sherlock turned to them, his eyes sparkling.

“Oh, it's so clever!” He exclaimed, clapping his hands. “She has an identical twin. The photos are in her phone! The husband killed the lover. Then her twin killed the husband while she was still at work, making herself best alibi. And then her sister killed her.”

“Okay, but why?” Lestrade furrowed his brow.

“It will need confirmation yet, but that affair husband was into? Is it possible she was involved too?” Rose pursed her lips, lost in thoughts once again. “And she was using her unstable sister?”

Sherlock nodded sharply.

“You just need to find her, and you'll know everything.” He shrugged.

“So...you're coming home?” John asked, sighing tiredly. He really was tired, and felt a bit unwanted there, a bit replaced by Rose's strong personality. He had no idea, how this...thing...between them worked with both of them being like a fucking lightning, fast, overwhelming and probably deadly.

“Yeah, I guess.” Rose shrugged, then turned to Sherlock. “Would you mind walking? I had a vague feeling like the last time we were outside was a week ago.”

“Because it was.” Sherlock took her hand, not even realizing what he was doing.

“Oh.” She just shrugged again. “And what was the last time we ate something?”

Both John and Lestrade looked at them with sudden interest.

Sherlock seemed to think for a while. “And what day is it?”
“Wednesday, I guess?” Rose wondered aloud.

“Than yesterday. You made breakfast as I recall.”

“Oh. Right. Maybe I did. That's okay.” She smiled. “Let's go home then.”

They left, hand in hand, talking quietly.

“Care to go for a pint?” Lestrade and John exchanged glances.

“Don't you think I should go with them?” John pondered.

“Nah, they're adults after all. They live together for, like, 3 weeks now? And they seems fine.”

“I caught them kissing today.” John confessed, happy he could finally tell someone.

Lestrade looked dumbfounded.

“Like kissing kissing?”

“First I thought it must've been some kind of bet.” Doctor shrugged. “But he really seems to care about her.”

“But I always thought...” DI frowned.

“Me too.”

They looked at each other, both astonished, as they left the flat and went to the nearest pub.

Meanwhile Rose and Sherlock was rushing down the street, both of them unable to just walk slowly, their shoulders brushing as they went.

It was cold, tiny rain falling from the sky, not heavy enough for umbrella but leaving them unpleasantly wet anyhow. However, they didn't seem to notice, talking quietly, first about the case but then Rose started to tell him about her new patient and they started talking about that old case with delusional killer Sherlock once solved and it went that way and how exactly they came to talking about favourite childhood books he wasn't sure. He was, though, aware that he was getting more and more lost in Rose's gleaming eyes, her lopsided smile and the way she moved her hands while talking, like she was making punctuation visible in the air.

He heard the shot before he saw it.

And when he saw it it was already too late.

Rose slided into his arms, and it was only thank to his reflex that he managed to catch her. In split sencond her shirt was turning red, blood soaking through thin fabric, and she didn't even cry, to surprised by the shot to utter a single sound.

He remembered holding her in her arms and talking to her.

He didn't remember calling an ambulance.

He remembered her face, so tiny and place with dark, almost black circles around her eyes.

He didn't remember waiting by hospital bed.

He remembered her hand twitching in his.

He didn't remember Lestrade telling him they got the killer, wife's twin, and she was the one to shot.

He remembered Rose finally opening her eyes.

And nothing else really mattered, anyway.

Chapter Text

 First week after coming home from hospital was for Rose a incoherent blur, all days clouded and obscure, feeling like one never-ending day. She slept. She took her pills. She ate when was made to. She was vaguely aware her sister was there and was taking care of her, and was grateful cause she had this deep feeling she must've looked like a total disaster. Not that she was vain or something and didn't want Sherlock to see her, but really she was rather vain and didn't want Sherlock to see her. But as a week passed and she was feeling a bit more alive, her sister left, and it made her face all the problems herself.

She would never suppose that, knowing how he is, but to her surprise Sherlock behaved almost perfectly. He didn't leave her even for a moment, sitting on the bed near her with his laptop and books, muttering to himself or lost in his mind palace. Every time she woke up he kissed her gently. He even made tea sometimes.

When her sister left – leaving him a warning that if he doesn't take good care of her sister she would kill him with cruelty and with a blunt knife – and Rose was able to walk and take care of herself, though still had her arm immobile, he still was near her almost all the time. There was a case, but, to Rose's huge astonishment, Sherlock didn't left to see crime scene, telling Lestrade to send him pictures.

It was getting dark, sun slowly setting, as they were lying in bed, Rose, wearing only her lingerie, curled on one side and Sherlock using expanse her pale skin as a whiteboard, writing notes and diagrams all over her. She didn't mind, really. She was listening to music playing softly and looking at her detective, as he was lost in his thoughts, with his brow furrowed and hair messy from make out session they indulged in earlier this day.

He suddenly stopped writing in the middle of her thigh, and pulled her closer carefully.

“What's wrong?” She yawned.

“I missed you.”

“I am right here, love.” Rose smiled lazily. “It's you who were away.”

“How are you feeling?” He kissed her arm, white and covered in freckles.

It was still surprising her, how caring Sherlock could be when they were alone, how different he was from this harsh, cold man she once thought she knew.

“Okay.” She smiled gently. “Just, you know, now I know how chalkboards feel.”

Sherlock looked at her with kind of uncertainty in his eyes, and she couldn't help, but kiss him to erase the sadness.

“And how do chalkboards feel?” He asked, when they broke the kiss in the need for air.

“This one is definitely in love.” Rose stroked his curls playfully with his good hand. “Also is kind of tired with doing everything with just one hand.”

“You just have been shot.” He said, his brow furrowed, looking her deeply in the eyes. “You need rest.”

“I am resting, love.” She kissed him delicately. “I'm doing nothing but sleeping. How's the case?”

“Tedious.” He sighed. “And easy.”

“Maybe you should stop saying no to clients.” Rose smiled. “You're bored. And I can manage on my own. I really can. Or I can always call Julie to come and help me. She won't admit it but she was delighted while she was there. She misses the times when I was under her control.”

“I won't leave you here alone.” He seemed hurt, and Rose realized that it wasn't only the issue of her managing on her own, but much, much more. “You were dead Rose. For three minutes. Your heart stopped beating.”

She moved carefully, and straddled his hips, looking him deeply into the eyes.

“I am alive. Very much alive as you see, and I'm not in any meaning going to die soon.” She stroked Sherlock's cheek. “You need to carry on with your life or you'll go insane. Even more than you're now.”

“They didn't let me in.” He looked away. “They didn't let me see you until you were moved, two days later. Two days, Rose. They said I'm not a member of a family.”

“You were there when I woke up though.”

“You were in drug induced coma for two days.” His gaze was absent. “What if...”

“There are no 'what ifs'” She interrupted firmly. “I woke up. You were there. Everything's fine.”

“Marry me.” He said suddenly.

Rose's eyes went wide. “What?”

“You heard me.” He was pale, paler than usual, evening light casting shadows under his eyes. “Marry me, Rose.”

“You mean it.” She said in bewilderment. “You really mean it. It's not another experiment or...”

“No. I mean it.”

“Yes.” She said simply. “Do you even have to ask? You should've deduced my answer.” She laughed lightly, feeling dizzy from happiness, from amazement, from love.

“Feelings are such a vague and unstable matter.” He said. “I needed confirmation to my theories.”

“Here's your confirmation.”

And she kissed him over and over again.

Chapter Text

The next couple of months were filled with pure insanity. Both Rose and Sherlock had later said that if they knew what was going to happen, they would have never told anyone and had quiet secret wedding. But damage done can't be undone, and so they were to face bunch of overexcited family members led by Rose's sister Julie. She insisted that it was necessary that both Rose's father and mother were to be invited and though they hadn't even spoken to her since she'd runaway from home the last time, Julie was relentless, and so was she about inviting both Sherlock's parents and Mycroft.

She'd planned a huge wedding, and also organised a honeymoon for them, deaf for their oppositions and once again very happy to be in charge of Rose's life.

“I am going to kill her.” Complained Rose one day, curled into a ball on the bed, staring at the screen of her nokia lumia with true horror. On the screen there was a picture of a wedding dress full of lace and ribbons, in a light pink shade.

“Does she really think I am going to wear this monstrosity?”

Sherlock peered over her arm. “I would you rather not.” He stated.

“I would rather not myself too, believe me.” She tapped a vicious response and threw her phone away. “It's easier for you.”

“I doubt it.” Sherlock raised his eyes from the textbook he was reading. “Mycroft is going to make it as hellish as he can for me. He wouldn't deny himself the pleasure.”

“We could escape.” She said, her tone full of hope.

“Mycroft would hijack the plane.” Sherlock's tone was dead serious.

“Oh.” She stuffed her head into the pillow and murmured something incoherent.

“We can always cancel this.” Sherlock said slowly, trying to hide the hurt from his voice.

Rose jolted upright from lying flat to a sitting position in one fast movement.

“No. No no no no no no no. We're not cancelling anything.” She ran her hand through Sherlock's locks, a little bit stiffly since it was her bad arm. “We're just going to go through this and carry on our way for the rest of our lives.”

He kissed her gently, tension disappearing from his face. “I like that idea.”

“Me too.” She smiled, kissing him back.

In the end, Rose said her vows in a simple white dress and lacy veil that covered her face enough that she could pretend she didn't cry. She shared with Sherlock their first kiss as a married couple in front of their families and friends and danced with him to the sound of music played gently by Julie on the piano. And then they left on their honeymoon because no one, not even the combined forces of Mycroft and Julie could make them spend the whole night with people.

They spent two weeks away from London, which proved to be too much, and arrived home almost ecstatic that they were back. Fortunately there was case waiting for them, because both Rose and Sherlock were half-dead from boredom.

The next week passed almost unnoticed as they were immersed in the case, following suspects all over the city streets, irritating Lestrade, and generally having fun. It was only as the case was solved – the woman's lover proved to be both the murderer and jewel thief – and they came home, the world submerged in the delicate light of the dawning sun, when they crashed into the bed and fell asleep for what turned out to be twelve hours.

Rose woke up first, and lay silently, watching Sherlock breathing calmly, deep in his sleep. He had one hand wrapped possessively over her waist and their legs were tangled and Rose felt like she might cry from pure happiness.

Sherlock stirred, and opened his eyes, smiling to her half asleep.

“Hello, husband.” She giggled, tangling her hand in his hair. She had developed a kind of obsession over his hair recently, but really, have you seen this man's hair? It just asked to be touched.

He laughed, his voice a low rumble. “Hello, wife.”

They looked at each other, grinning, and kissed, slowly and lazily, tongues tangling, with no rush and no expectations.

And everything. Was. Perfect.

Chapter Text

A year of their marriage passed so fast they could swear it was only a couple of hours, they fit so perfectly together. Of course they argued – almost all the time and over literally everything, both having such strong personalities, but not only did they make up quickly, but they also sometimes found out that they shared the same opinion over the topic at hand. They lived in what could only been described as perfect bliss, time filled with solving cases and walking London's streets.

One evening, at the beginning of spring, with rain falling gently outside in what reminded them of a silent song, they lay together on the bed, both immersed in reading, when the question had first been asked.

Sherlock stretched luxoriously over the bed, his head falling over the edge of the matress and his locks in a perfect mess covering his face – he kept them a bit longer these days, because Rose was fixated over his hair – and asked, his tone genuinely curious “What do you think about children?”.

Rose, stretched in a matching pose on her side of the bed, ran her hand over her own, now short hair and murmured something incoherently, which turned out to be “Why?”

“Just.” He shrugged. “Curious.”

“Aw, we should have one, I guess.” She stated casually. “Always wanted a little girl. You'd be perfectly ridicoulous as a father, just as I'll be as a mother.”

“So you think we should have a child.”

“Yes.” She just said.

“Now?”

“Preferably, yes.” She shrugged. “What is there to wait for? You asked, so I suppose you have all the research done and it's not just a casual question? Never underestimate how well I know you, love.”

Sherlock rolled over and kissed her.

Next time the question was asked was a week later.

Rose had just gotten out of the shower, toweling her hair dry, and dressed only in Sherlock's robe, and when she leaned down to kiss him, Sherlock pulled her down, so she landed on his lap. They kissed for a while, until the need for air made them part.

“So. A child, huh?” She asked. “Are we going to adopt her? Or him?”

“Our mixed genes would evidently result in an extraordinary child.” Sherlock eyed her, as she squirmed on his lap, trying to sit more comfortably. “But I'd rather stick to adoption, yes.

“Are we going to pretend that we are both unaware that having a child on our own requires having sex?” She pulled on one of his curls.

“Well, we could...”

“No, we most certainly couldn't .” She interrupted. “We can't afford it. And I'd rather not have your brother involved in the whole affair.”

“Valid point.” He sighed.

“You know...” Rose bit on her lower lip. “I would...I want the child to have our genes too. Maybe we could try? I mean...”

“Rose.” His tone was serious. “Are you sure about this?”

“No.” She admited. “But we love each other. It can't be that hard.”

“You've had previous relationships.” He stated. “You know as well as I do, that it can be exactly that hard.”

“I've only been with women before.” She said, looking at the floor. “Men scare me.”

“I don't scare you.” Sherlock said gently.

“No. But you're... You are the exception to every rule.”

“Well, I've never been with anyone before, Rose.” He shrugged. “And as I truly love you and you are the most wonderful wife I am in no way sexually attracted to you.”

“I know.” She mumbled. “I am not attracted to you either. And I love you, I do. It's just... You said to me once that sex doesn't alarm you, right? So you're not...repelled, right? So we could just...”

“But you are .” He looked into her eyes intently. “No sacrifices, okay? You've already had too many of them.”

She nodded, giving him a small smile.

“Adoption it is then.” He hugged her.

She nodded, and they kissed, and as they got more and more immersed into the kiss, they ended up leaving all the tasks at hand and just lying there together, happy as they were.

Chapter Text

Little Laura joined the family on the beginning of hot summer. She was tiny, has mop of thinck dark curls and huge eyes in the colour of the night sky. She was also three weeks old, she cried a lot even for a newborn and Sherlock realized that his uneven sleeping pattern during his whole life was a mistake cause he should've slept while he could. So did Rose.

Laura was a wonder both of them barely believed yet. As they lay on the bed, with their baby sound asleep for a while between them, and they looked at her in awe, though their tiredness, they realized how important and full of meaning their decision was. They had a tiny, dependent on them, human being to take care of now. They had to shield her from the world who treated them so bad. They had to protect her from pain their own parent were unable to protect them from. They had to make sure she would never suffer as they suffered. That was their quiet, shared, unspoken agreement.

And as they lay on the bed and kissed gently they realized they finally found their place in the world.

World was everchanging, dangerous, huge. Universe was infinite and endless. Life was only a flicker in the darkness, meant to fade so quickly.

But nothing of this mattered cause they had each other and they had little Laura and it was perfect.

“Mummy!” The high pitched, belonging to three-and-a-half year old toddler voice broke through air to the place where Rose was sitting with her legs curled under her and talked quietly with Mary. They were sitting together in the 221b's main room, all four of them, watching Laura play with her toys and baby Audrey sleeping soundly in her mum's arms.

Or, at least sleeping until that very moment, cause Laura's voice reahed her, pulling her out of her safe sleep, what she immediately indictaed by crying loudly. Mary cuddled her in her arms, dissmissing Rose's apology.

“Mummy!” Laura yelled again. “Mummy, I'm bored!”

“Oh my god.” Mary laughed, watching tiny girl climbing up her mother's lap, her dark curls bouncing.

“I know, right?” Rose rolled her eyes. “She's so like Sherlock.”

“Mummy, can I?” Laura looked her deep in the eye, her voice pleading.

“Can you what, sweetie?” Rose asked, already knowing the answer.

“Can I go play with daddy?” She kissed her mum's nose, making both John and Mary laugh.

“Of course you can, sweetie.” Rose said, with a wink ment for Mary.

Laura bounced happily on Rose's lap and ran to where Sherlock was sitting over the kitchen table, muttering to himself, immersed in one of his experiments.

He blinked several times, startled, as Laura climbed on his lap and demanded he let her play with his lab equipment, but stood up, holding her, so tiny in his arms, and spinning her around.

Rose looked at her husband playing with their daughter and couldn't suppres the laugh.

Everything was perfect.