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John observed Sherlock as he sipped his morning cup of coffee. If he didn’t know any better, John would say that Sherlock was on a case. He was awake at a normal hour, he was dressed, showered and shaved, he had not yet descended into the twitchy nervousness that exemplified his boredom though it had been three weeks since the Baskerville case had closed, and he was working on the computer. His own computer, John observed with some surprise.
While John was not sorry that Sherlock’s manic (and slightly destructive) tendencies were curbed for now, he was slightly put out that Sherlock had not shared the case with him. John knew that Sherlock occasionally worked independently- disappearing for weeks at a time and reappearing with stiffness in his muscles and injuries that he would not let John examine- but if he was still in London John would have expected Sherlock to have at least mentioned what he was on about.
John sighed and glanced at his watch. He needed to get to the surgery. The mystery of his roommate’s peculiar normality would have to wait until after his shift. John went to put on his coat and get his bag from his room. He returned to the sitting room and gave Sherlock a rundown of his day, including his intention to be away for dinner- one of his coworkers had set him up on a blind date that evening. John could tell that Sherlock wasn’t taking in a single word he said, but it gave him a smugly righteous feeling to tell him anyway. As he was finishing, he heard a knock on the door of 221, and Mrs. Hudson calling that she would get it.
“All right then, Sherlock, I’m off. Don’t wait up, and do eat something today, won’t you?”
John received precisely the response that he had expected- none- and closed the sitting room door behind him as he descended the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was opening the door to the visitor as John arrived. The two of them were greeted by the vision of a pretty young woman dressed in faded jeans, a bright pink t-shirt, and a blue leather jacket. Her bright, blonde hair was French braided down her back and she had a cheerful smile on her slightly over-generous lips.
“Good morning, Doctor!” she said, with a bright grin and a wiggle of her fingers at him.
~?~?~?~?~
Rose’s morning had begun as it typically did. She woke with her alarm, showered quickly, dressed in her Torchwood ‘uniform’ of black cargo-style trousers, a black top, and her special-issue boots (it was amazing how much of R&D had been dedicated to the creation of those boots- they were as waterproof as leather, as strong as steel, as comfortable as slippers, light enough to run in, and were 100% vegan at the request of one of the receptionists).
Rose had made herself a cup of tea and picked up her phone to go through her e-mails. As she read Mickey’s overview of a call they’d gone on the previous week an alarm went off on her phone. It was not an alarm that Rose took lightly- someone had tried to access classified information in Torchwood that specifically concerned her and her past.
As soon as Rose had turned off the alarm, her phone rang and her stepfather’s picture came up on the display.
“I got the alarm, Dad. Can you tell who it is?”
“They have highest clearance available outside of Torchwood. You’ve interested someone serious, Rose. What have you done?”
“I told you to expect something like this. It’s taken longer than I anticipated, but I think I know what’s going on, or if not, I know who to ask. Give me 24 hours before you send the cavalry. I’m also going to need the day off.” She gave a false cough into the phone. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
“You’ve probably got more sick time accrued from the last five years than any five other employees together. You can have the week if you want.”
“I’d be sectioned before the second day off of work.”
“Fix this, Rose.”
“Yes, General.”
“Call me later, sweetheart? Your mum too.”
“Of course. Have you left the house yet? Give mum and Tony kisses for me.”
“Naturally. Good luck.”
“Love you.”
With that conversation completed, Rose looked down at herself. If she wasn’t going into work today, she was going to change into something with color- something comfortable. Then, she had an appointment at 221B Baker Street. Top government clearance meant Mycroft Holmes, which she suspected actually meant Sherlock Holmes. If it didn’t mean Sherlock, then she had a feeling that the detective was the only person who might be able to track down whoever it was. Visiting Sherlock Homes was logical and necessary. Doing so had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she’d been wanting to see him again ever since she’d returned from Devon.
She arrived at 221 as the streets were beginning to fill with office commuters. In her London, Baker Street had been a tourist destination for Americans and Canadians who wanted a taste of British Literature- like Paddington Station, and King’s Cross. The flat had been done up as a museum and gift shop.
The Doctor had once told her that, when it had been written, 221 hadn’t even been a house number on Baker Street but it had been created when Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories had gained popularity. In this universe, where Sherlock Holmes was a living man the famous address existed. Before she knocked, Rose ran her hand over the brass number plate of one of the most famous addresses in the English-speaking world (well, the English-speaking world that she was originally from, anyway).
The door was opened by a small, elderly lady and John Watson, Rose's friend. She grinned at him and wiggled her fingers in greeting.
“Good morning, Doctor!”
Rose then turned to the woman impersonating a fish standing next to him and extended a hand. “You must be Mrs. Hudson. I’ve heard wonderful things about you from John. You must be an absolute angel to put up with those two reprobates you call tenants. Is Sherlock in?”
“But you’re Rose Tyler!” Mrs. Hudson cried in absolute shock.
“Yup,” she said cheerfully, popping the ‘p’ as John had always known her to do, “and I haven’t been to the newsstand yet today, so if the tabloids have something new about me, I don’t know it. But I spent last night watching bad American television over Chinese take-away in my flat, so I can’t imagine what they could have said.”
“You’re Rose Tyler, and you know John?” The woman seemed fairly stuck on Rose’s identity.
Rose remained unfazed. “Yeah. John here gave me a ride when my car broke down in Devon a few weeks back. I took him to dinner to thank him afterward.”
John smiled- there was a lot more to that story than Rose was telling, but he supposed that Mrs. Hudson didn’t need to know the danger that he, Sherlock and Rose had gotten into. Rose had asked him to leave her and her partner Mickey out of the blog post when he got ‘round to writing it and he had agreed.
“But you’re looking for Sherlock! Oh dear, is there something wrong? Do you need Sherlock to solve something for you?” Mrs. Hudson was beginning to panic.
Rose raised her hand to the older woman. “No, I’m fine and so’s my family when I talked to them this morning. I’m about 80% certain that I’m here because Sherlock is a grade-A pillock and not nearly as clever as he thinks he is. Actually, I'm 100% sure that I'm here because Sherlock isn't as clever as he thinks he is, but that's another matter. Really, I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson.” She looked genuinely concerned for the frightened woman.
John smiled, “Sherlock’s up in the sitting room. I’ll take you up, you can come with us, Mrs. Hudson, if you’d like.”
“Oh, but weren’t you on your way out, John dear?”
Rose looked at him in surprise. “John, you’re probably on your way to work. Don’t let me hold you up! I’m honestly fine. I’m probably just going to have to slap some sense into Sherlock.”
“That,” John said with a smile, taking her arm and leading her up the stairs, “is precisely why I’m willing to be late for work.”
“You’re much nicer than the papers make you out to be. Cleverer too.” Mrs. Hudson seemed to have gotten over her worry for Rose Tyler and was now thoroughly enjoying getting to meet a celebrity.
“Thanks,” Rose said, somewhat distractedly, “the tabs don’t really make anyone look good. Glad to know I exceed expectations.”
John opened the sitting room door and led the ladies in. Sherlock was sitting precisely where he’d been left 10 minutes before, eyes on his computer, reading quickly. He did not look up at the interruption.
“Sherlock,” John announced, “you’ve a client.”
“Send them away, I’m busy.”
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson cried in shock and horror.
“I’m busy, Mrs. Hudson. Tell whoever it is to find their own pencil case, or keep a closer eye on their wife.”
“Sherlock, I really think that this is a client you’d like to speak to.”
“I’m already on a case, John, I neither need nor want another.”
“Actually,” Rose said, quietly, “I strongly suspect that the ‘case’ you’re currently on just entered your sitting room.”
Sherlock finally raised his eyes from his laptop screen and looked at the woman who stood before him.
“You know, if you wanted to get my attention, you could have just phoned- I know you have my number. No need to use your brother's name to hack into restricted files and force me to arrest you. A text message saying 'do you want to get a coffee' works just as well.”
Sherlock continued to stare at her without speaking.
“So, Sherlock Holmes, do you want to get a coffee, or would you rather I arrest you?”
~?~?~?~?~
John was at work, Mrs. Hudson was watching her television shows in her own flat, and Rose Tyler was humming and brewing tea in Sherlock's kitchen. He was still not entirely certain how that had happened.
Sherlock heard the refrigerator door open and braced himself for the inevitable question- why, Sherlock Holmes, is there what appears to be a human brain sitting in sections in the center of your refrigerator?- that never came.
“You ought to cover cadaver pieces in cling film if you're going to keep them in the refrigerator for any length of time, otherwise they'll make the milk taste off.”
She didn't even sound shocked.
She appeared a few moments later with two mugs of tea, and handed one to him.
“Good thing you're not keeping them on the counter though. Decaying brain looks like chocolate cake mix, and you wouldn't want someone to make that mistake. I've never been able to bake since I discovered that.”
“You tasted...”
“God no! I knew where I was and what I was looking at, but it's funny the things that run through your head at a time like that. John would know.”
Sherlock remembered, the day after they had met, John telling him that he didn't have to imagine what he would be thinking as he faced his own death.
“Yes, I suppose he would.” Sherlock sipped his tea- Rose Tyler made an excellent cuppa, even if he preferred coffee. “Why do you know what decaying brain looks like?”
“Classified.”
“Yes, much of your life is classified.”
“Suppose it would be.”
“The thing is that the only parts of your life that aren't are in the last five years. Everything from your birth until you were 22 is under governmental lock and key.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Why?”
“As you well know by now, even Mycroft doesn't have clearance to know that.” Her voice was surprisingly sad. Sherlock's eyes again found the ubiquitous silver chain with the unknown pendant that was always covered by her shirt.
“I didn't realize there was a security clearance higher than Mycroft's.”
“Learn something new every day, don't you?”
“Why has Mycroft himself not discovered that you have no past?”
“Probably because Mycroft has only ever seen a bubble-headed heiress with an IQ lower than her shoe size.”
“If it is your intention to maintain that persona where he is concerned, you will want to avoid further interaction with me,” Sherlock said, quite honestly. Mycroft watched him carefully and knew all of the people with whom he interacted. His brother probably already knew that Rose Tyler was in his flat alone with him. He was half surprised that he had not received a text asking about the young woman.
Sherlock could not fathom why the thought of never seeing her again made his stomach twist.
“Though the Brothers Holmes may suppose that the world revolves around them, that persona has nothing to do with Mycroft. He has only ever met me in public, surrounded by flashbulbs and gossipy social climbers. Your brother knowing that I am cleverer than the tabloids would imply does not frighten me.”
Sherlock could not quite keep the smile from his face at the knowledge that this small, young, lower-class woman would stand up before the most powerful man in the People's Republic and would not find herself wanting. He thought he would love to see that meeting, and only hoped that he would be there when it happened.
“Why though?” he asked, a question that had plagued him since he met her. “Why maintain a second persona? Particularly one as unflattering as the one you have created?”
“Because I have no past.”
“I don't follow.”
Rose smiled slightly sadly. “People are stupid, Sherlock. You know that better than most. If you park an anachronistic phone box on the corner of a London street, the entire city will walk by and no one will even see it. I've watched it happen. If a girl shows up in a public family when she is 22 years old, and she is exactly what someone would expect from the 22-year-old, bleach-blonde Vitex heiress, no one will ever question the fact that she did not exist a month before. If, however, that box makes a noise like the universe is opening a doorway, or that 22-year-old girl acts just a bit cleverer than everyone expects, suddenly they start to draw notice and someone will pick up that the blue box is impossible, and the girl never existed.”
“I don't understand. What do you mean 'never existed'?”
“Classified.”
“So how do I get it de-classified, or how do I get clearance to learn it?” Sherlock asked, becoming impatient.
Rose's eyes went cold. “Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock suppressed a twinge of disappointment that she had reverted to using his surname,.“If I told you what was in those files, you wouldn't believe me. The clearance for those files comes from only one authority in the entire world: me. Believe it or don't, it doesn't matter, but I am the highest authority in the People's Republic of Great Britain, and you are one of four people who knows that fact. If you can be trusted with that knowledge, you might, eventually, be trusted with the rest. However,” and her voice became even colder, her Brigadier Tyler voice, not her Rose voice, “you will have to prove yourself.”
Sherlock was very nearly speechless. He got out a single, strangled word: “how?”
Rose's voice warmed a few degrees. “You can start by not trying to hack into Torchwood again. You'll only be caught. Again.” She then allowed herself a smile at him. “And you can take me to lunch. I could murder some chips right now.”
“Lunch?” Sherlock asked, as though the concept were foreign to him.
“Yeah,” Rose said, “when's the last time you ate?”
Sherlock thought over the last few days and realize that he could not recall. “I was on a case,” he said, knowing the excuse would not hold considering the conversation the two of them had just had.
Rose rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and your 'case' just told you to take her to lunch, so come on.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him, bodily, from the sofa. She chivvied him into his coat and bullied him down the stairs and out his front door. Before he could shove his hands into his pockets, she grabbed one and held onto it.
Sherlock could not bring himself to let go.
~?~?~?~?~
A tabloid paper slapped onto Rose's desk on top of the report that she was reviewing a final time before signing. Her own figure, hand-in-hand with Sherlock Holmes was on the front page, and the heavily-leaded headline read Pinky and the Brain.
“Clever headline,” she said, opening to the indicated page to see several shots of her and Sherlock walking down Baker Street, and one or two taken with a long-lens through the window of the chippy that she'd dragged him into.
“'Swhy I bought that one,” Mickey admitted. “Most of the rest were rubbish.”
“They can't seem to decide which of us is slumming it more- me for shagging an internet pseudo-celebrity, or him for shagging a bimbo.”
“Rich bimbo, they keep mentioning that.”
“So is he only with me for my money?”
“Probably. Or possibly because you make him feel smart.”
“I probably ought to call him and find out if he's heard about any of this.”
“You have his number?”
“Of course. Got it yesterday.” Her grin was the one with her tongue caught in her teeth, the one that meant mischief. Mickey had known that grin all her life.
“So are you two actually together then?”
“Gods no, Mick. I told you last night what we talked about and what I said. Besides, as much as he's human, he's a lot like the Doctor. I think it'll take him awhile to come around to something that... ordinary.”
“Domestic?”
“That too, but I think he hates the thought of being ordinary.”
“You're the psychologist, babe. Check that he's all right though.”
Rose gave a fake salute. “Aye-aye, Major.”
Mickey chuckled and left her office as she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts.
~?~?~?~?~
John was dressing for work when he heard the front door open and Mrs. Hudson start shrieking for Sherlock. He stumbled out of his room, revolver in hand moments behind Sherlock stumbling out of his room in his dressing gown, his own revolver at the ready to discover what had so upset their landlady.
They burst into the sitting room where Mrs. Hudson was staring in horror at the front page of one of the more lurid papers in disbelief. She looked up and saw the two of them armed and looked suddenly even more shocked.
“Mrs. Hudson, what is the meaning of this screaming?” Sherlock snapped. John might have told him off for getting angry with their landlady, but his heart was pumping adrenaline through his system as well, and he could not quite suppress the irritation that he also felt at seeing her safe and un-molested.
“You're in the paper, Sherlock,” she said, tremulously, holding it out for his examination.
“I'm in the paper every other bloody week thanks to John's ridiculous blog,” Sherlock groused, ripping the paper out of Mrs. Hudson's hand to examine.
“Sherlock,” John reprimanded. Sherlock ignored him, so he turned to his landlady again. “Mrs. Hudson, please don't shout like that unless something is seriously wrong, you frightened both of us.”
Mrs. Hudson looked chastened and nodded. John moved over to Sherlock and looked at the front cover of the tabloid and was quite shocked to see a photograph of Sherlock and Rose, hand-in-hand on the street outside their flat.
“Pinky and the Brain?”
“American animated television show from the '90s, two laboratory rats, one with enhanced mental capacities, one with diminished-”
“Try to take over the world,” John quoted, remembering. “Harry used to love that show.”
“Dreadfully clever,” Sherlock said with venom in his voice as he read through the article. “They seem to think that Ms. Tyler and I are in a sexual relationship, and that she is with me for my dubious celebrity, and I with her either for her money or to boost my own ego by having someone nearby whose dimness enhances my brilliance by comparison.” His voice had grown more bitter with each word, and he was nearly spitting by the end of it.
“Are you angry about this, Sherlock?” John asked. He knew his friend's feelings about this type of celebrity were ambivalent at best, and irritated at worst, but he had never heard this kind of vitriol concerning his appearance in the papers.
“I hardly need Rose Tyler to make me look clever,” Sherlock spat. “Anyone could do that, and she’s much more clever than they give her credit for, probably the most interesting person I've met in years.”
John raised an eyebrow. Couched in the irritation was a large compliment for Ms. Tyler. Interesting.
Sherlock's mobile rang from the table. He strode over and snatched it up, glancing at the screen and lifting it to his ear.
“Miss Tyler.”
“Oh,” Rose said, surprised, “you've seen the paper. Was it John or Mrs. Hudson?”
“I don't see how you can deduce that from two words.”
“You were calling me 'Rose' at lunch yesterday. Today we appear to have returned to the formality of surnames. I'm sorry you got caught up in that, Mr. Holmes. I should have thought through it. I'm used to holding hands with my friends. It never occurred to me how embarrassing that would be for you. Most of my friends are used to speculation that they are in a relationship with me.”
“I am not embarrassed, I am angry.”
“Yes, I can tell. All I can tell you is that I'm sorry. It shan't happen again. Speculation should die down in the next week or so without anything else to fuel it.”
“Now that it has started, anything we do will fuel it.”
“Only if we’re seen together, that’s how the papers work. I shall stay away, have no fears, Mr. Holmes. Again, I do apologize for inconveniencing you. I should return to work. Give John my best. And Mrs. Hudson.” And with that she hung up.
“Rose! Wait,” Sherlock said, a moment too late to catch her before she rang off. “Damn,” he said, to no one in particular, and mostly to himself.
~?~?~?~?~
In an office building on the other side of town, Rose set her phone down and sighed heavily. So much for that hope.