The Flower Seller ( WAYHAUGHT)

Chapter 24

Alice looked adorable as she slept peacefully. Nicole stood mesmerised over the tiny bundle in her tiny bed, watching as her chest rose and fell, the most angelic face lost in whatever dream world little kids go to in their sleep. Waverly entered the bedroom, closing the door. "Wynonna's asleep."

"How's Sherlock?"

"In your study," she replied, her voice trailing off.

"He should be resting."

"He intends to return to Baker Street tomorrow morning."

"Why? He's in no condition to care for himself."

"I tried to explain."

"I will speak to him."

Waverly shook her head. "He believes he has let us down."

Nicole didn't reply. How could she when she knew Sherlock was right. He had let them down. Whatever took him to Reordan's laboratory was the reason Alice was without her mother on that night, a situation that so easily could have been forever.

Waverly checked on Alice, rearranging her blanket in the way the infant liked, leaning over to place a kiss on her forehead. "I can sleep in your room tonight," Nicole offered. "You stay here."

Waverly didn't hear her. "I should have gone."

"No one should have gone."

"What if I lost her too?" Waverly said, emotion breaking through. "What if..."

"She's alive. Waverly, she's alive. It will be alright."

"She's all the family I have."

The words cut deep. "We will protect her," was all Nicole could say.

"This is so exhausting. I feel as if I'm carrying this whole family."

"My love," Nicole replied. "You have me now. I carry this with you."

Waverly remained where she was, without acknowledging Nicole's words. It took Nicole no more than a few seconds to accept tonight would not be the night they slept together. Given all the chaos of the evening, given Waverly's comments, given she was once again unsure where she fitted in.

Waverly's bedroom was meticulously tidy, even her brush and comb were lined up with precision on the dressing table. Nicole reached for a bottle of perfume, removing the glass stopper to take in the scent. As it filled her nostrils her thoughts were flooded with Waverly, how their encounter in the train carriage after many years apart started with that scent. Unique, floral, utterly her, a sophisticated signature.

She went to replace the stopper, her ability to find the top made more difficult by the lack of light, no more than the flicker of the one candle in the room. Her other hand reached out to hold the bottle steady to be able to guide the stopper. In doing so she knocked it over, sending the contents splashing over the top of the table. "No, no, no," she said, as she righted the bottle, holding it, replacing the stopper. All she could find was a cloth folded neatly by the side of the wash basin.

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Lord Rotherham rested his upper body against the back of his copper bath. The warm water soothed his aching bones, his advanced years telling him he should be thinking about retiring soon, retreating to his country estate to enjoy the twilight of his life. He had had high hopes for his bastard son, Lord Blackwood. Not anymore. That son was dead to him now, his miraculous resurrection confirming his worst fears. Blackwood was out of control. As a man intrigued by magic, Rotherham in many ways indulged his son, saw himself in him until he realised his son's ambitions far surpassed his own.