This is something I've been working on off and on for a while. I was going to put it up a while ago, but I decided to wait until after the third series aired so I could make any adjustments, which is what I was doing yesterday. I've got a few chapters done for this so I'll get them up, probably one a day while I work on the other stories. :)

Rose's character is a bit more mature, but still fun loving in this. Think end of series 4 with some adjustments for the few years since.

For more RoseLock stories check out TheWheelWeaves and TempestinTime for some brilliant RoseLock stories. :)

John stood up, taking the champagne from the waiter.

"Allow me," he said, tipping the man who took the hint and walked off.

He caught Mary's gaze, giving her a smile she returned. At that moment his pocket chimed, but he ignored it pouring her a glass. Another chime. He poured his glass. Another chime.

"Are you going to get that?" Mary asked.

He cleared his throat in irritation as he sat the champagne in the ice bucket, another chime, and reached into his pocket. He knew who it was, who it always was, but tonight wasn't about Sherlock and some stupid case. Tonight was his and Mary's first year anniversary and he refused to let it be ruined.

He set his phone to silent, stuffed it back in his pocket and then resumed his seat and lifted his glass, clearing his throat. She lifted hers.

"To my wife," he began. She smiled. "You are the most beautiful, wonderful, patient-"

"John! Mary! Thank god," Sherlock interrupted, walking over to their table.

The detective took an extra chair from another table and carried it over, seeming to have noticed there were only two chairs at John and Mary's table, which was for a reason. One he hadn't grasped.

John rolled his eyes and sighed, lowering his glass as he gave Mary an apologetic look.

Sherlock sat the chair down, flopped into it, and sighed.

"Sherlock," John said, trying to hold back his irritation as he tried to eye his friend, which was impossible as Sherlock's eyes roved around the room.

"Mm?" his friend asked.

"It's our one year anniversary."

"Technically, yesterday was your one year anniversary," Sherlock dismissed.

He glanced over the patrons. He needed a case, something, anything to occupy his mind. He'd sat at his flat for three hours before finally getting dressed and wondering the streets until he found his way to John and Mary's. They were out and for some reason John wouldn't answer his texts, but their lock was easy enough to pick, a quick rifle through a few drawers and he knew where they were, which had taken all of fifteen minutes. Then the trip here and now he was bored again.

"Yes, but we didn't get to celebrate yesterday on account of the body, remember?" John asked.

He ignored the irritation in his friend's voice.

"Mm," he said, focusing on…what?

What the hell was that? He scanned the room, looking for anyone else who had noticed what he had. No one. Not one other person glanced in that direction.

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?" John snapped.

"Who's that?" he asked, nodding toward the…whatever it was.

"Who?" his friend asked irritably, glancing in the direction Sherlock indicated. "The couple, the woman reading the book, or the old bloke near the window?"

"The other one."

"What other one?" John turned back to him. "If this is some kind of game I don't want any part in it. Can't you just-"

"Mary?" Sherlock asked, glancing at her.

She gave a look.

"I only see four people. Why? What do you see?" she asked, giving him a curious glance.

"I see…" Sherlock said, standing up and straightening his suit. "My date. Sorry, John, Mary, if you'll excuse me."

"Date?" John exclaimed as his friend walked off. He glanced at Mary for confirmation. "Did he just say date?"

"That's what I heard," she replied.

They both turned and watched Sherlock weave his way across the room to a table near one of the large windows overlooking the city. It was the table where the woman sat reading a book. She wore a long red, sleeveless dress powdered with white roses. Her hair hung a few inches down her back, wavy golden blonde. The top layer was pulled back and held in a clasp while the bottom layer was free to fall down her back and over her shoulders. John had no idea what Sherlock thought he was doing, but he couldn't wait to find out. He glanced at Mary and saw the same curiosity in her eyes.

Rose picked up her champagne and took a sip as she reread one of her favorite books. A collection of stories by Charles Dickens. She saved it for her yearly celebration. An anniversary of sorts, marking the day her life changed in the basement of Henrik's Department Store. It'd changed so much, much more than she could've imagined. She wasn't the nineteen year old shop girl and she wasn't the Doctor's Rose. She stopped being that person six years ago. Nor was she the human Doctor's Rose.

They had a relationship and it'd been great, brilliant…until it wasn't. They fell out, row's that could be heard half a block away. He wasn't like the Doctor, not exactly. There was a lot of Donna in him and she tried to love him for who he was, but he looked like the Doctor and after a while it became too much work for both of them. In the end they split, better friends than lovers.

She felt bad. He was her responsibility after all, but he met a woman. A parallel version of Sarah Jane. Rose was happy for them, even went to their wedding. Last she heard they moved to a little village called Leadworth, bought a cottage. Sometimes he called and they'd talk about the old days, which really weren't his old days, but he remembered. Those calls were few and far between, growing scarcer as the years passed.

That's why she jumped at the chance to test the dimension cannon when they were working on the bridge. Of course she hadn't counted on the bridge collapsing, being stuck in a parallel universe alone. Well, not entirely alone. Her dad wouldn't let her jump on her own.

She glanced at Frank out of the corner of her eye, her dad's idea of a bodyguard, keeping her gaze seemingly affixed to the book in her hands. Frank wasn't really his name…his? She wasn't even sure about that, but he was wearing a suit, black with a red tie, same one he always wore. He couldn't speak, or at least if he could she'd never heard him, but he was telepathic, a bit telepathic. She could sense what he felt. Although most of the time he just felt…okay, was the best way to put it. Not happy, not sad, not upset…just okay.

He still seemed...okay so she returned her gaze to the page, taking another sip of champagne as she got to the part in A Christmas Carol about Jacob's ghost appearing in the knocker, which always reminded her of the look on Charles' face when the Gelth were circling the table during that séance and she couldn't help laughing and not the soft laughter that a restaurant this posh was used to, but the whole hearted, grab your stomach laugh that would always be an innate part of her. She nearly sloshed her champagne in the process, but managed to set it down before she caused any damage.

"May I join you?" a deep male voice asked, the speaker taking the empty seat without waiting for a reply.

She glanced up and was struck by the sight before her. Dark curls of hair, high cheek bones, slender, but well muscled. If the word beautiful could be used to describe a man then that word belonged to him. Years of traveling with the Doctor and then working for Torchwood wouldn't allow her to stop there though. He was posh, held himself straight, not erect, the difference told her he was arrogant, felt very highly about himself, Very Highly. The words capitalizing as she took in his suit, calculating gaze, and the way he held himself. TROUBLE. The entire word capitalizing, telling her that any association with this man was likely to change things. For the good or bad she couldn't say. It was too early to know. She could see a similar assessment of her going on behind his eyes and that's when she noticed the uniqueness of his eyes. Blue, electrifying like her first Doctor, but the pupils were surrounded in a starburst of yellow.

Sherlock crossed the room toward the creature…genetic experiment…alien. Wouldn't that be interesting? He didn't know what it was, the only thing he knew for sure was that there were only two people in the restaurant who could see it. Him being one and the woman sitting at the table nearest it being the other. He could see the slight tensing in her muscles as she glanced in the creature's direction. She wasn't afraid. She knew that it was there and what's more she knew what it was. A woman and an invisible creature, well, invisible to most. It was a case he couldn't pass up.

He looked her over as he crossed the room. Her movements, her clothing spoke of wealth and status. She was alone, but she didn't appear to be waiting for anyone. In fact she seemed to be avoiding everyone. The book told him that. Restaurants were for conversation not reading. The glass of champagne told him she was celebrating. Celebrating alone at a restaurant with a book. An anniversary perhaps? Dead husband? No, the only jewelry she wore was a single ring, but not worn on her ring finger and it was…plastic? Pink and blue.

At that moment she burst out laughing, euphoric laughter and it gave him pause. Not something someone of her wealth and status would partake in, especially in public. She appeared to be laughing at a passage she found particularly humorous. He glanced at the page as he drew up to her table. The title of the book appeared at the top. Collective Works of Charles Dickens.

"May I join you?" he asked, pulling out the empty chair and sitting down as he unbuttoned his jacket.

She glanced at him and he offered a smile she returned. She seemed taken with him, he'd seen that look before, and then she did something completely unexpected and highly interesting. She observed him. He watched the calculations flicker behind her eyes, the deductions, as she gazed over him. His smile widened as he ran his own assessment.

Blonde hair a few shades lighter than her original, high end salon. Clothes, shoes, make-up…posh. Mannerisms suggested higher social status, but there were flaws, very slight and probably wouldn't be picked up by anyone else, but to him they suggested she hadn't always held the status. Slight scar under her right eye, faint scars on her arms, not many, but a few, suggestive of defensive wounds. Soldier's wounds. All of them at least six months old. Suggesting she'd received some sort of military training, but she hadn't seen combat for a few months. Intelligent. Obvious from her reading material and ability to observe. She was alone. No family, friends, lovers. SECRETS. The entire word capitalizing to indicate a large quantity. Traveler. The word capitalizing to indicate a great distance and a great many places. Everything pointed to one conclusion. Undercover secret service, even without the creature in the room, which must be some government experiment. Something along the lines of Baskerville.

Satisfied in his deduction he returned his gaze to hers and found her looking into his eyes. Their gazes locked and for a moment time seemed to stop. The restaurant, the people, even the creature vanished.

"Can I get you anything?" a waiter asked, breaking the spell.

He blinked as his mind tried to work out what the hell just happened.

Oh bollocks, Rose thought as she blinked, coming out of…what the hell ever that was. This was bad, really extremely not good her mind continued, throwing off her carefully crafted pretenses. The ones that took six month of training to create. TROUBLE. Her mind reminded her. Don't rub it in, she thought.

"No, thank you, I was on my way out," she said, hurrying to her feet as she snatched her pocketbook off the table.

The man who invited himself to her table stood, in that polite response sort of way, but she kept her gaze purposely averted. Her mind was still busy trying to work out exactly how he managed to hold her gaze like that. She opened her pocketbook and fished out her card, but the moment she retrieved it the man had his out.

"Allow me," he offered. "Unless your friend's paying."

Wait. What? She froze, just for a moment before recovering.

"Friend?" she asked, as if she hadn't the faintest idea what he was referring to.

"Your friend," he repeated, his eyes traveling directly to Frank.

He could see Frank, but he shouldn't be able to, not with the perception filter. TROUBLE. Bollocks!

"I can pay my own way," she replied, her speech pattern slipping a bit in her need to get the hell out of there and away from that bloke who was a truck full of trouble with an extra bag thrown on top.

He didn't know her name. All he had was a face. If she was careful. Got out of there quickly she could disappear and he'd never see her again. She handed over her credit card, but he took that moment to force his over and in the next moment both cards, the tray the waiter carried and the two menus fell to the floor.

"My apologies," the bloke said, bending down and helping the waiter. He stood up and handed her credit card over. "I'm sorry if I caused you any undue discomfort. That wasn't my intention."

"I appreciate your apology," she replied, falling back into her disguise.

"It was truly delightful to make your acquaintance," he said and then turned and walked across the restaurant toward the door.

She stood there for a moment watching him, trying to work out what just happened. The waiter took her card and when he returned she still hadn't figured out what happened.

"Thank you Mrs. Holmes," the waiter said.

"Sorry?" she asked, but he hurried off to a table, obviously without hearing her.

Mrs. Holmes? She glanced at the card in her hand.

"Oh bollocks!" she exclaimed.

Standard Disclaimer.

Thank you to all my brilliant readers!

Reviews are always welcome. :)