Failing Upward

Chapter 4 (part 1): Hidden Hills

No liquor, no drug intoxicates the senses as does Sherlock's piercing focus on a client relating a narrative. To be that focus was to be a newly discovered treasure unearthed. As I explained all the events leading up to my accident in detail, Sherlock directed that same focus on me. It was unsettling, it was humbling. After I finished, Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and went into what he called his Mind Palace. For a man whose estimation rests on the scientific and analytic mind, I found this almost mystical part of him intriguing. He also looked incredible posed like that deep inside himself. He was a puzzle to me. An amazing man.

I leaned over. I thought of kissing him. I did.

But even in his Palace he knew why I leaned in and turned his head. He opened his eyes and looked into me. I knew I was about to be on the end of one of his deductions. I wasn't prepared, however, for how personal this would be.

"For years we've avoided this moment," Sherlock said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Now, it's here, and I don't want it. Do you know why? Not just because I promised I wouldn't get into your pants, or because you drank too one too many beers, or because you've just been through a traumatic week."

I leaned back into the couch, closing my eyes, chin down. "Alright, Mr. Investigative Reporter, tell me why else," I said. "Oh, wait, let me guess the real reason. It's because I'm needy. Or maybe I'm sexually confused."

"No," he said, his body falling back into the couch next to mine. The resignation in his voice and body perplexed me. "You're doing what you've always done. Avoiding. And what ever you're avoiding, it's big. You'd rather fuck me than have to admit it to yourself."

God, I felt afraid, then angry. He knew. Of course he knew.

"Oh, hell." I began to bang my head into the back of his couch. A tap at first. Each time after, harder than the last. Feel something. Feel something. I needed to feel. Finally, the wooden frame gave a satisfying crunch against the back of my skull.

"Enough," he said, pressing his hand firmly against my forehead and stopping me from damaging his furniture, or myself, further.

"You're avoiding again," he said. "Now, you're beating the hell out of yourself doing it. And you call me self-destructive. Next step. You'll get angry and vent. Most likely at me."

I opened my eyes, looking over at Sherlock. His long fingers slid down off my forehead to my jaw, loitering around before slipping away. I licked my top lip, then bit it, pushing back the anger that bubbled up to spite him.

"Tell me about before. The other fire," he said, his fingers left their ghostly impressions, a haunting reminder. "Tell what you've spent so many years trying to avoid telling me and telling yourself."

I faced my parents' death.

I faced my sister's death.

So what if I skipped out on grief counseling? Counselors were a waste of time and money. They just nodded and did nothing to change how you felt. So what if I ignored Father Thomas knocking at the door? All he ever did was spew back scriptures and platitudes. So what if I stayed home and refused to answer my text messages and cellphone? No one understands what it's like.

Like Sherlock did any better addressing his emotional problems? Coke, coke and maybe a bit of heroin on the side? Yeah, he did a lot better.

At least I kept this all to myself instead of screaming it out at the top of my lungs.

Tonight I made a mistake. I reached for Sherlock. Maybe not for the best of reasons.

I knew that. He was right. Like fucking always.