Failing Upward

Chapter 8 (part 1): In a Grain of Sand

The ride home gave me far too much time to think.

About Sherlock and Anderson.

About them. Together.

About what will finally happen when we get home. Will he back out? Can something big fit into such as small hole? Gravel crunching under the tires of Anderson's Olds signaled we're home. The moment had arrived. The car backfired, punctuating the moment; Anderson babied the gas, keeping the old heap from stalling.

"Night you two," Mary giggled.

I nodded and got out Sherlock's side of the car. Fifty feet feels like five miles when you're a horny bastard--that front door never seemed that far away before. Then the stairs--holy mother of god. And tonight of all nights, Mrs. Hudson became the Guardian of the Universe.

She'd already had a few of her "soothers," or as other people call them, "martinis." She greeted us with a tray of warm chocolate chip cookies and a sly, tipsy smile.

"There you boys are! Don't you both look handsome," she said, assessing us both up and down. "And...well, I worried a bit since you were going to see that man, but you're home safe, and you've had a very good time. " Sherlock actually blushed as he drew his coat around himself.

"Yes, it was entertaining," I said, relieving her of the cookies. Sherlock swiped one off the tray and began to nibble it.

"I'll let you boys have some privacy," she winked.

The hallway echoed as she shut her door, and he stood next to me, bumping his hip against my side and grinning, a dab of chocolate on his bottom lip.

"Let's take this to the bedroom," he said, racing ahead of me up the stairs. We slipped through the door, and he locked it with a click behind us. Sherlock's shirt was still half unbuttoned and untucked and his hair a mass of unruly curls, both heated reminders of what happened in the back seat less than ten minutes ago. I was worthless at playing calm and collected following him into the bedroom. Sherlock always, always, always knew me. At least Sherlock was just as nervous. Although he was the better actor, he couldn't hide from me tonight. He seemed to calmly walk to the bed to sit down, but his shaking hand patting the covers and the tiniest tremor of his lips, gave him away.

I waited while he stilled his hands in his lap.

Closing my eyes brought ghostly visions of Anderson and Sherlock together. We had to talk. Ignoring it wasn't a healthy option. Getting enraged wasn't either. After all we'd been through, this wasn't a Mount Everest. More like a slope at the local ski resort, Bittersweet, but it still looked like a long way down from the top.

I'm sure he was hoping to avoid this. I don't know as he wanted sing to me "the Ballad of Anderson and Sherlock," and tonight his voice wouldn't carry him. He composed himself as best as possible--opened his mouth several times, but nothing came out. The more he delayed, the angrier I got.

Sherlock flinched as I cracked my knuckles and jutted my chin out. He sat entirely on the bed, his long legs curled defensively under him, those bare feet bobbing nervously despite being pinned beneath him.

Turned toward him, my legs still dangling off the bed. "Alright," I burst out, "why did you sleep with Anderson?" I hadn't meant for my words to come out with such contempt.

This time when he opened his mouth, he spoke, and his legs twisted like a pretzel beneath him.

"It happened a few months ago after the Battle of the Bands," he began slowly. "After we closed the bar, the band and few other people muscled their way into 221B. Anderson volunteered my apartment without asking me. You know I don't like company, but..."