Failing Upward

Chapter 12 (part 1): Sweet Dreams

His hand jerked, the back of it resting on his brow. I imagined, from that shadow of a frown, last night's overindulgence haunted him a bit. But as I lay in bed watching, his dark eyelashes fluttering as he slept, nothing I could recall was as beautiful.

He moaned in his sleep, brows furrowing. I was tempted to reach out and touch him or run my tongue down his bare chest. But if I did that, I'd spoil the perfect magic of his naked form sprawled enticingly next to me. According to the digital clock, I'd been admiring him for a good sixty-eight minutes.

I loved the way his nose twitched while dreaming, and I hoped his dreams were of me.

God, he loves me .

And the band was incredible last night. When I think about how incredible Sherlock was, well, I licked my bottom lip and thought of ten more ways I could show him how much I loved him.

Then his eyes fluttered again, only this time they blinked open.

"Good Morning, man I love..." I whispered and gave him a kiss.

"Mmm, so that really did happen last night," he said, carefully adjusting the pillow under his head.

"Yes, really. How are you feeling?"

"Not bad, surprisingly. But I haven't moved much yet. That might change."

I raised up on my elbow and leaned into him. "Would another kiss hurt or help?"

"Help, I'm sure."

Oh, yes. That nice long, leisurely morning kiss multiplied and extended on to his neck, dipped down to his shoulder, then started all over again and lingered on his perfect mouth.

"Nice," he yawned, mussing my hair. "At this rate we'll never leave here. Stay in bed all day."

"Sounds good."

"And talk."

Why did Sherlock always have to spoil things? Talk, talk, talk. The man was Hamlet. At least he didn't usually harp about feelings, thank God, but the man could yammer on about maggots and rotting flesh and bees until the river of today merged into the river of forever. Not that I didn't want to tell him ten ways I loved him— it was just that I prefer action and had ten ways I'd love to show him already planned.

"I'm sorry," he said."I thought I should start with sorry. I didn't mean to be so... jealous ."

Well, so much for not sharing feelings. Now I had to reciprocate. "Don't apologize, since the result was best sex I've ever had! I'm the one that should apologize. I was afraid to say I love you. Then the way I, um, acted with Sean last night. Sometimes I get carried away on stage and go a bit overboard. You've always been so comfortable with yourself. Me, I feel odd or queer — er, maybe that's not the word to use, but with everything else that's going on now. I just didn't think."

"We've avoided talking about our friendship and our feelings. I hoped...but...you've had a lot to deal with without me pressuring you. Moran, Moriarty and the garden stirred up this urgency between us. John, you must know that I will never be sorry for what's happened but..."

What was that? Sherlock's insecurity about our relationship? Or a premonition? Both possibilities twisted inside me.

"Sherlock, what's between us isn't some phase. But I'm sorry I got you into the rest of this insanity."

He laughed so hard he started to choke. "John," he said finally catching his breath, "I think we both better quit with the sorrys. If I had to say I was sorry for all the tight situations I got you into, we'd never leave this bed!"