Failing Upward

Chapter 13 (part 1): The Community

Real life masquerading as a dream, that's what it was. Or maybe the other way around.

I stepped behind Sean, struck by this great circular foyer that was so different from the back entrance of the house. This was no simple Michigan farm house. I wondered who built it and when. Four long windows on the concave wall cast long, dense light beams, intersecting at the bottom step of this grand staircase. Its dark banisters began at the bottom floor and spiraled up toward where Sean pointed.

Toby jumped up on Sean. He licked his hand, then Sean laughed and scratched him behind his ears.

"I'll take you up to your room. I imagine Sherlock's there. If you'd like, I can take Toby out for a walk. It would give you and Sherlock some time to talk."

As I walked up to the bottom of the staircase, my eyes strained to make out the finials. Not until I was close enough to actually touch them did I recognize the carvings' pattern, obscured by layers of varnish. My fingertips ran along the fluid grooves and ridges of the banisters, feeling the shapes and textures.

Leaves. Stems. Thorns.

Roses sculpted in cool wood with finely hewn ridges, the petals and vines winding up the railing. The spindles were carved vines, winding around and down, each spindle unique.

The massive staircase wound gracefully in a wide semicircle. A runner covered the center of the staircase with a surreal kaleidoscope of patterns. At my feet, the worn carpet of scarlet, indigo, flecks of burgundy with flowing lines of gold and black. The rug groaned with every step, as alive as the roses in the garden.

At the top, the mahogany railing splayed open, facing north and the opposite direction of where we began at the bottom of the staircase. Two steps from the top, I wondered which of the doors he was behind.

A heavy mahogany door with brass knob and keyhole guarded the top like a sentry. Passing the other, lesser doors,we followed the curve around the open stairwell until we'd come full circle. Each door stood like a dutiful soldier, shut tight guarding its post. We turned right and around, following the same colorful runner covering the hardwood floors like some magic carpet. On the opposite side from the door at the top was another door, a mirror image of the sentry, slightly ajar.

Not until that moment did I realize how anxious I was to be near Sherlock, to see his smile and hear his deep voice. I needed familiar.

Toby found him. He scratched on the door and it opened. Toby barked and ran over to the six-sided floor-to-ceiling window frame. With another bark, he jumped onto the inset bench and curled up on the faded teal cushions.

There was Sherlock and everything from my dream— that frayed rug on the floor, the same mystical pattern on the stairs—all had come to life. Filtered light from the oriel window made lacy patterns across the hardwood floors and stretched to where Sherlock knelt in front of an old maple dresser, putting away our clothes. He glowed.

Light played off his curls as he raised his head. He smoothed out the top shirt and giving it one last pat, stood up with a worried smile. He walked over and sat down on a large four-poster bed. I was happy, so happy to be near him.

My dreams about him in the garden returned: that same bed and Sherlock. He pulled me down on that same quilt. Those big hands that the light gently caressed also caressed me. That soft bed. His firm grasp.

It was all happening like my dream: All Sherlock needed to do to make it come true was kiss me.

He did. In seconds the heat spreading in our veins like those vines in the garden. Sean still stood at the door, and I couldn't give a fuck.