Failing Upward

Chapter 16 (part 1): Lovely, Dark and Deep

I raised my head as I heard a branch snap.

Sherlock and I were sprawled on top of an old rotting log by the pond we nearly always ended up at on our usual after-dinner walks. It's marshy with fuzzy cattails and lavender liatris invading the edges. Perfect and serene. We were far enough into the forest that usually the only sounds were bullfrogs and crickets.

I sat up and turned towards the noise and a doe bounced past us, white tail bobbing away into the brush.

Just a deer.

"I think we better get back," Sherlock whispered.

It was a week since Sherlock and I had gone into the garden together. Since then, I'd gone alone every morning. In the afternoons, I'd spend my time with Sherlock or at the piano in the family room downstairs, trying to compose. We'd take long walks in the woods, hold hands and listen to twigs snap beneath our feet and sit by the pond. We'd relax in the shade on a cold granite boulder and watch the shadows deepen, waiting for the sun to set over the hill and the first fireflies to dance.

Although on the outside Sherlock seemed better, he was reflective and subdued. Making love was quiet and slow. He insisted I go to work at the flower shop last week, but I wouldn't. I didn't want to leave him.

Mycroft had been by twice to check on us and fill us in on Moriarty.

I struggled to go to a few band practices, going through the motions. I played with the band on Friday and last night. Sherlock watched, sipping his Coke, chatting with Irene, Mary and Anderson, but he didn't grab me under the table once, and I even wore my black leather.

It was Sunday and still no sign of Moriarty. The man haunted me even as I slept. Mycroft's contacts at the Community told him he was still tucked away in Buenos Aires, but I still expected him to be around every corner, behind every tree. His memory was like a vulture picking at my brain.

I know the thought of him haunted Sherlock, too. I tried getting him to talk to me. I tried to pry open the door to his Mind Palace, but he kept himself locked inside. When he wasn't he was more confused than I was about why he felt so melancholy. Sherlock was locked up tight, and it frightened me.

Glenda said it happens this way when one becomes bound to the other, and one is mortal. The feeling smothers them.

I'd been downstairs, tinkering on the piano for about an hour. I'd played the same few bars over and over, inspiration and concentration both failing me. I stood up and slid the piano bench in, deciding to go upstairs to talk to Sherlock.

As I neared our room, I heard Sean and Sherlock. Instead of walking in, I stopped just outside the door.

"... as Deal is to me and always will be," Sherlock said quietly.

"He's a friend of your family. I understand that."

"No, you don't. He was more than a friend to me at one time. He was my lover. My first."

I felt like I'd been hit with a rock.

"Oh."

"I was young. It was one-sided. It's just, I wonder with John if this is a pattern."

I felt physically ill. Why hadn't he told me about Deal? Or how he was feeling about me?

"This is all a mess. And John blames himself for everything that's happened. He's the most honest and empathic man I know. He watches me like I'll disappear. When he goes down to the garden, I've asked to go with him, but he refuses. He's not my John. He's barely smiled or cracked a joke all week. Just sits at the piano and plays. He doesn't want to practice with the band! He quit going to the flower shop, and Mrs. Hudson is upset since he hasn't bothered to call her. That's not like him. At least you talked him into playing. It's been the only time I've seen him relaxed. He doesn't even relax when we make love."