Failing Upward

Chapter 22 (part 1): Mona Lisa

"Harry's alive," I murmured, flinging my body back onto our bed. "I did it. I changed time."

"Lower your voice," Sherlock said. "There are no coincidences. You wished it, and it happened. The sand burning. Don't you remember? A reaction. You wished that Moriarty had never found your family. I do believe you made that wish reality."

The room was dark; I rolled over and turned on the brass table lamp next to the bed. I sat up, feeling as stiff and old as the knotty pine headboard my back pressed against.

"Yeah, not my exact words," I said, stretching. "But close."

"I had similar thoughts. It's possible that this temporal relativity, this movement in time or space or whatever it was, has had other consequences."

I reached my hand in the side pocket of my swim trunks, and there was nothing in it. No lube, no smooth blue glass.

"John, there are far too many variables. We were together, the sand, the serum, the time of day. Too many."

"The sex." I should have known. Fuck. Of course. Sean said sex was the point. He was right.

Sherlock leaned his shoulder into the headboard, facing me. For long moments, neither of us spoke. We just looked at each other, numb and dumbfounded. Suddenly he grabbed both my hands, squeezing them so damn hard, I thought he'd break my fingers. His jaw clenched, and he opened his mouth to speak, biting back the words until he could hold it inside no longer.

"We must return," he said with an intensity only Sherlock could muster. "But how?"

I was missing something important. I needed time to think this through. We don't even know exactly what's happened or changed. I was having problems thinking clearly. Past and present were confused in my head. What time was I in? I didn't know if I should or even wanted to change it back.

"It's not right," Sherlock continued. "This isn't right. I'm not right."

What didn't I see? "Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

"I'm not injured. John, you've changed time. Something in me has changed. I feel it."

I stared at him. He looked fine to me, but if he was experiencing the same disjointed reasoning and trouble forming cohesive thoughts as I was, a shock to his intellect would terrify him.

"Yeah, I feel it too. I don't like it. And this whole business, changing time. It's god- like. You know, 'Hey, I'm Zeus the omnipotent from Mount Olympus, watch me wave my hand and snuff out the lives of these pathetic mortals.' Look at me. I'm in swim trunks, I'm the antithesis of god-like! You look more the part. You'd look much better throwing thunderbolts than me."

I wasn't sure how to explain. I didn't want to go back to where we were because that meant going back to Moriarty. Sherlock had to understand. I twisted my hands from his and grabbed his shoulders.

"Think of it. What if you could bring back someone you loved? And you did it? Not intentionally; it just happened. Could you wish them into oblivion?"

He nodded. "I understand that," he said slowly, "but what if you're not wishing them into oblivion? What if you're wishing them out of a better place?"

"I can't believe you'd suggest that! Like Mount Olympus? Heaven?" I removed my hands from his shoulders and stared down at my open palms. What we'd done wasn't a conscious choice, but anything we did from this point on would be. "What about my parents? If Harry's alive..."

"It's also possible you haven't changed a thing. This could be a parallel universe. That would also explain the dissonance that we both feel. I will drop this for now, John, since you look as if you are ready to collapse. My cognitive faculties seem to be returning, but I believe I require rest also."