Failing Upward

Chapter 23 (part 1): In My Life

We stood alone talking on the porch, the waves washing the shore as a backdrop, and at first I wondered why he was so bothered by me feeling him up in front of Sean and good ol' Smith.

I didn't think. At least I didn't think about how it would make Sherlock feel.

The hurt in his face cut me in two. "It took everything inside to pull away from you in there," he said.

Maybe the cause for my serious lapse in judgment was because I've never had to exercise self-control much, while Sherlock's struggle was never ending. Although Sherlock did have moments of spontaneity, he'd rather play life move by calculated move.

Thinking I could win playing a game with Fate was ludicrous. For me, changing time was like shooting craps. A random world where everything changed and nothing did. My family still suffered, Sherlock suffered, I suffered. Every time I rolled, Fate slapped my hand. My life had become just one helpless tumble after another. Sometimes I enjoyed some of the helpless tumbles, others left nasty scars. I learned young that when someone falls, the best thing to do was let go and roll with it. Why try to hold on if the end result was being bloody and bruised? But Sherlock? Most often he computed the precise place to hold on and grabbed it tight.

As he stared out at the lake, Sherlock sighed. He gripped the railing white-knuckled and held his coffee mug slack as if with one hand he was trying to wrestle the dice away from Old Man Fate and with the other he was caressing Fate's face.

My eyes fixed to the same point as Sherlock's and we watched as the dark flickering thunderheads boiled over the lake clashing against the bright sky. The wind caught and slapped the poplar leaves and white caps rolled in and broke on the sand. The storm would be here in an hour. The breeze off the lake had the electric taste of ozone, and I felt the charge seep into my lungs. Lingering in the unexpected high, I waited for Sherlock to speak.

"I don't know anymore how much is you," he said, "and how much is this new universe. You've always been harder to read than anyone I've ever known. That's always been part my attraction to you. You are a wonder, John Watson."

Part of me wanted to reach for him, but I knew he'd step back with his back stiffened if I did. He couldn't lose his self-control on the edge of a deduction. He was too close; I could feel his thoughts through my pores like the ions in the air. Even now, I wanted him, and I knew he felt the same about me but didn't recognize it. For someone who thought he could read every person he met, he struggled to know himself.

Only weeks before, I thought the same way he did and struggled with every idea. Now acceptance had become part of my life like breathing. This power inside me had become something I couldn't live without but could calibrate. Hadn't Sherlock taught me? Breathing, slow and quiet. Sometimes I'd forget and breathe only through my mouth in long hard drags. The need I had for Sherlock was the same. I was sorry I'd lost myself earlier in front of Sean and Smith.

But this was new for him. Part of the process of turning into an immortal was a loss of self. That part had been horrifying for me too.

I blamed the roses and the Lestrades. What could he blame? A vial of serum and me? More likely the one Sherlock always blamed: himself. I saw it coming. Since self-control was so essential to Sherlock, he would feel trapped.

His hand on the railing hesitated a hair's breadth from mine, and at last he spoke. "I know what you did in front of those two was just you being John the Unpredictable and not any different than any other time. It's me. I am not myself. We are beings of opposite charge, and I am impelled to continually orbit you. It's painful to remove myself. John, I thought I was free when we came here, but I am not. I shake in withdrawal when you aren't near. Right now I trying my best not to touch you. It's a rapturous agony. Not only do I want to touch you, I feel compelled to touch you."