Failing Upward

Chapter 28 (part 1): Going, Going, Gone

We were halfway to Sherlock's house with his hand tugging on my zipper before I realized what was happening. Suddenly, I felt my jeans go z-z-zip and a cool breeze. I almost said stop, but my brain was wavering between 'What the hell am I doing? I'm supposed to be backing off,' and 'What the hell are you waiting for? '

His hand began creeping down my boxers when I blurted out "I'm not who you think I am."

He rolled his eyes at me and looked back at the road, but he continued, teasing me with seemingly accidental nicks.

"You aren't going to start with that 'I'm an alien' again? Because that can really spoil the mood." I jerked forward. He looked at me innocently. Accidental? Hardly. Even in this reality, Sherlock was tuned in to my sexual tension with perfect pitch.

His next move wasn't as subtle: the edge of his fingernail. "Oh Christ, oh fuck," I cursed.

"Mmm. Encouraging," he said, turning into his driveway with his free hand.

"M-maybe this isn't such a good idea." I thought I was going to cry, it felt so good. I bit my tongue.

He put the car in park and turned to me. "A little late to change your mind. But if you must."

I squirmed around in the seat. "Oh God..." I moaned, sinking down lower.

"I think we better take this inside. I don't need my neighbors to hate me any more than they already do."

No shit. Wasn't he the sensible one? He gave me a squeeze, and I grabbed the door handle tight. He took his hand out of my pants, and I tried to fasten them, but there was more there than before and my damn hands kept trembling. How come Sherlock could unfasten my jeans with one hand, and I couldn't manage with two? I finally gave up, took a deep breath and got out of his car, pulling my Nirvana t-shirt down.

As I followed behind him, I kept repeating to myself that I couldn't let this go any further. I came here to talk to him, to explain. I had to talk to Sherlock. Keep it together, Watson.

I lagged behind as he walked briskly to the door. I ran my hands through my hair. Fuck, he was in such a hurry, to get inside. I needed time to figure out what I was going to say, but I was nervous I'd lose my resolve if this went on too long. He fumbled and dropped his keys twice. Probably just as nervous as me, thinking if he slowed down I would change my mind and say those four dirty words: "we need to talk."

My foot hit the door jamb. I tried to say something but my tongue was still numb. I licked my lips. The instant he saw me lick my lips, he grabbed my shirt. One sharp tug and my chest was crushed against his. My mouth was dry (which Sherlock tried to remedy with his clever tongue). Now he was biting down on my tongue. I never had the chance to whimper no. Instead, he pushed me against the door, one hand behind me deftly throwing the lock while his other hand accomplished its mission, releasing my cock from my half-open jeans.

I could no longer resist; I could feel every long, tapered finger. I kept my eyes open and watched his flutter shut, watched him kiss and grope me against the door, transfixed. It felt so good, so good.

He came up for air, opening his eyes. God, they were beautiful, sea green with pupils blown wide in passion. All I could think of, all I could remember, were those months without him, believing I'd never see his nose twitch or eyes crinkle just as they were right now. My heart missed him— my heart missed my Sherlock. And I was tempted to convince myself this was my Sherlock, but I knew he wasn't.

I bent in for another kiss, and I promised myself just one more taste. As I did, he said, "I love you," making my heart twist even more as he waited for me to say it back, but I couldn't.