Failing Upward

Chapter 33: Inside the Dragon

Sherlock held the bucket out with one finger.

I didn't understand why until the next moment when my stomach turned inside out, and I thrust my face inside that bucket. I threw up twice. Once after I looked out over the stage and wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. The second time after I registered the thousands and the media. Men behind camera cranes spidered overhead.

"Thought you'd be needing it." Sherlock pulled a Kleenex from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Wasn't sure if he meant the puke pail or the hanky. I wiped my mouth off with shaking hands, giving Sherlock a pathetic smile. After, I wobbled off and stood on the edge of the stage. He shadowed behind.

"Here, you might need this again," Sherlock said, setting the bucket off to the side. Sean handed me my guitar, and I struggled to tune it, whispering to myself, " Don't look up, don't look up. "

What a jinx. Of course I was going to fucking look.

I did. I lifted my eyes. All those people . The Silverdome spread out into an ocean of bodies. Sweat trickled down the small of my back. My vision clouded. My guts wrenched, and I turned tail, handing my guitar into Jimbo's waiting outstretched arms, and tried to puke into the bucket again.

Nothing left.

The world slowly focused like a video with someone else controlling the remote. It wasn't the first time I felt my life was some bizarre video: I watched helplessly as it played, paused, then fast forwarded.

I picked my guitar up again, threading my head and arm through the strap, chanting: "I'm John Watson. I am John Watson. I am John Watson." I was beginning to buy into Sherlock's theory that we became our predecessors. I...didn't feel like me at all.

I rested my back against one of the amps and watched. The people around me I thought I knew even smelled wrong. It was like we were taping some over-rehearsed comedy routine. When Sean bounced up and handed me a warm coke, I tipped it up to my lips like that was part of the routine too. One, two, three sips, most dripping on my shirt. Smith broke wind. Jimbo jumped back. Sean held his nose while Sherlock shook his head in disgust. All steps carefully choreographed to calm my nerves. Then I started choking. So much for calm. I bent over gasping and hacking, grasping my knees so they wouldn't buckle and leave me to fall, splat, on the stage in front of thousands.

"What are you trying to do, Smith," Sean asked, slapping me on the back, "asphyxiate him?"

I opened my eyes to see Sherlock's Dolce & Gabbana loafers staring up at me.

"Not Smith," I gasped, "Nerves." Sean stepped away, giving me room. Sherlock leaned down, meeting my eyes.

"Breathe, John," Sherlock said, placing his hand on my back, fingers pressing lightly against my spine. "Breathe, like I taught you."

I nodded.

"Slow and easy," he reminded me. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Over and over .

"That's it," he coaxed.

Not sure if this part of the routine was what worked, or if I just didn't have anything left to barf, but I straightened up and bit my lip. I did feel better.

"You're sure I know all the songs?" I asked.

"For the hundredth time, yes!"

I nodded again. As I looked out into the sea of people, I slowly pulled charged air in through my nose and out through my mouth again. It worked. First, I mentally made my way to center stage, then I took the eighteen hollow steps to the middle of the platform. I still didn't feel myself; I was invisible, the yellow stage lights barely enough to see my own hands and feet. The whole arena was black; the audience hidden. I could still hear them, feel them. The air dripped; the auditorium swelled and writhed. I felt like I'd been swallowed up by some monster. For a moment there, I knew what Jonah felt like inside that whale.