Failing Upward

Chapter 39: Songs of Innocence

I was shivering when I woke up. Cold, damp air. I rolled over— all I found was wadded sheets and quilts crumpled from our love making. Sherlock was gone. I sat up, opened my eyes. The window was still wide open.

My heart raced. My lungs ached. I scrambled for my jeans as I ran to the window. I climbed on the cushions, opened the screens, then leaned out the window into the night air. Too dark to see much. I scrambled back down to the floor and tripped, pulling on my jeans and shoving my feet in my shoes as I ran for the bedroom door.

Why the hell didn't he wake me? Where was he? What the hell did he think he was doing? For all I knew, Sherlock was in the bathroom taking a piss, but I had a bad feeling. As stood looking down at the top of the stairs, fear crept into my throat. The large doors facing the garden stood open.

I clutched the curved railing for support, then let it lead me like a friend as I ran down the winding stairs and out the back door into the night. The chime of the old grandfather clock echoed behind me.

My eyes quickly adjusted, but I was already walking forward as if it was daylight. The thrum of the garden and the brighter pull of Sherlock guided me without need for sight or sound. I startled at the gate in a panicked murmur that came from all directions. Just birds, I realized, house sparrows in the dogwood, chirping at the disturbance. A few moments later they settled and reclaimed their branches, shadows in the dark.

Moriarty had to know I was here. While every fiber inside me wanted to shout Sherlock's name, I didn't want to give Moriarty any more advantage than he already had. I dug at the blister where the thorn throbbed beneath and crept forward.

Why Sherlock felt the need to go to the garden alone, I didn't understand, I only knew Moriarty was somehow responsible. I stepped as silently as possible through the garden. My sneakers squeaked on slippery dark green patches of grass that sprouted through last fall's covering. The garden was coming to life. New shoots budding on the dogwood. Branches on the old maple and oak trees, still naked, moaned as the night wind pushed them. Then there were the roses.

The barren woody vines wound their way through the trellises swaying in the night air, catching at my clothes and skin. I thought of the poem and my purpose. I needed to concentrate. It was near impossible to do in this place with Sherlock so near.

And Sherlock was close. Every atom of my body yearned for him. His heat. My heart pounded and my cheeks burned.

"John, over here." I could just make out his face to the right of me. He grabbed my arm and tugged me over. He wore just an old white t-shirt and frayed and faded blue pj bottoms. His feet were bare. My arm tingled where his fingers touched. I wanted him so much I hurt.

"What the hell are you doing?" I whispered. His breath warmed my face. This place always made him so fucking irresistible. Without any warning, I took his mouth hard, my teeth scraping his lips. In a rush he became as intoxicated as me. I crushed my mouth into his, and he answered by crushing mine, then he blinked and came to his senses.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he panted, lips parted against mine.

"Shh! Looking for you, dumbass," I mumbled into his mouth, trying urgently to get his interest back. I nudged his nose to get an advantage and chewed on his bottom lip. That usually worked.

He looked into my eyes as I went in for a better taste.

"Wait," he gasped, his fingers pulling at my hair. "What the hell are you talking about? Why did you come down to the garden?"

"Me ? Why did I come down to the garden?!" I whispered hoarsely. "To find you! Why did you?"

I vaguely remembered Moriarty, and that I should be concerned as I rubbed my wrist raw against the fly of my jeans.