Failing Upward

Chapter 40 (part 1): Songs of Experience

I smiled. Moriarty thought he understood. He had no clue. As the rose's tendrils crawled and crept across the ground, he stared at me in horror and stepped back.

Thorns dug into my legs and tendrils wrapped around my fingers, but I trusted what Sherlock told me. I had tried to find a way to control my abilities so I could stop Moriarty, so I could win, so I could change the nature of the universe. That was just thinking like Moriarty. As if I was somehow separate from the universe. As if any of us could do anything else besides let life be to live itself. As if the garden was against me. I let go of all control.

I heard far off voices. There were vines around my wrists. I was tangled around hands that strained against me and then stilled. I could feel my roots curled tight in the sand, far down in the dark earth. Even though I had been in the garden all my life, I felt like I could remember everything John had experienced. I could feel all the possibilities of all universes start to unfurl and spread, soft and silent, a rose in my hand. I looked into the center.

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"Wake up Mr. Watson, your boyfriend is here."

Bernice the big night nurse sure had a lot of nerve. My boyfriend. My wannabe boyfriend maybe. Sherlock walked in the door looking at me with those eyes. Yeah. Those eyes . The eyes that made me want to crawl under the bed just to get away. They were so beautiful and ethereal— for a guy. Not that I would notice something like that. Or the cute way his nose was twitching right now.

"I hate the hospital," I groaned.

"Brought you these," he said. Don't know how I could have missed Sherlock holding a dozen red roses in a vase. Must have been distracted somehow.

"I'll leave you two alone," Beatrice said, winking at me at she closed the door behind her.

My cheeks were burning. What the hell did she know anyway?

"Sorry about your car," Sherlock said. "Guess that llama did it in. Anyway, you'll be okay, that's what's important."

I nodded. Sherlock turned and set the roses on the table next to the window. As he bent over to straighten them, I rolled over so I could see him— I mean them— better.

"What about the card?" I asked. He took it off the flowers and brought it over. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and handed it to me.

"I've thought about this for a while," he said. "I've got something to tell you, but I want you to read the card first."

I knew what was coming. Shit. He was going to finally tell me. My heart started pounding. My face hot. Why did this matter so much to me? I opened the card. It read:

I have a story to tell— it will sound insane, but I can prove that it's true. When I'm done, if you want me to leave I will, but please consider what I've said. I say it for us.

I looked up and nodded. Then he told me the story of Mica and Blake's poem. About Moriarty. About parallel universes and painful nights apart. Through the painkiller and sips of ice water, I listened without interruption. Just nodded and frowned and bit my lip. It was all too fantastic to believe, but I did. Every word. I knew it was all true because I felt it in my heart.

At last he finished and I lay there quiet, staring at my feet. Sherlock reached out and squeezed my hand.

Next to my bed was the note left in my car from the three yellow roses I delivered at the Lestrade house— all written in ones and zeros. I'd tried reading it before hitting that llama. I didn't need to decode the binary. I knew what it said: "To see the world in a grain of sand..."