Failing Upward

Chapter 3 (part 3): Que Sera, Sera

Through my imaginations, the car slowed and I heard Sherlock say my name. Sherlock's words. I came to my senses and I clearly heard him say again "Isn't that your place?"

I blinked back to the world. The night sky alight, my eyes beheld what Sherlock was referring to--my house--engulfed in flames.

Fire trucks and firemen swarmed around like angry bees. Sherlock slammed on the brakes and parked his Cutlass tight to the curb. I just sat there for a moment-- stunned, my sweaty body stuck to the white leather bucket seat. Sherlock opened my door. He led me like one of the Night of the Living Dead up my driveway. Why was my life falling apart?

"Three," I said.

"What, John?" he asked, worry in his deep voice.

Flames spewed out of every window, consuming the house. The puny water hoses did little to douse the inferno. I stood numb. Sherlock stood shoulder to shoulder next to me.

"I think this is three," I said. "Bad luck comes in threes."

Tears pricked my eyes, but I pushed them back. I began rationalizing. What was a place to live compared to other parts of my life I'd lost? This was nothing. My guitar was in there, but that was replaceable. My laptop. But it was all the old photos and heirlooms. My parents and sister. My grandparents. All I had left of them, was in there, burning down with my home.

It was like losing them all over again.

And it was a fire. Again.

We walked together up to the scene. At least I think we did. Sherlock supported me most of the way as I stumbled. The fire marshal asked plenty of questions. Like who was the owner, what was inside. Did I have a problem with my landlord? Did I have insurance? Where was I before the fire? What time had I left the house?

Sherlock said he needed to walk around a bit to find out more, and that he'd be right back. Good to his word, he was back in minutes. Just in time to hear the rest of the questions. Of course he found out plenty: the fire started in the living room with some type of accelerant that was also spread through the house. However, according to Sherlock, they were incorrect in thinking I did it. Well, duh. But of course Sherlock told them I had over a hundred of witnesses as to where I was tonight.

They gave him a doubtful stare

Someone burned down my house, and they think it was me.

Now playing... John Watson in... Arson Suspect # 1...

Although they kept telling me they always ask such questions in situations like this, I knew that I and the property owner were the only suspects for the moment. Being suspected of crimes was an everyday occurrence for Sherlock, but sorry, it wasn't for me. I was upset and angry and in shock. And it was a fire.

A fire.

Now... after successive weeks of bad luck, I topped it off with the perfect evening and a skeleton of a house.

I heard Sherlock telling the fire marshal about my family's history, the recent accident and stay in the hospital, more specifics as to where we were all night with plenty of witnesses. I gave them where I worked and my cell number to get in touch with me.

Finally, Sherlock could stand no more

"He's just recovering from head trauma; therefore, no more questions," Sherlock said. "Not tonight. And if you bothered to take a look at the back door, any idiot could see that the door was broken into. I believe when you go inside, you'll see evidence of robbery if any evidence remains after such an intense fire."

The fireman looked at me like I was some half-drowned kitten. I don't know what's worse, pity or suspicion. The fire marshal knew me--or at least knew my history. He asked me if I had "any other" relatives in town. I said, no. That was when Sherlock went into full-asshole mode. Told him the fire marshal that he had the same uncaring nature as his father who was in jail for swindling elderly couples.

Sherlock put me in his car and drove me away. I let him. It wasn't hard to do. Kinda to save me from myself. I rode just staring straight ahead not saying a word for a while. Then I turned and studied Sherlock's face.

Funny how you can look at someone thousands of times and never really see them.

"I'd ask you where you want to go, but I have a feeling what you'd say," he said.

"Mary's. Yeah, you're right. I would say Mary's, but we both know she has a guest tonight that I don't feel like dealing with."

"Anderson," Sherlock replied.

I nodded. I didn't want the aggravation. That and the unsaid: If Anderson wasn't there, I was feeling low enough that I might actually do something with Mary I would regret.

"There was a time not long ago that you wouldn't have thought twice about where you'd go. You are still my best friend. You're my only friend, really. I know where you should go. Home with me."

He was frowning--after years of hanging out with Sherlock, I knew that look. He was worried.

"I promise I wouldn't try to get in your pants," he said.

I choked back a laugh. Honestly, I knew for the first time he wasn't kidding though. He said those same words to me for years as a joke. Although I don't even recall him dating, he'd never had to really come out because he knew he preferred men. He'd always knew that he was gay. It never affected our friendship. No, what defined him was what he did. Solve crimes. Investigate murders. Report on them. I'd known him since grade school, and he even solved crimes then. In high school he worked for the school paper and freelanced at the local paper. He helped clear our athletic director's name of embezzlement as a freshman in high school. Angelo Rossi retired from school two years later and opened restaurant downtown. Angelo still says he owes his life to Sherlock. Without his retirement, he wouldn't have his good name or Angelo's. The man worships Sherlock--told him eat could eat there free for as long as he owned the restaurant.

The joke about not getting in my pants began in high school.

We were good friends then, but I didn't think of him as my best friend until college. We had classes together before he dropped out because it was "boring." We bonded over him dragging me out on some of his very first crime cases. He said he needed my "medical expertise." I think what he really needed was a friend. A best friend.

I'd known inside for a while that he would like me to be more than a friend. That his joke wasn't all joking.

I didn't want to lose a good friend. I didn't want our friendship to be something I looked back on in the future. I wanted it always. I almost blew it tonight although I felt a pang of disappointment. He promised me. But Sherlock sucked at keeping promises.

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Sherlock lived down street from the flower shop and rented from Mrs. Hudson, who lived in the same large Victorian home. A mutual friend of ours, Mike Stamford, was responsible for introducing both of us to her. I'd been some weeks since I'd been to his upstairs apartment, and he never was a great housekeeper, which Mrs. Hudson kept reminding him that she wouldn't do it for him (then she'd promptly come up and with a soup and sandwich for his lunch).

We climbed the stairs to his apartment, and Sherlock unlocked the door of 221B.

"You really haven't concerned yourself recently with details like, say, sanitation," I commented, looking at the trash all over the kitchen floor. His living room was trashed too. I was used to a lot of experiments and clutter, but this wasn't normal.

I turned around to look at him, "Sherlock?" By the expression on his face as he fell over his coffee table, I could tell he was as surprised to see the room in this condition as I was. He picked himself off the floor rubbing his shins, cussing.

We both heard a crash in Sherlock's bedroom. "Toby!" he called out. An excited bark came from behind the door. The door was shut? Sherlock never shut Toby up in his room! Sherlock let him out, and Toby jumped up on him and slathered him in thankful doggy kisses.

I flopped myself down on the well-worn couch and looked at the tossed room. Sherlock and Toby took a seat on both sides of me, Toby's head in my lap on one, and Sherlock's arm rubbing mine on the other.

"John, I think you better tell me more about that delivery you made before the accident."

I scratched behind Toby's ears and began.