Failing Upward

Chapter 2 (part 3): Man, Meet Llama

I had a few visitors that week. Mary came by that first evening. She'd stopped at the hospital and found out I was discharged. She made me dinner. The next day some of the guys from the band came over with a pack of beer that they drank themselves since I didn't think mixing my painkillers with alcohol was a good idea. I guess that was my only "drug problem." I called Mrs. Hudson on Friday and told her I thought I could come back to work Monday. I also thought I should pass on the info about about Mrs. Lestrade's roses.

Sherlock texted me a lot but was busy on this murder case, so he didn't stop up. He did keep asking me questions about decomposition in marshy lake water and temperature changes. I didn't ask him about the flowers.

The with no card.

I wasn't sure I wanted to know who they were from--three yellow roses. The same as my delivery that day. Was this some kind of sick joke?

When I accused Anderson of losing the card, Mrs. Hudson got all quiet and put him on the phone. Couldn't she just look up the order and tell me what the card said?

I heard her in the background on the canned intercom calling him out of the greenhouses to the workroom.

"What's up, John?" he asked out of breath.

"Where is the card for the roses I got?" I asked. "There isn't a card. Who are they from?"

"Well..."

"Come on. Who are they from?"

"I'm not supposed to say."

"So it was the weirdo from the bar," I said. "How much did he slip you to keep quiet?"

"I didn't take any money! And the flowers aren't from your stalker from the bar the other night, sorry to disappoint you," he said. "It's from your not-so-secret admirer."

Well, that a relief. Not from the stalker. I had three yellow roses in a vase and an overactive imagination. I should have known they were from Sherlock.

"Why the big secret then?"

"He just didn't want you to get the wrong idea. I was telling Sherlock about what happened before the accident--about the delivery. He said to send something for him. He told me to pick it out. So I picked out the same flowers. I thought it'd be funny. Sherlock didn't. That's why he said not to tell you."

"Well, he's right. It's not funny." I held my head; it started to pound. I need more Vicodin.

"Well, I'm sorry," Anderson said. "Gimme a break. Not like I haven't gotten bitched out already. He practically ripped me to shreds at the hospital when I told him I'd sent yellow roses. "

"I don't remember Sherlock visiting me," I said. "But I don't remember much right after the accident. You know, nothing is chance for him." I hesitated then said thinking aloud, "He'd never trust you with a secret. He wanted me to know he sent them."

"Yeah, he's probably hoping someday you'll figure it out. Everyone in the world has, but you."

"Figure what out?" I asked.

"John," Anderson whispered, " you two are a couple ." Then he made kissy noises.

That was it. I hollered into the receiver: "He is my best friend . I don't like guys. I am not gay." Then punctuated it with: " Fuck you. "

"You're right! You're not gay. You are bisexual . You like women too. In fact, you love women. But you also love men. And you know you love me," Anderson taunted. "I'm irresistible. Sorry, but you can't have me. Because I am straight--as much as you might want me. I gotta go. Need to finish watering the back houses," Anderson paused. "Hope you feel better soon."