Failing Upward

Chapter 6 (part 3):Lucky Charms

I walked the downtown mall, thinking about what Sherlock said. We split up and decided to meet up at his car. He said he needed to be alone and think. I know he really wanted me to do the thinking. I stopped in Walgreens and bought a razor, shaving gel, and shampoo. Went into four different stores looking for leather slacks, bought shirts instead along with real underwear--boxers. The fifth place I walked into to had leather. A lot of leather. And other. Things. I bought them there.

I did think. By the time I started for the back parking garage to Sherlock's car, I had a mental list of all I'd say to him. What I needed to say, not just for Sherlock but for myself. I also realized that I never bought bacon and eggs.

Sherlock left the door unlocked. I opened the passenger side and stooped inside, throwing my bags up, over the bucket seat and into the back when I heard someone walk up behind me. I turned to see. He was much taller than me, dark hair and eyes, squinting--flecks of the setting sun reflecting in them casting a reddish glow. And he stepped in close to me.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice flat, "do you know the shortest way to get to Washington Avenue from here?" I straightened up to answer. Then I saw the glint. After years of tight situations in back alleys chasing scofflaws with Sherlock, I knew what it was.

Like a dream, I stood locked in place, feet like lead. I was trapped between the car and my attacker. He stabbed into my shoulder as I opened my mouth to speak. Numb at first, I couldn't comprehend what had just happened. And even as I realized, I didn't comprehend since he didn't act like he was attacking me. No malice, no emotion on his face. I shuddered, numb. He twisted it. I felt that. I yelled and one of my hands went for the hand twisting the blade. That fucking hurt. With my other arm, I managed to slam my elbow into his throat with zero reaction. He pulled out the knife, and I pushed against him to get away. My heart raced, thinking I was almost free. My hand tightened around his wrist, and I slammed it with everything in me against the car door to get him to drop the knife. It was like fighting an automaton. No pain. No response. He just coming back. I twisted my body, and his wrist with it, I knew that had to hurt him when I felt a pop. Hoping he'd drop the knife, I gave him a solid kick in the shin. Instead, this incredible surge of power flowed from him, and he forced the blade into my stomach. My hand still gripped on his wrist, now dripped with my blood. I think I yelled then, I know I yelled when he ripped the blade down.

Everything slowed. I saw the freckles on his face. I smelled iron and bile. Burning pain. Uncontrollable tremors. He stepped back. I grabbed the knife and pulled it free, and it dropped to the pavement. It clattered and echoed.

My legs gave, and I clutched the front of his shirt as I slid down.

I fell slowly backward on to the stark-white bucket seat. Strength leaving. Hand still bunched in his shirt.

Blood, my blood warming my old t-shirt and wet on my skin. I watched it drip down the floorboard. He knew exactly what he was doing. He'd hit the brachial artery in my shoulder and ravaged irreparable damage to my intestines. The initial pain I didn't feel roared through my every cell and ratcheted--a tempest of pain twisting again and again. All the while his face was impassive, dispassionate.

I choked back a sob, "Why?"

I saw his face, beard stubble and smile lines, and then finally, a touch of an emotion. A possible flash of pity--his face so close to mine, I couldn't be quite sure. Eye to eye, I swear he was trying to see inside my mind. Asking. What, I don't know. If I knew the answer, I would say.

Then, his own bloodied hand cradled the back of my head and gently rearranged me on the passenger's seat, then rested the back of my head against the edge of driver's. I thought, this is what it's like to die . I shivered. Even the cold and pain seemed to slip away. I was so fucking afraid.

Alone. He left me there alone, to look at the crack in the wind-shield and the red of the setting sun. I wondered why. I wondered how long, how much time.

In the distance, I heard footsteps and thought he'd returned. The driver's door opened, and I heard keys drop on pavement. Sherlock. I heard him frantic--calling 911 and swearing as he lost the signal. His face came close, and his hands lifted my shirt as he crawled on to the front seat. We both saw the wound in my belly together--gaping and ugly. My shoulder bled, still bled. How could there be any more left in me? So much was on me, on the seat, on the floorboards. I felt his tears wet and hot against my cheek. I whispered to him not to cry.

He left me. Then he was on the other side of me, lifting my legs into the car. He shut the door. He climbed back into the driver's side, shifting into the front seat gently lifting my head and putting it into his lap. And he fumbled with the keys. My hand stopped him. No time. I heard him say, "Don't die, don't die. Don't you dare die!" and the car moved.

Sherlock never stopped talking. Telling, pleading, confessing, then asking, "Who did this?"

I shook my head. I couldn't speak.

"Don't die. Hold on. Don't die. John, John. Stay with me. I haven't told you. I haven't told you I love you yet."

I felt a tear trickle into my ear. Mine. I didn't know I had anything left inside me to bleed.

As the car moved, space changed. Transformed to an altered state. Euphoric. I was invincible! My vision exploded. Bright red and yellow sparks. Swirls of hot white lights between dead spots. Forever...I needed forever. I reached for Sherlock, and Sherlock grasped his hand in mine, clenching it tight. My heart clenched with it, just as tight.

This wasn't the end. I knew. I saw it. I saw it all. It was all so clear.

Sherlock swung into the entrance of the emergency room. He began to jump out of the car, but I pulled him back. Surprised, he stared down at me. I wouldn't let him get out. I took his hand and guided it up to my shoulder where my body was torn. Our fingers learned together what my body already knew as I trailed his hand in mine down to my belly. He disbelieved. At first. He frowned. He lifted my shirt.

Nothing.

Then he started to cry again. The wounds were gone. Wiping blood away, we saw the angry red scars. Sherlock's stunned, disbelieving eyes accepted and praised the sky above through gasps and sobs, his own tears mixed with my blood. I pulled myself upright in the seat.

Sherlock sat for a moment. Unsure. A clearly unsure Sherlock, I rarely ever saw. Then he nodded, his eyes were on mine. Before he put the car in drive and sped off, he mashed our lips together and said, "Let's go home."