Failing Upward

Chapter 9 (part 3): In a Rose Garden

I felt naked; I felt exposed, and I felt angry that this "thing" had toyed with my emotions. I was no longer sure if the lust I felt for Sherlock was real or induced by some aphrodisiac from this anthropomorphic rose. I loved him, I always had, but I don't recall ever wanting him. Not like I did at this moment.

A mixture of light and dark spun around me like serpents. Voices from beyond me that I couldn't comprehend.

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I opened my eyes, and Sherlock was near me, hand in my hair, saying my name. I saw an old Steinway piano with cracked varnish and yellowed sheet music scattered on its bench. An old wing-back chair sat near where I lay. Battered throw rugs like a crazy patchwork covered the worn hardwood floors. The pillow behind my head was lumpy and the blanket on me musty. I was inside the Lestrade home sprawled on their couch, recalling a garden, roses and my lust.

"He's awake," Sherlock announced.

I sat up, cautiously stretching my legs to the floor. Sherlock moved protectively next to me, and I scooted away a bit.

"What time is it?" I asked, rubbing my wrist.

"About four," answered Glenda, sitting down near me in the wing back chair. "Not unusual for your first time in the garden since your exposure to Mica."

"Mica?" I said.

"Yes, the name of the rose is Minuo Micamundus. We prefer the shortened version Mica," she said. Lestrade and Moran came into the room.

"You're like me," I said, looking to Glenda then to Lestrade.

"Yes," Lestrade answered, "we are."

I needed out of here. The roses' effect filtered even into this house—the furniture, the people within. The need to know what I am became unimportant. All I could think of was false lust and hope. I hated the place, and the two that made me this thing . I knew now it's not the rose that's human; it's me that's inhuman.

"I need to get back to work. I should have been back a long time ago. My boss is probably wondering," I said.

"Yes, she was," said Glenda. "She called not long ago. I explained to her that you weren't feeling well. Sherlock talked to her."

I nodded. Why be polite? I just stood up wobbly, but Sherlock was there.

"I'm leaving. Now," I stated flatly and walked to the front door.

"You sure you should drive?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll be fine," I said. "Follow me to work, and we'll drop off the van, then go home."

Home. Hell, where the fuck was that anymore?

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We sat in the living room with me mindlessly watching Futurama while eating chili dogs with extra onions and munching Doritos. I popped the cap off a Miller Lite and took a gulp to chase the nasty nacho aftertaste from my mouth. What else could I do to be less appealing?

Maybe fart. Belch.

Pick my nose.

Damn. The more I thought about what Sebastian Moran implied, the more it made sense. I did begin to find Sherlock uncommonly hot right after my accident. In the rose garden, he was the proverbial forbidden fruit. Shit. Even now as he swallowed his beer, his neck looked like it could use a few choice nibbles. He wasn't safe--from me or any unknown assailants.

I took another bite of the chili dog. I don't usually like onions on them, and these stink like hell, making my eyes water and my nose run—hopefully a real turn-off for Sherlock.

I wondered: If two people eat the same gross food, does the one gross food cancel the other gross food out? Or is it sort of like when you multiply two negatives, they equal a positive?

one Bermuda onion ✕ another Bermuda onion = hot sex.

I should have picked a less phallic food for dinner. Shit, seeing him eat a hotdog.

Fuck.

"Have some more Doritos, Sherlock." I spun around, crunching the chip bag. I took a swig of beer, swallowed some air and tried to belch really loud, but it came out pathetic. I could tell from the half smile Sherlock gave me that he thought I was cute. I moaned. Shit, so much for trying to resist. Looked like I'd blown off another band practice tonight. Not even pungent, eye-burning onions could save Sherlock from me now. My mouth clamped on to his, and I threw all my weight against him, pinning him into the couch.

Mmm, two negatives...

I'd wondered what it would be like to feel him again. I licked his ear, bit his neck then sat up, grabbing his arms and pulling him to the bedroom. We undressed each other. Off flew my t-shirt. I unzipped his khakis. I pushed him back onto the bed and kicked off my jeans, twisted at my feet. Sherlock was kicking off his shorts and then slipping his t-shirt over his head.

 Sherlock looked obscenely delicious. I positioned myself behind him. There was something so base and animalistic seeing him like that.

White and blue sparks shot through my brain as I my hands clawed his waist. I stopped and wondered, was this what Sherlock wanted, or what he thought I wanted?

What did I want?

I knew I wanted Sherlock. Sherlock gave me a puzzled frown. Both my hands slid up past his waist, across his shoulder blades. I bent over his back, hugging my arms around his shoulders and pulled him upright against me. He sat on his heels, and I molded myself to him. My chest safe against the line of his back.

"What's wrong?"

My mouth kissed his earlobe, and I answered, "Nothing. Nothing at all." He turned around, facing me, kissing my mouth. He had corn chips in his teeth, and I didn't care. Nacho cheese, onions and beer were secondary. And I sighed.

I really do love him.