Failing Upward

Chapter 10 (part 2): Sandpaper Box

I wiped my mouth. My hands shook as I pulled my t-shirt over my head and pushed my arms through. I put my head between my knees and stayed that way for a good fifteen minutes before I felt composed enough to go up to the front room and see Anderson and Mrs. H. I could stay in the greenhouse, but it was too fucking hot and too much of a reminder of that sick bastard.

Then there was Sherlock.

I washed away the blood with the hose. I wouldn't have any choice but to call Sherlock. Not telling him would put him at more risk. That psychopath had already been in 221b. Sherlock already put himself at risk going after him once. If he knows what Moriarty is, Sherlock might be more cautious. That's a big "might." My biggest concern was that Moriarty would go after Sherlock to get to me. I was glad Sherlock was up at the university around people today. I called and left a voice message that I'd had an unwelcome visitor at work.

I thought of just taking off. Packing it all up and leaving. But if I left, I wouldn't be taking Sherlock out of harm's way. That bastard Moriarty. Maybe I didn't have a choice. But until I knew what that sick fuck was up to, I wasn't going anywhere. I knew what he did to Lestrade. In the end, if I had to go with him to keep Sherlock or anyone else I cared for safe, I'd do it. But I wasn't walking into Hell with Moriarty unless there was no other way.

Mrs. H stared at me when I walked up the back steps.

"You look like shit," she said. My jaw opened in shock. Mrs. H swore!

"Heat exhaustion. I just threw up out of the side door of house four."

She scrutinized me. "What exactly happened back there?" I should know better than to try to hide anything from her. She sighed when I shrugged my shoulders. "Go sit down in my office for a while where it's air conditioned."

I smiled thinly at her, then I walked back to her office, closed the door and flopped down into Mrs. H's old oak captain's chair. It wasn't two minutes later when Mrs. H poked her head inside the door, walked up to her desk and sat down on top of it, facing me.

"There's plenty you're not saying," she started. I opened my mouth to speak, but she placed her finger to my lips, hushing me. "Plenty of it Sherlock told me. In this business, you hear people talk too. What's going on between you and Sherlock is your business, but whatever trouble you're in, know that you can talk to me and come to me for help. If you don't want to now, that's fine too. Know that I'm here and I care. I love you both like sons. Don't forget that." She leaned over to me and hugged me tight and kissed my hair.

I started to cry. Mrs. H didn't mind me getting her blouse all wet, she just hugged me tighter. Anderson walked in with a wet towel and I was bawling. Shit, Anderson'll never let me live this one down. But instead of making fun of me, he placed the towel on my forehead.

"If you don't mind, I think I'll rest here a few minutes," I said. They both left quietly and shut the door, leaving me to think about what happened. Even Anderson knew something was seriously wrong.

Whatever this group that Moriarty was in bed with wanted, it wasn't just to experiment on me. After talking to Moran, I knew that the primary motive of whoever paid him was to find out what made me different and why. One jumbo jigsaw puzzle, and no one wanted to share the pieces. Moriarty said that Lestrade aged when he was buried alive; that was a piece of the puzzle as well.

A grain of sand. Lestrade's card.

Camden was buried in sand, near the dunes of Lake Michigan. And the soil in the rose garden was sandy. The roses. And recalling those moments under hypnosis made it hard to solve a puzzle with six feet of earth haunting you. The memory of sand in my mouth was almost as bad as feeling that sick bastard rutting up against me.