Failing Upward

Chapter 11 (part 4): Knock, Knock

"Kiss his feet. Lick his feet. Beg his forgiveness." Mary and I walked up to the table. My passion on stage was over the top but— it was for show. Shit, Smith kissed Sean— I didn't. Still, I could see how Sherlock might take it wrong. Probably not a good idea to dry hump his leg. We got near the table, and Sherlock's ocean eyes caught me with such painful intensity that I thought they'd crushed my heart to pulp. I'm such an asshole.

That was when the fight started.

I saw it begin in slow motion. Two guys at the table next to ours with their backs to Sherlock shouted drunkenly: "Fuck you, you asshole!"

"Don't you touch my woman!"

"She liked it!"

Before anyone else could move, the bigger guy with "Do It 'til Ya Die" on the back of his t-shirt had the smaller one on the floor, pounding him into a bloody mess with his fist. The poor guy on the ground either pissed his pants or spilled his beer in a conspicuous place. The big guy had just picked the little one up off the floor when the bouncers reached them. T-shirt managed to throw a final roundhouse punch, missing the poor little schlep and hitting Smith right in the eye. I went over and got Smith ice. By the time the commotion ended, our final set was ready to begin again. I looked over at Sherlock. He hadn't moved during the brawl, still staring into his beer.

It's a huge cliché, I know, but the show must go on. You'd think that knowing Sherlock was feeling awful, I'd have a bit of empathy and curb my enthusiasm... but what can I say, a musician lives for the crowd. The truth was, I felt the best I had in weeks.

Failing Upward was hot. For the first time I really believed we could actually be something more than a garage band playing in hick bars.

Then, finally, toward the end of the night, this feeling deep down swelled up. I understood why I could feel this wonderful— why I was able to feel this way about the band despite all the shit going on in my life. It was Sherlock; it was because I was in love with Sherlock.

The last song, of course, is never the last song. I hoped Sherlock saw it that way, too.

By the time I helped get our equipment together, Mary had already been backstage to talk to me twice. I told her not to worry, that I would drive him home and take care of him.

She said that was what she was afraid of.

"I can fix this," I said.

On my way to the table, I saw Sean admiring Smith's eye.

I sat down next to Sherlock. He looked up at me and sighed, then looked back down in his drink.

"Come on, Sherlock. Give me the keys, I'm driving." He submissively reached in his pocket, pulled out his keys and put them in my hand.

Bill asked if we wanted to go to Smith's for a party, but I shooed him off. Usually I'm up for a party after playing, but from now on in my life, someone else came first: Sherlock.

I got Sherlock out to the car without much effort. He didn't say a word to me until we were almost home.

"John, what was that all about tonight? I'm glad the band meshed , and I'm glad your plans for the band are coming together. But tell me, that plan in your head, does it include me?"

I knew what I should have said, but sometimes I'm slow.

"God, I don't deserve you."

"God damn it, John, that's what people say when they really mean you're not the one for me ."

"Shit. This isn't going right. I thought we'd always be friends no matter what."

"They also say that."

"No. That's not what I meant!"

"Maybe you just better shut up," Sherlock barked out.

We rode the rest of the way without saying a word.

I tried to help him up the steps, but he refused to lean on me. I kicked open the door and disarmed the security system while Sherlock stumbled into the bathroom. I re-armed it and threw the car keys on the counter. I could hear Sherlock puking. I sat on the sofa with my head down listening to his dry heaves.

Finally, the water splashed in the sink. He wavered out, face pale, and made his way straight into the bedroom, flopping down on the bed.

"Good night," he said forlornly.

I walked to the bedroom. As I stood in the doorway, I heard him whisper my name.

"Yes?" I answered.

"Jawn. Johnny ." He paused. "Do you know how hard it's been this week? To have you and not know how you really feel? I love you. And I want you to love me back so bad."

"Sherlock ."

I walked across the room and sat next to him on the bed. I started unbuttoning his sexy purple shirt, and he watched my hands move slowly down, from one button to the next.

"You are beautiful. Impossible. Brilliant."

"Is this a pity fuck?" he asked, as I slipped a button out of its hole near his navel.

I straddled his thighs and looked down at him as I pulled the rest of his shirt from his trousers.

"No, it's not."

He grabbed the front of my fishnet shirt and pulled me to him. His full lips pressed hard against mine.

"I'm fine with that if it is. I'd just like to know."

I slid his shirt off his shoulders.

He gazed unblinkingly into my eyes. For being intoxicated, he had remarkable control. The black leather pants stuck stubbornly to my thighs; Sherlock strained to peel them off me. Throwing them to the floor, he rolled me onto my back. He looked down at me, eyelids heavy, breath ragged.

"Sherlock?"

Good. I wanted to see his eyes, his face, to memorize his reaction when I told him.

His strangled cry seared into me.

He panted, savoring the bitter pain. His suffering was an atonement for my selfish silence. Sherlock sobbed softly as I rolled him off.

"John?"

"I'm not hurting you. Just a moment..."

"I need to feel something ," he rumbled.

"You will."

He was possessed. In between his frenzied slices of agony, I heard him sniff and gulp. His tears dropped onto my chest and face. I knew his pain.

Such desperation. His thoughts and feelings tangible, his drunken pangs filtered through me, revealing this might be the last.

"Not letting you go," I said brokenly as my hands staggered across the bed, gripping the sheets.

I wanted my words to mean what I felt, to be more than sounds gasped out in throes of passion-pain or in mindless murmured fits of lust. I wanted him to know that my words came from my soul. I let go of the sheet and caressed his face. His pain no longer unbearable, his body clenched and he groaned. I was too.

He collapsed against me, breathing hard.

"John," he panted. My fingers traced his mouth. I kissed his hair.

"I don't want you to end up like everyone else I've ever loved in my life," I said.

"John ," he choked out again.

"I love you," I whispered.

"What did you say? I think I heard it, but I'm not sure. Say it again."

"I love you ."

We should probably get cleaned up, but he was drunk and I was tired, and I just wanted to hold him.

He kissed my hair, then said, "I sure hope I remember this in the morning."