Failing Upward

Chapter 14 (part 2): Self Preservation

With much restraint, we got to Adam's Den. One of Mycroft's men drove, and I spent the whole time keeping Sherlock's hands out of my pants. We were late. I raced to the front to talk to the crew, and Sherlock met up next to me, nodding as the sound man gave us instructions. Bill drilled us on minor play-order alterations. Shit, I loved the way Sherlock was rubbing my neck. I closed my eyes, not listening much at all, engrossed in his long fingers loosening my shoulders.

"Thanks," I sighed.

Almost time. Picking up our instruments...tuning...Sid, one of our sound men, walked the bar for our sound check. Thumbs up on our bass, lead and voices as they came through clear. He checked line of sight from the tables to the stage. The stage lighting in this bar got too bright for Alan, who had to wear sunglasses on stage to see. All part of set up.

I scanned the room, approximately 4,000 square feet with people lined up along the walls. The high ceilings and barnwood rafters that framed the large open space at the center gave the illusion of more space. No empty seats— a full house. Only the dance floor was empty. I heard Smith's nervous slapping on his bass. Jimbo's chatter behind me made me concerned: his drum sticks staccato tap, tap, tapping. He never gets hyped before a show. Seemed everyone in the band was rattled, all worried we might not be able to top last night's performance. Sean was tuning his guitar for the fourth time. At least watching Sherlock sucking his Triple Sec through a straw distracted me, but now I was worried about being worried. Sherlock was drinking.

I guess I needed to be the motherfucking cheerleader. Tonight I needed it as much as they did.

I teetered on the edge of the stage, turned facing the band and cleared my throat.

"Which way are we goin'?!" I shouted with my fist in the air.

"Up!" Bill and Smith cried out together arms pointing up. Jimbo's and Sean's heads popped up. The stage crew stopped and turned.

I waved to Anderson and Mary sitting with Irene and Sherlock at the front. Then in one clean leap, I jumped off the stage landing on their table as Sherlock held it steady. I made sure that I didn't hit the lower drop ceiling near the stage. I turned to the band again and cupped my hands around my mouth, hollering: "I said ... Which way are we going?"

"Up! Up!" John and Smith yelled back.

"And which way are we failing ?!"

"Up-ward, up-ward, up-ward!" The band chanted. I swear they looked like kindergartners, dancing in a ring around Sean who hopped from foot to foot. The chant spread through the crowd. As soon as it reached the front doors, I leapt off the table back onto the stage.

"I think we're ready to play now, boys!" I yelled, swiping my guitar from the floor, my back to the crowd. I waved as wolf whistles and cheers erupted from the crowd and counted off with my fingers in the air. One. Two. Three.

Applause.

Yeah, I guess my ass did look good.

I looked over my shoulder. Anderson, Mary and Irene waved. I smiled back; Sherlock sat, legs crossed and looking hot in his black jeans and purple Dolce and Gabbana shirt. He winked.

Mycroft and Lestrade sat a table over, which wasn't lost on Sherlock. He kept glaring back at them.

This was it. We were ready— just a bunch of smilin' assholes including Ol' Bill the biggest smilin' asshole of them all. I suspected he never made it to bed last night— at least he didn't sleep.

Smith danced around, giddy and giggly.

" Hello? Tommy Tutone?" Bill's gravelly voice broke into the mic. "Is Jenny home?"