Failing Upward

Chapter 16 (part 2): Lovely, Dark and Deep

We took our usual walk after dinner, exploring the great Southwest Michigan outdoors. Past the gardens, into the umbrella of the oaks and elms and sassafras, the carpet of moss and ferns below dappled by the sun. We took our time walking down the hill, following a farmer's old fieldstone wall, a long-forgotten property marker. We sat on the cushiony moss by the pond we'd adopted and shooed away mosquitoes and watched an old painted turtle sun himself.

Out here, we could think and not hurry. If we wanted a slow leisurely kiss, there was both time and space for it. And today, we did. Soft sweet lips and wind whisping through the ancient oak above. His fingers ran smooth through my sandy hair, and I inhaled the dank smell of insect repellant on his neck.

I heard a branch snap, and saw movement in the brush.

Not a deer. Too loud. Then I heard crunching leaves behind and over the crest of the hill.

We both got up and walked away from the footfalls and around the pond when I heard a familiar voice.

"You shouldn't be out this far," Irene commented, stepping out in the open. Sherlock looked at her warily. I was confused as to why she'd even be out here.

We walked toward her.

"Scared me for a moment there," I said. Then I noticed Irene looking up at the crest of the hill.

My eyes followed hers. Moriarty stood with two other men, one with semi-automatic rifle pointed with Sherlock in his sights, the other with his iPhone out. Moriarty started down the hill.

I heard Irene yell "No!" as I lunged to get between Sherlock and the shooter. The impact threw me sideways into Sherlock. I stumbled, grabbing Sherlock to pull him behind me, trying to shield him when the second shot ripped open my shoulder and struck Sherlock in the chest. His shirt ripped from my hands as he flew back. The crack of the back of his head hitting a rock echoed in the silent wood.

My knees buckled and I fell beside him. I cradled his head into my lap. He grasped my right hand tightly.

What I couldn't remember before, every bit I'd forgotten, I now recalled. The accident, the hospital. Sherlock's confession of love.

Panic and doubt ate me. There I was, crying, the back of Sherlock's head sticky in my hand. Afraid I couldn't do it. I looked up at Irene— her face etched with guilt.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like this," she said.

"John, I'm cold," he said, coughing. Blood bubbled on his lips. "Cold," he said again. I hugged him to me and sobbed into his hair.

His blood warmed my chest. Brushing his face with my hands, I prayed for guidance: how was I supposed to heal him? So much blood— part of it mine. I tasted metal in my mouth. I pressed my forehead into his and begged for some great resplendent light. Sherlock coughed up blood.

"Show me now," I begged. Laying on hands as if I were a healer in some old time revival. False healer . Please don't let me be false. I opened his shirt, and I saw the cavity— the bone and gore and the blood. So much blood. The moss was soaked in it. How could I heal this? I laid my hand on the gaping wound and asked, no, pleaded...please work... please .

I could hear them all near me. Breathless. Watching, waiting. Moriarty sneering. Moran, emotionless next to him with a rifle in his hand. Irene, pale and trembling.

Sherlock coughed again, splattered my face with his blood.

My right hand shook so violently as I pressed down on his chest that I thought I'd shake myself out of my skin.

"Heal," I whispered. "Heal, heal, heal." Then, "Oh God," my heart pounded in my eardrums. My other hand held Sherlock's tight, then his grip loosened. No warm squeeze against my hand. His eyes clouded. I let go of his hand and pressed his chest into mine. Clutching his back, blood soaking me.