Failing Upward

Chapter 18 (part 2): And Miles to Go

***chapter warning for violence and attempted rape***

I couldn't sleep— not even if I'd downed four bottles of Nyquil or a handful of sleeping pills. I waited. And counted. Not sheep. I didn't count the specks on the ceiling either. I thought of counting all the men Mary fucked, but I was hoping that Peter wouldn't be that long (or on the list). Instead I counted kisses. It was an overly romantic time filler. Sherlock always accused me of being overly romantic..

I began by compartmentalizing kisses. Some had subtle differences. Mom's comfort kisses for skinned knees were awfully close to her so-sorry-your-girlfriend-dropped-you kisses. And how do you even define some of them? Shit, the way Sherlock sucks a tongue should be sold like Viagra.

I stared at the white wall, counting Mrs. Hudson's peck on my cheek on graduation day as my knuckles turned white gripping my mortarboard. Catalogue that as gratitude mixed with congratulations. She kissed me, then Sherlock, and thanked us both. Really, though, it was all Sherlock who got her away from the lunatic husband.

As I spackled over the bumps in the wall with remembered kisses, I silently thanked her back for everything she'd done for us since.

I counted all Sherlock's—bruising and soft lips, kind and hard. What they said and did. They were like morning rain, heat lightning and far off thunder. Sometimes sudden, but most times gradual like a summer storm over Lake Michigan. And I counted on being able to steal countless more showers from his lips if only Peter would show up soon.

I was counting the kisses beside the pond when the door opened. Finally!

Then Moriarty stepped in. So much for Deal distracting him. My hand twitched. Fucking nervous spasm.

He braced a folding chair under the doorknob and turned to face me like he was on center stage. I closed my eyes and counted, but not kisses. I had to go to a safe place and stay calm. I imagined Sherlock's Mind Palace and being safe inside his head. I imagined his hands massaging my temples, relaxing me. Panicking was not an option. Hand, stop.

I heard Moriarty's feet tapping like a fucking dancer near the bed. I refused to look at him. Tapping closer and closer.

"Open your eyes, Johnny Boy! It's show time! Look at me! I'm gonna be the best you'll ever have in your entire existence!" I felt the sheet begin to move.

I opened my eyes and stared at him like a captain dressing down his troops.

"We can't have this," he said, tugging the sheet off me. His eyes cut like glass. I looked at the door hopefully.

"No one is coming . They're all staying away because they don't care . It's just you and me with loads of time, time, time to get acquainted!" He pulled the familiar syringe out of his pocket. "Want a little something to take the edge off?"

"Ah, no," I answered. "I think I'll need something stronger."

He laughed in surprise, then plunged the needle into my IV anyway. The instant euphoria turned to panic with the rub of his thumb across my wrist. All his hate and insanity spilled inside me. At least my hand quit shaking.

In an instant he jumped on top on me, his knee slamming into my chest and knocking the wind out of me.

Fucking roses. Not good.

One of his hands clutched my throat. Not tight enough to cut off my wind, but enough to make me dizzy. At least I couldn't vomit if he was strangling me.

Talk. Quick, while I still could. He released his grip a bit.

"What's the matter?" I rasped. "A bit of erectile dysfunction? Hmmm. Testosterone too low?  Sherlock knows this herbalist... " his hand crushed my throat, and he dug his knee into in my sternum.