Failing Upward

Chapter 28 (part 2): Going, Going, Gone

I told him everything. I told him who and what I was and where I came from, as much as I could fathom. I told him about Moriarty, about my Sherlock. About being buried alive and how having my own Mind Palace saved me. I also told him that even if he looked, smelled and tasted like my Sherlock, I still couldn't sleep with him.

He believed me. He believed all of it. I almost cried for joy. And as we got into his car to take me home, he asked me if I was sure I didn't want to stay. I guess he believed everything except that I didn't want him (with good reason). I told him no, I wasn't sure, but he should take me home anyway.

The last thing he asked me as I got out the door was what I was going to do. I told him I didn't know.

I walked in the door of the old farm house and looked at the old Grandfather clock— it was past four in the morning. Part of me wanted to sit at the old grand piano and play, just lose myself for a while in melody, but instead I went up the stairs in a daze to my room. I stripped and spread out on the bed, too mentally wrung out to even try to beat off properly.

The last time I looked at the clock it was 4:57.

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The next morning I wasn't awake long before Sherlock texted. He wondered if I needed to come over. It wasn't some pick up; it was genuine concern on his part. Sherlock meant well, but I couldn't go. As much as I wanted and needed someone to talk to, I knew what would end up happening if I was alone with him for too long. I also didn't want to put him in danger.

I knew I had to get back to my Sherlock, and I was willing to bet that the other John was looking for a way back to his Sherlock, too. But how?

Later in the afternoon, he called. He insisted we meet, go somewhere to talk, but he stressed that it was important he talk to me. Of course he'd get his way. He always does. I told him I'd borrow my brother's car and meet him.

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We met at Denny's on Michigan Avenue. The place was shiny and silver with flashing neon and glittering red vinyl— one big nostalgic faux 1950s drive-in. An old Sinclair gas station sign on the front wall greeted me along with the rather oily waitress in a black skirt, flats and a stained white blouse. I nodded toward the table where Sherlock was seated, reading the menu in the back corner booth. An old photo of Bill Haley and the Comets was screwed to the wall behind Sherlock's head. As I got closer, I was surprised to see it was a genuine autographed photograph. I picked up my menu and poked my head over the top, watching Sherlock as he nervously sat rubbing his thumb on the handle of a white coffee mug.

"I couldn't sleep last night, not that I ever do," he began, turning my cup over for the waitress to fill.

The sparkling vinyl seat burped as I scooted around to sit closer.

"I replayed everything you said to me the weeks before you disappeared."

"Not me."

"No. My John. I realize now the importance of all my John said." His mouth snapped shut as he looked up at the waitress, waiting for her to finish taking our order so he could continue. I asked her for more coffee and a ham and cheese omelet. Sherlock went for pancakes with whip cream.

I swatted the sugar envelopes back and forth against the palm of my hand before ripping them all open with my teeth and dumping them into Sherlock's coffee as his knee brushed mine under the table.

"Three sugars. You do know me." Pain crossed his face, and he picked up his straw off the table and twisted it in his hand. Leaning back onto the booth's seat, he tapped his fingers on the table, looking over my shoulder, deciding what to say next. "It's about the night he told me the truth," he said finally. "When I became so angry with him for not coming out, I didn't realize that he wasn't rejecting me. How could I have misread him so thoroughly?"