The Quiet Man

Cracking Up

It’s a good question, John. You know my methods. Why would I do that?

Don’t. Don’t send me down that road again.

“You thought it was?” Ella, prying for more details. I have to be clear with her. Maybe it will affect the dose she gives me.

“I knew it was.” That’s what so scary about this. That feeling. I knew it was you. I didn’t doubt it, I didn’t. Not at all. Like I’ve been waiting for you to come back, Sherlock. Like somewhere, somehow, I don’t believe you’re dead. I saw you. I heard you hit the ground. The blood, your skull. I saw. I felt no pulse. Your eyes, christ. Sherlock. Your eyes.

We buried you. I know you’re dead. But there’s some resistant part of me that doesn’t want to believe it. You’re smart, Sherlock. Very smart. Irene did it; a body in the morgue. DNA tests proving it’s her. But it wasn’t. Could you have done that?

But I saw you. I saw your blood. I saw.

Did you make me watch so I would have proof? Were you trying to help me avoid this magical thinking, imagining, somehow, that you’d come back to me?

“I was sure it was him,” I tell her. “I was sure. But I know he’s dead. I—”

Yes. I saw you die. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to cry in here. I feel myself twisting my lips to hold it back. So obvious: even Ella can see that. Even I would recognize the grief on my face.

“John,” Ella says. “This is perfectly normal.”

Normal?

“You’ve endured a trauma. It’s normal for it to take time to become reality.”

It doesn’t feel very normal.

“You’re looking for him, why? There’s something you need to say to him. Something you didn’t get a chance to say. You’re looking for him to get some closure, John. It’s to be expected.”

Why is she so certain about that? What do I have left to tell you?

“Try to talk to him, John.”

“He’s—” I want to say, he’s dead, but I can’t. I can’t do it, not again. I squeeze the bridge of my nose hard. “I can’t.”

A blatant lie. You talk to me all the time.

I’m not going to tell her that. She’ll have me committed.

“Try, John.” She leans back. “Just try.”

What, now? Here? Out loud?

“What do you need to say to him?”

What do I need to say to you? I don’t know. “Why did you do this?” I look at her face to see if she approves. This is like a test at school: the teacher knows the answer, but I don’t. “Why did you do this to me?”

She raises an eyebrow. Not the right answer. Okay, then.

I shut my eyes, I try to picture you. It’s not hard. You’re always there, just behind the curtain or a door. You’re always so close.

We’re in a cab. Lestrade is just outside, the police are hovering around. They’re laughing, they’ve got their phones out. Snapping pictures, I think someone’s getting video. They’ve hauled you by your armpits into the backseat, and the driver looks terrified.

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “It’s fine, he’s fine. It’s just...it’s nothing, he’s fine. Recreational. He won’t throw up.” I hope that’s true.

They push you into the cab without much finesse, but I support your head. You’re pretty much out cold, but your fingers are twitching, like you’re trying hard to hold on to some thread of consciousness. I wonder what on earth that woman pushed into your veins; hopefully nothing addictive. Lestrade folds your legs into the cab and I rest your head in my lap. I can hear the snap of phone cameras and I look up and give them all a wry look. People will talk indeed. Now you’re curled up in my lap, my hand on your shoulder, I’m telling Lestrade to be careful with your feet. Make sure they don’t slip out and get slammed in the door. My hand is in your hair, cupping your head. I can feel your pulse racing. What on earth did she give you?

“It’s all right, Sherlock,” I tell you, though I’m fairly sure you can’t hear me. “We’re going home. It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.”

Lestrade shuts the door, and I can hear the police laughing. It doesn’t matter. You won’t care. I adjust your jacket a little, and pat you on the hip.

“We didn’t see that coming,” I tell you. “A naked woman with a syringe. She’s stolen your coat. She’s smart, like you are. You like her? I think she likes you.”

I don’t know why I’m talking to you. “Yeah, I think you do like her. I think you do. I’m sure she’ll be back.” As I say it, I feel my stomach drop in a strange way, like I don’t quite belong anymore. Like Irene is about to change everything. I don’t know why: I’m just your friend. That’s all. Irene, well. I pat your hair, and listen to your breathing. “You’ll be fine,” I say. But I mean me.

What do I want to tell you? I look down at your face in my lap. Your eyelids are fluttering slightly. You’re struggling against it still. What do I need to tell you?

I look up at Ella. “I don’t know.”

“You need to find out, John.”

I nod. I guess I do.