The Quiet Man

Compulsion

As I said. Romance and trifles.

Human truths, Sherlock. As opposed to just facts and figures. This isn’t any less true, you can’t deny that. You were shattered. The look on your face: you were so disappointed in yourself. You were hungry for that conclusion, for the wheel to snap into the right spot. These are your truths. Evidence that you’re a real man, that you inevitably fail sometimes. You get frustrated and tired and confused, just like anyone else. Without these details you seem like some kind of calculating machine, measuring the length of shadows in your head and determining the exact time a murderer entered a room. It seems robotic somehow, like you’re a bit of science fiction. Fake. Showing a bit of failure makes you seem even more amazing, you know. They say it’s their favourite story yet.

Bizarre.

Such kind comments, too. Flattering. Very flattering. I liked that paragraph too. I read about “murder your darlings” and thought I had to cut it, but it stayed in. So glad you liked it, Sophie from Shropshire. I liked it too.

Oh, hello, Madge from London. You love Sherlock, do you? Yes. I understand that. He’s lovable in this light, isn’t he?

Don’t let all this praise go to your head, John.

A weird ping noise from the corner: my friend in the hat. His phone. He digs it out of his pocket and stares at it. I can see his chin, his lips mouthing words at it. A chin a little like yours. He could be a relative. Maybe he’s a Holmes cousin, did you have any cousins? Everyone has cousins, don’t they? You never said.

You weren’t ever one for family, were you. It’s among my regrets, not counting you as family soon enough. I should have invited you along with me to Harry’s for Christmas. I spent Christmas with you anyway. I should have just planned to. I’m sorry for that. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it. Christmas with me rather than alone. Of course you did. And it didn’t even occur to me.

Our relationship is so complicated I still don’t entirely understand it. And yet it’s the simplest thing in the world in any given moment. Why is that?

He holds his phone in both hands and crouches over it, like someone might try and read his text over his shoulder, or steal his phone. Like a Dickens character with a bowl of gruel. Thumbs flying over the keys. He can text faster than I can type. Kids, honestly. I don’t think they know what phones were originally for. It’s a distant memory now. Ancient history.

Oh: new email. Mrs Hudson. She’s just read my story; did the paper version come out already? Or is she reading online these days? That’s nice of her: compliments. She laughed at my description of you flouncing out of the room with your coat swinging. She recognizes you in that epilogue, all sad and frustrated. The little smile you gave me anyway: she recognized that. She thinks my writing is improving, well that’s nice. Though I suppose that means she thought it was piss poor before, doesn’t it. Doesn’t matter: I’ll take it. I’m learning. I’m getting better. The more you do it the better it gets, isn’t that how it is? It seems to be.

I could picture you so clearly when I wrote that scene. The expression on your face; for all the things you know so well without asking, the smallest things surprise you. I was willing to shoot a man for you. The look on your face. Honestly. How could I have known something you didn’t know?

It would be embarrassing to tabulate how much time I’ve spent staring at your face. And I end up doing it at the oddest times. I remember sitting at the table, typing. Writing up a case, then, nothing fancy. Then suddenly: there you are. Your face.

“Why are you describing my coat?”

You’re reading over my shoulder again. At first that bothered me a lot. It seemed like such an invasion of privacy; I could always show you the post before I publish it, if you like, I offered, but you didn’t want to. Too much work. Words aren’t interesting to you. You said you didn’t care. But then you sneak around and peer over my shoulder while I’m writing and read the whole thing before I’m even finished. You can’t resist it, can you. Words about you are always interesting, aren’t they? They are to me.