The Quiet Man

Tearing off a Plaster

Yes.

Fine.

I’ll lie down on the sofa.

How Freudian.

Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.

The smell of fresh-baked bread; I just need to think of it, and I’m there again. I put my bag down on the bed; your small case at the foot of yours. The sun is pouring into this little room. It’s a nice room, really. There was a time I thought we could go back, as a holiday. A weekend in Dartmoor. They made a good breakfast. It’s pretty. I don’t know why I thought you’d go on holiday with me. Why would you go to a little village like this without the promise of a grisly corpse and an array of possible suspects (including, of course, the victim). A live-action game of Cluedo can keep you entertained for a while; a holiday on the moor, long drives on country roads with no prospect of mayhem or murder, no. That’s not you. I know that.

“There’s no hound,” you say to me. You’re sitting on my bed. Your wrist is pressed against my hip. You look at me so seriously. It’s time, I suppose. You’re hurrying me along. You’re right. It’s time.

“There’d be nothing to keep you occupied here, I know. You wouldn’t have come back here.” It might have been nice, though. A holiday.

I wonder what I would have said to them, going back and asking for a double room. I never denied that we were a couple, not to them. They wouldn’t think anything of it. Maybe they’d let us stay for free. I could have kissed you under those worn quilts.

I would have written you poetry, you know. I’d have written it and hidden it on my computer for you to find. You’d have laughed, wouldn’t you. I think you would have liked that.

No: no more might have beens. No more questions. It was what it was; there’s nothing I can do to change any of it. I wouldn’t change it. It was perfect as it was.

“You need to believe it, John.”

I do believe it. If I could go back and change anything at all, it would only be to know more. And to treat you with a little more affection a little more often. If I could change one thing, I would take back what I said to you in the lab at St. Bart’s, about you being a machine. I wouldn’t walk out like that, angry at you. I wouldn’t walk out at all. I would go up to the roof with you. I would stand beside you, I would hold your hand until you decided to jump. Because I already know there’s nothing I could say to stop you. You are unstoppable, and you always have your reasons. I may be an idiot, Sherlock, but I know that I can’t stop you. I would just stay with you until the end, like I should have done. And I can’t say I wouldn’t have decided to jump with you. I can’t say I wouldn’t have.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I know. That’s what you said. That’s what you said here, in Dartmoor. It’s dark now. You’re going to sit here and tell me these things. You’ll tell me these things until you’re done, and then you’ll get up, hang your dressing gown in the cupboard, and fold yourself into your own bed. And we’ll sleep. And this will be over. The clock is ticking now; there’s not long to go. And I can’t stop it.

“I’d die before I’d let anything happen to you. “

It’s your guilt talking: in Dartmoor you took me to the edge of terror to see what it would look like. You thought you were drugging me with sugar. You created perfect laboratory conditions, you watched me like a rat in a cage. I forgive you for that. I can’t forgive you for dying. But that’s all right. That’s all right now.

“Sherlock.” You turn and look at me, your face is so serious. I think this was the closest you ever came to telling me how you feel about me. Maybe it’s the most you could ever say; I can’t imagine you forming the words. Not the way I’m about to. Not like that. I can’t entirely imagine you wanting what I wanted even then; you don’t give in to petty physical desires. Well, you don’t give in to most of them.

Maybe you knew. Maybe you knew that if I tried to kiss you, it would ruin things. There would have been hurt feelings and rejection and pain; we’d have lost everything. You wouldn’t have been able to crawl into my bed again like an innocent. Maybe this was as far as we could have gone, and you ended yourself before I could destroy it.

Bullshit. As if you would die to protect my feelings. No: you died for your own reasons, not for mine. To win a game, to stop being bored, to prove you’re bright. Not for something as trite and petty as love.

And I understand. It doesn’t matter: I know what I meant to you, it’s clear on your face. You’d die before you let anything happen to me.

Maybe something was about to happen to me; you must have had reasons. They must have been compelling, at least to you. Maybe your reasons involved protecting me, why not? Was it my life on the line? Mine or yours? I don’t know. But that doesn’t make it any better, Sherlock, it doesn’t mean I’ll forgive you. You’d have known that. You knew I wouldn’t. Of course you did.

“I have to say it, so just...just bear with me.” I sit up, and touch your face. You’re cool now, it’s grown cold outside. It’s too late for warmth. You just look at me, that sad, tired fondness on your face. Like you knew then I’d have to say this to you one day. Like this: here in Dartmoor, on beds that aren’t ours, without you here. “I loved you. I think I always did. I didn’t realize.”

That’s harder to say than I expected.

“I think I always will. There’s no one else like you.”

There never could be.

“And I can’t keep coming back here. It’s too tempting, and it’s preventing me from moving on with my life. I can’t live in the past forever.”

You nod at me. “I’ll be right here.”

“I know. That’s what makes this so difficult. I have to resist. I can’t fall into this trap again. I have to put the past in the past. I’m going to miss you. So much.”

“I’ll be fine.”

"We'll both be fine." That’s a lie, though. It's a lie. You're gone, and I'm as far from fine as I've ever been.

I rest my head against your shoulder for a moment. The last time. Just one more time. I look into your face again; your stern, sad face. I think you might be fading away even now, as if my admission is pushing you away. I’ll remember you. I always will. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

Beige walls. It’s so quiet here; so quiet and so hateful. This sofa is terrible. I can’t live here anymore; this place is a tomb.