The Quiet Man

As it Is

“There’s paracetamol on the worktop. Kettle boiled a moment ago. I made tea.” He still doesn’t look up. He’s typing as he talks. What’s gone on, then?

He made me a cup of tea; he must have poured the water when he heard me get out of bed. It’s steaming, and he’s already got his own cup. That’s nice. That’s very nice, it’s lovely. It’s perfect, and washes out the sticky feeling in my mouth. Wonderful. Sherlock, this is a spectacular cup of tea. Really top drawer. Aces. I can’t start complimenting him on his tea-making skills, that’s going too far.

“Any luck?” I can’t even remember what kind of luck he’s after; finding Moran, that’s what. Finding Moran so that we can get him, kill him, trap him, arrest him. Something like that. Right?

“Nothing,” he says. He sighs. He looks up at me, finally. His fingers hover over the keys. “He’s an idiot.”

“Most people are,” I tell him. He shakes his head and goes back to typing. “Have you eaten?”

Open up the fridge: I can’t remember what I put in here yesterday. It feels like years ago Mrs Hudson brought the shopping in. Eggs, right. That will do. We’ve got some bread. Eggs, toast. Bananas. Too suggestive, maybe. I’d accidentally make a stupid joke, or he would, and that would go wrong. I would embarrass myself. I’m not ready to have that conversation. Maybe I never will be. Ah, there’s apples, too. Apples seem safer. Food will help. The paracetamol will help. I could make us breakfast, since he made us tea. That’s parity, isn’t it? Sort of. We could sit here and eat breakfast, after having spent the night together. Well, not like that. Oh, god.

“No,” he says. No? Christ. No: no, he hasn’t eaten. Jesus: for a moment there I thought he’d read something on my face, but he’s not looking at me. That’s not a rejection of the imaginary night I was picturing the two of us having. Not yet, anyway. He may or may not know enough about my inner demons to reject that. I’m sure it will come, eventually. Unless...well.

I’m waiting for him to scold me, or tell me off, or explain, again, that he’s married to his work and not interested in me. As if I made some kind of proposal in the night, which I did not. Did I? No. No, I didn’t. I was only drunk, I was looking to see that he was still there, that he was real. Because I missed him all this time, he lied to me and pretended to be dead. He owes me some spooning, maybe. That might be how he sees it. He’s not mentioning it. It seems we’re going to pretend it didn’t happen.

Well, all right. That’s fine. That’s a kindness, isn’t it?

He didn’t leave and sleep on the sofa. It’s still got the newspapers on it I left there last night. No: he slept with me.

Don’t think about it. Not now. Make breakfast.

Boil the eggs, that’s easiest. Can’t go wrong there. Toast in the toaster. Take the paracetamol. He’s working: he’s quiet. I can hear his feet tapping against the floor in a regular pattern. He’s thinking; waiting. Anxious.

All right: so he’s moved on. Back to the case, back to Moran. He’s not asking about why I curled up against him in his bed. So, it didn’t bother him at all. Sleeping with me, me stroking his stomach. Yes, I definitely did that. He didn’t mind me resting my forehead against his neck and falling asleep like that. He’s not even thinking about it; he’s working. He checks his phones; texts from some of them. Stares at the screen. What does that mean?

I always felt like you were mine. Not like that, not really. But mine nonetheless. Irene saw it, but she wanted you anyway. That was rude, wasn’t it? She must have known what that would do to me. She didn’t care. She just took what she wanted, and what she wanted was you.