The Quiet Man

Necessary Precautions

But he didn’t, in the end, did he. You’d beaten him, right from the start. I hadn’t quite realised it; you beat him. Moriarty devised a trap for you, he didn’t think you could escape from it. But you did. That’s amazing, Sherlock. It’s fantastic. You beat him and buried him under your own name. He would have hated that. Or appreciated it.

“He might have appreciated the irony.” Geniuses like the idea that they can be beaten from time to time, don’t they? You certainly do.

“Moran will threaten you now, in his place.”

Right. To get to you. Well, that’s why I’m bait. Isn’t it? If he can’t find you, he can at least find me. What purpose will that serve?

“So he didn’t know? That Moriarty was dead all this time?” That you were alive, hiding? He must not have known. You fooled him.

You glance over at me, your fingers still covering your mouth. You look frustrated. Impatient. What are you waiting for? You shake your head no. “He’s an idiot.”

Most people are, Sherlock. Most people are.

“Oh, lovely.” Your trademark sarcasm is on display again, I see. What is it now? There’s a car pulling up outside. Who’s there? Not whoever you’ve been waiting for, clearly. Not anyone welcome, either. “Oh, take your time out there, please.”

What?

“We’re to be treated to a visit from Her Majesty.” Are we? You walk over to me and adjust the table at my elbow. You’re creating a tripping hazard, aren’t you. On purpose. Then you sit opposite me. You throw back your shoulders and assume the most languid, bored pose possible. Must be your brother, then. I see relations there haven’t improved any in the last three years.

“Mrs Hudson!” You shout for her. She can hear you; the door’s still open a bit. “No need to answer the door, we’re not interested in having any visitors this afternoon!”

Outside a car door opens, and closes again. There’s a pause; then the audible sound of a key pressing into the keyhole downstairs.

“I should have had her change the locks.”

He has the most deliberate pace in the world, your brother. It sounds as though every motion is planned and executed with purpose. He knows we can hear him. He steps into the flat, he closes the door behind him. There’s a pause, the rustle of a coat. The engine outside shifts gears and the car drives away. Are they leaving him here? Terrific. Neither of us want to see him.

All this time, he knew you were alive and didn’t tell me. He called me in the middle of the night two months ago, why?

I can hear his careful, even pace on the stairs. It couldn’t be anyone else. He must have ordered the security perimeter; only he could pass through it at will, I’m sure. I’m not going to play the mediator between you two. I’m not. I’ll leave you to it. Sherlock, this is yours to deal with. Don’t get me involved. Good luck with him. The door creaks a little as he opens it wide and steps through.

“Sherlock.” Smooth as silk, just as he always was. Some things never change. Not a single hair out of place. The creases in his trousers are perfectly pressed. He closes the door behind him. “Good afternoon, John.”

I suppose I have to answer that. “Mycroft.” Just nod. That should be enough. Enough from me, anyway. I’ll put the kettle on.

“How are you getting on, after the rude shock from yesterday?” He smiles. It could be a nefarious smile; it could be genuine concern. I can’t tell. He only has the one smile, and he pulls it out for every occasion. It is perfectly symmetrical and practiced. He’s probably adjusted it in the mirror over time to convey the perfect combination of guile, threat, and blamelessness.