The Quiet Man

Failsafe

That’s the second time you’ve tried to drink out of that cup. It’s empty, Sherlock. It’s still empty. You finished your coffee ten minutes ago. You want more? I’ll get it. I don’t mind.

You’re somewhere else entirely, aren’t you. You’re thinking, staring at the wall as if you can make it crumble with the sheer force of your will. I wouldn’t be that surprised if you could.

There’s CCTV footage playing on your computer, you’ve got two phones in your hand. And where did this come from? It’s a map of London spread across the kitchen table, it’s covered over with your handwriting and red pen marks. It’s got sticky notes all over it. There’s a rip on the very centre, where the folds meet. You’ve folded and unfolded this map many times; did you pull it out every day, every evening, spread it out on coffee tables and worktops, across beds in dingy basement flats? It’s got stains on it; coffee? Blood? Not blood, I hope. Not yours, at least. I hope not.

You went straight back to work this morning before I’d even got dressed; there are new boxes opened on the floor for me to dodge with the coffee pot in my hand. Books, papers, file folders; three years of work, investigations, confidential records and whatever else you’ve collected. Three years is a long time. It makes for a lot of boxes.

You finished half of your breakfast, that’s something. You’re working out the plan, aren’t you. Feeling out every possibility, every way this could end. There’s no point in it, Sherlock. There’s only one way, you know that: I need to walk in front of him. If I’m the bait, you need to dangle me in front of his nose and get him to bite. Not in your secured places, not in a tightly controlled way. I need to leave the safehouse, the compound you and your brother have built. You need to make him come out and try to shoot me, I’ll take my chances. But you’re thinking twenty-four steps ahead, aren’t you. It’s never anything so simple. You’re planning the endgame. And here’s me only thinking about coffee. Well, not only that: also the way your skin feels against my hands. I can’t stop thinking about that. And those sounds you make in the dark, in my ear. And your lips. God. Did that really happen? It seems inconceivable, really. But it did. It did.

You close your eyes and lean back in your chair. Your hair is still damp. I want to lean over and kiss your neck, just under your ear. I want to take your hand, knit my fingers with yours; I want to kiss the inside of your wrist. I want to pull you back into bed in the daylight, kiss you and taste the sweetness of the coffee on your lips, I want to tell you how much I’ve missed you. But I won’t; not now. It would distract you, and you wouldn’t appreciate it. The first time I kissed you I think you expected me to; will you expect me to again? Will I recognise it? There’s a time for everything, I know. Now is the time for breakfast, coffee, the paper, CCTV footage, and thinking. You want a plan. You want to stay twenty-four steps ahead. It’s all strategy and plotting: an elaborate game of chess, I know. Your fingers are twitching slightly; you’re playing out a scenario in your head. How does it end, Sherlock? Do I live? I hope so. You’ll find a way. I know you will.

It’s all right. I’ll refill your cup. Black, two sugars. I know. I’ll pour.

“Thank you.” Your eyes are open now. You’re studying me. I pour your coffee; I put the pot down. Add the sugar. Two sugars for you: I know. Of course I do. My hands move with the reassuring memory of long-practiced motion. I never dreamed I would have this back again, this odd life, this strange intimacy with you. But you’ve returned. And so have I, along with all of my muscle memories and devotion. Everything’s changed, and nothing has. Coffee: two sugars.

You’re still watching me. What are you thinking about, Sherlock? Last night? I’m still thinking about it too. I won’t be able to stop, not today. I dip the spoon in your cup and stir it; the light tapping of the metal against china reminds me of so many other mornings here with you. I only remember the ones with you; every other morning has faded as though it barely registered with me. Three years of mornings vanish overnight into watery grey because of you. There’s only you, now. You smile at me. That seems like an invitation. Kiss me.