The Quiet Man

Failsafe

I will. I always will, until you want me to stop, Sherlock. You have no idea. I love you. At some point I’ll have to tell you that. But not today. Not yet. There’s work to do.

I smile back at you, I sit down. Pour my own cup of coffee, why not? Add a bit of milk and watch it go from black to warm brown. I pick up the paper. This is what I do: I make love to you, I make you breakfast, I pour you a second cup of coffee. I stand in the street and wait to be shot for you. That’s how I want it to be. That’s perfect.

Hold on. Is this– What’s this doing in here? In this box of yours, full of papers and jars of god knows what, there’s a book. Well, more than one, but I recognise that dust jacket. This is my book. You’ve got my book?

You bought my book. Or someone did, someone gave it to you, maybe. It’s about you, after all. Maybe Mycroft brought you a copy. Did you read it? God: I fantasised about you reading it. The fantasy version of you, the pliant, easy, naked version who lived in my bed, curled up with my book. That version of you always loved it. Did you read it? I wonder. Maybe you just happen to have a copy of it. It hasn’t been out that long. Maybe you haven’t got around to reading it yet. I fold up the paper and put it on the table, and reach into the box. The dust jacket it is a bit battered, but that could be from travel. From being kept in a box with file folders and jars of hair and sand. It doesn’t mean you actually read it.

You’ve got your eyes closed again. Your fingers are steepled under your nose. Your coffee is steaming. This is my book you’ve got, Sherlock. Did you read it? I’m nervous about this. You were dead; it didn’t occur to me that you’d ever be able to read it. I romanticised you a little. Of course I did; you’re the hero of this story. Shit.

Wait: this is one of the copies I signed. I signed this. How do you have a signed copy? Did you put on a disguise and bring this book to me? God: were you standing across a table from me and I didn’t recognise you? It’s just my signature. If you’d been in front of me I would have asked you your name. I would have said, how do you spell your name? and I would have looked up at you, all friendly and harmless. I would have seen your eyes and known that it was you. No: you couldn’t have done that, it’s impossible.

It’s only my signature, nothing else. No To Joe or To George or To Amelia like every other copy I sign. It must be one of the copies from the launch party. There it is, my tired and sloppy signature, right there under With love, for S. You would have known I meant for Sherlock the moment you saw that, wouldn’t you? Of course you’d know. With love. I’ve already told you, then. It’s right there. Did you see it? Did you look?

Oh. Yes, you looked. You definitely did. Good god.

The margins are full, there’s bits underlined and notes stuck between the pages. God, the whole thing. Paragraphs circled, arrows all over the place. It’s your handwriting. You certainly read it. From cover to cover, it seems. And annotated it. Were you finding mistakes? Correcting me as you went along? Ha! Of course you did. Of course.

The car was blue, not red. Is this a deliberate misrepresentation?
I don’t know why you spend any time at all writing about the unsolved cases, John. There’s little to be learned there! Why would anyone want to know about them? But I suppose you know better, people love your stories. 
Admittedly this is quite entertaining. Even Mycroft likes it. Most of MI5 has read it, you know. Maybe you can teach them something.
His name was Frank. Are you trying to protect his identity? He’s dead, John, it hardly matters now. Besides, he was innocent.
I hadn’t realised you spent so much time looking at my hands. Are they really interesting enough for an entire paragraph?
Wrong. But very flattering.

Every page. Every blessed page. It must have taken you hours. You got my book, a signed copy, no less, and you talked back to me on every single page of it. Is this what you were doing while you watched me in coffee shops? Reading my book and writing all over it?