The Quiet Man

Human Geometry

Hold on: were you asking me what we should have for dinner, or were you asking me out for dinner? There is a difference. A significant difference. Were you flirting with me? Is that what that was? If so, it was really subtle. Too subtle, Sherlock, come on. That’s not fair. I’d better respond again, just in case.

When this is all over, I’ll take you out for dinner anywhere you like.

Anywhere: definitely. I’ll put on a tie and a jacket and take you somewhere fantastic. And you’ll probably pick at your food if you bother to order any, and you’ll complain about the music, because it will be fine but not up to your standards, and you’ll try to deduce at least one scandalous thing about everyone there. We’ll probably get thrown out because you’ll insult the owner or disparage someone’s wife. That’s all right. I wouldn’t expect anything else. I’ll just laugh; I’ll laugh with you. If someone tries to hit you, they’ll have to make it past me first. I’ll take you home in a cab and rest my hand on your knee. And when I get you home I’ll kiss you and undress you, press you down against cool sheets and make love to you, because you’re mine. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Keep walking. You’re going to cross at the next intersection and turn left.”

It’s a different route than I took to get here; more main roads rather than side streets. You’re trying to help him track me. I’ll get home faster, though. It’s the more obvious route. Unsuspicious. Is he here? Do you know where he is? Is he only watching camera footage, or does he see me with his bare eyes? He could be anywhere: peering down at me from any of these dark windows. Don’t look: it’s too obvious. What do I normally do? Look straight ahead, look down at my shoes. Shove my hands into my pockets and think about anything else.

You’re typing; shifting things on the desk. I can hear a phone vibrating against the wooden surface. A text, not from me. Then another. And another. What’s going on, Sherlock? Tell me. Is it him? Is it Moran?

“Does he see me?” I can say it without moving my lips much. I run my finger across my upper lip. Normal motions; scratch my cheek. Rub my earlobe. Is that the glue coming loose? It’s a bit itchy. Don’t touch it, for god’s sake. The last thing I need is to lose my last connection to you. I’d be blind and deaf, walking right into my own grave. I’ve had enough of that.

“Yes. Yes, he does.”

All right. I knew it would be this way: it’s a performance, all of it. I have to keep my head ducked down: I don’t trust my own expressions. I’m too easily readable. I’m on guard, he’d see that. I’m waiting, I’m ready. My gun is a comforting presence against my back. Watch the pavement: watch other people’s feet approaching and disappearing behind me.

I need to walk like I don’t know anything at all, which is difficult. I need to walk like a man alone in the world, wandering home after a difficult day. I have plenty of experience with that, as it happens. But I’m not alone anymore.

“He’s beginning to guess where you’re going. Only beginning to, though. I’m not sure he even remembers about the failsafe. He’s not very clever, John.” You say that like a disappointed child.

You’re trying to play a game with someone who’s still struggling to find the playground, aren’t you. How frustrating. You miss Moriarty a little, don’t you. You miss the strategy and the challenge, working against an equal, though you don’t miss the risk he posed. To me, to you. I get it now. I understand. Your brain is just wired that way. It’s taken me ages to accept, but I think I do. You’re attracted to dangerous things, to things with sharp edges. Things that demonstrate just how clever you are, moments before they kill you.

I have no idea what you’re doing with me.

“Can you remind him about the failsafe?” You’re playing the rest of his network, aren’t you? Remind him it’s there. His secret weapon. A bomb in the boiler; take out Baker Street, destroy our home, Moran. Destroy me. Text him something that will jog his memory, Sherlock. If anyone can, it’s you.