“John?”
There’s a brief moment of panic when I hear someone call out my name in public. Every time. It feels like they’ve caught me and I’ll have to confess. All my secrets revealed in a moment. Like they’ve caught me laughing out loud at something you said only in my head. Or they see something in my face that I’m not ready to talk about. But only you could do that.
They say my name like that and I wonder if maybe I’ve started speaking aloud out in public instead of keeping our conversations where they belong. Maybe I’ve finally cracked and I’m talking to the fruit at Tesco. Maybe I said something to you, and I’ve said it to everyone in the produce section now as well. My secrets revealed in one absent mumble.
I talk out loud to you sometimes, if no one else is around. It’s only a matter of time before I start doing it in public.
I’d better not tell Ella about that, either. My list of things not to mention is growing far too long. One day I’ll have to reverse the lists and tell her everything I mean not to. That will surely result in an impressive list of prescriptions.
It’s a woman’s voice. It’s not an accusation. I haven’t done anything strange, I’m sure I haven’t. I’m just doing some shopping, staring at rows of shiny apples. Just like anyone else at Tesco. That’s all. A woman’s voice, high-pitched, nervous. It’s someone who thinks she knows me, someone who wants my attention.
That voice is familiar: I know it. It’s quiet, and a little bit squeaky. Who is it? Not a woman I dated, no. A client? I don’t think so. I remember: her lab coat, nitrile gloves, the smell of formaldehyde. Her hair pulled back, her timid hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. A careful smile. It’s Molly Hooper. Of course it is.
So I’ll be polite, I’ll turn around. Prepare myself to be friendly. I need to be pleasant. Christ, this is going to be awkward. I haven’t seen her in ages. She’ll want to talk about you. I’m not sure I can bear it. Ella just spent an hour on that trick, and it didn’t go so well. There’s only so much of that I can take. It’s like physical pain: I have a breaking point. There’s not much more to say. You’re gone. We buried you. That’s all there is.
Her coat is hanging open, her cardigan is buttoned up crookedly. She looks more nervous than she sounds. I don’t know what to say to her. She’ll want to know about you. About how I’m coping without you, surely. She’ll want to commiserate. She knew you longer than I did. But she didn’t know you better.
She loved you. There’s no question about that: she loved you. And you were so cruel to her. There’s nothing I can say to make that better, is there. He didn’t mean those things he said, I could say. He just lacked social skills. Is that true? I don’t know. You’re smart enough to fake your way through social skills. I think you only have contempt for people who love you. For people who make it too obvious. I could say he didn’t mean those things, but it would be a lie.
You did mean them, didn’t you. You always say what you mean. You are not an ambiguity. Except for in death. Then I just don’t even know where to start.
It’s all right. I’ll just tell her I’m in a hurry. I’ve got an appointment. Hopefully she didn’t see me leave Ella’s office just now. I’m exhausted. I don’t want to talk. Sherlock is dead, he’s dead. He killed himself. I can’t accept it, I can’t understand it, I can’t move on. Yes: it’s pathetic. I know. There’s no more ground to tread here. I’m on the edge of the cliff, and the only way is down.
“Hi,” she says. She smiles. It’s a fake smile, I know those.
“Hello, Molly.” I smile too. It’s also fake. Why are we doing this?
“All right?”
“All right. Yourself?” Maybe I can just deflect.
She nods. “Fine.” She stares at her hands for a second. I should jump in, tell her I’m in a hurry. I haven’t picked up a single item yet. My trolley is completely empty. “Are you...” She stops. Am I what? She looks up again, and stares at me, hard. Like she’s trying to find something in my face. What? What is it?
“You know he isn’t a fraud,” she says. No beating around the bush here.
I shrug. Of course I know that. I don’t really know how to respond. “The media think otherwise.”
“But you know the truth,” she says. These sound like questions, even though they can’t possibly be. Her words turn up a bit at the end, like she’s asking me. You know the truth? No, no I don’t. I don’t know the truth of anything. I ask and I ask, but I’m going around in circles. I’ll never get an answer, and I’m no closer to closing the door on this. No. I don’t know the truth. I’m in the dark on this one.
“I don’t know anything anymore,” I tell her. It’s a bit too much information. I didn’t mean to be so honest. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” she says. “You know that he’s–” she stops. “That he’s trying to–” She sighs. “He’ll do anything for you.”
This is just weird. Is this some kind of–
Is she jealous? Is this her heartbreak spattering out at me?
He shares a bed with me, sometimes. Did she know that? Did she guess? He crawls into my bed in the mornings to talk to me when he’s cold, or when he’s bored and wants me to entertain him. He rests his hand on the nape of my neck while he scans my blog posts over my shoulder and I pretend to hate it. Is she jealous of all that? It doesn’t mean anything. It’s only us, flatmates. Friends. My dreams are only dreams. She can’t know about those.
“We weren’t a couple, you know,” I tell her. God. Like I haven’t spent the last hour defending myself against this exact same argument. Sherlock and his feelings for me, me and my feelings for Sherlock, what does it matter now? He’s gone, Molly. Are you jealous? There was nothing to be jealous of.
Well, that’s not true, I suppose. From her perspective. He mocks me too, but I know he cares for me. He thinks I’m fantastic, he said so. That once, at least. He loves my attention, he loves that I adore him. He knows that I adore him. You know that, don’t you, Sherlock? It’s obvious, of course you do. I admire everything you do, in every possible way. You love it. You preen over it. I think you’re a little dependent on it, frankly. I think it’s why you want me around all the time. When you say something especially clever you turn to look at me, you wait for it. You count on my admiration to come pouring out. Brilliant, I’ll say. Genius. Amazing. That’s outstanding, Sherlock, really well done. Wonderful. Fantastic.
I love him and he loves that I do; she loves him and he had no time for her. He’s scornful. No wonder she’s jealous. I’d be jealous too.
“He’d do anything to protect you, John.”
What? What does that mean? How does she know about that?
She’s trying to compose her face. There’s something else there. What is this? “He would die,” she says, with the emphasis on die. “ Rather than see anything happen to you.” She looks at me like this means something. Like I’m supposed to parse it and continue her sentence, add the next link in the chain. Like it’s a puzzle piece or some secret code. A password. I don’t know it. This makes no sense.
Maybe she’s a bit cracked as well. It wouldn’t surprise me.
He’d die. Well, he did, Molly. He did. It’s not a future eventuality, it’s the past. What are you getting at? What do you want from me?
I haven’t seen her. We haven’t talked. She must be reading The Strand, though. She must be. She would.
There is a large set of comments that continue on from story to story about whether or not Sherlock is in love with me. They come up with lists of proofs: things he says, things he does. The way he turns back and looks at me. The way he waits. I read it, I look at all the new comments every day, but I don’t respond to those. I wait to see which side is going to win.
It changes day to day. Some people think it’s not Sherlock who was in love with me, it’s me who was in love with Sherlock. The last time I checked, that argument was winning. They have an impressive set of evidence culled from my blog and my stories. Turns of phrase, focus, the way I write about his eyes. The way I dedicate each of my stories to the not-so-mysterious S. Obvious, they say. It’s obvious. I’m only writing him to look as if he loves me back. I think they are probably right.
I bet Molly’s read them all; she must see herself in me. Unrequited love on display, constantly. The pain of it. She must feel sorry for me.
Or she doesn’t: maybe she thinks he’s in love with me, too. Me, instead of her. Unfair. Unfair entirely. I’m not gay. Sherlock doesn’t want a relationship. Love made pointless, drifting off into space, as if it never mattered at all. Well, now it doesn’t, in any case. Just a bit of history now, either way. Does he or doesn’t he, do I or don’t I, it doesn’t matter.
“You understand, John? He’d die,” she says again, like I’m meant to be capable of making sense of it. Which I am not.
Molly. He’s dead already.
He did die. He did die, Molly. What are you trying to tell me?
Am I supposed to understand this? He’d die rather than let something happen to me. What’s the suggestion? That he died so that I wouldn’t be harmed?
That makes no sense. I’m not in any danger. I wasn’t; it wasn’t about me. It was about him. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, he sent me away. He sent me away, then he fell. And I saw him. I saw him there, I saw him dead, and there was nothing else. There was no danger, there were no guns, no bombs, no threats, nothing. Moriarty had done his worst. He had ruined Sherlock without ever touching him. He had made a fool out of him, he had destroyed his reputation and his career. There was no more need for threats. He had what he wanted. He forced Sherlock to take the poison pill, because there was no one there for me to shoot. And I wasn’t there to pull the trigger. He played the long game, Moriarty did. He beat you in the end.
Maybe that’s why you did it. You can’t bear to be beaten. You’d rather die. And maybe that’s the only answer I’m ever going to get.
You said goodbye, you said, goodbye, John, and you spread your arms as you fell. As if you might fly. One last experiment with gravity. You’d prefer that to living with defeat. You’d rather die.
This isn’t fair, it’s not–
No. Not here. Don’t do this to me. Molly: just. Stop.
I’m not going to have conversations like this. Not at Tesco, not anywhere. This is an ambush.
I hold up my hand. The universal sign. It’s too much. Why is Molly doing this to me? Emotional agony in place of casual chit-chat in the shops: she’s breaking all the rules. We’re in public. It’s not my fault he didn’t love her. It’s not my fault. “I can’t.”
“John–” she’s about to say more, but stops herself. She bites her lip. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I need to go now.” That’s really all I can say.
“Take care,” she says. As if I ever could.