It could be nothing. It’s just an arrest, not even an important one. It didn’t make the front page. There’s no press conference about this one. The story doesn’t come with a photo, even. Just a few paragraphs on newsprint. It’s an arrest, that’s it. That’s all. People do illegal things and get arrested. It happens every day. They get arrested for these kinds of crimes all the time, too: fraud, forgery, conspiracy. There’s a hint about possible murders in the distant past, nothing specific. No named victims. Just an arrest, reported like any other arrest.
But that name: I recognise that name. It’s eastern European, I only know how to pronounce it because Sherlock said it. Once. I remember. Ivan Milunić. He said it in passing, while draped over the sofa in his dressing gown, reading off a scrap of paper he handed to me a few minutes later.
“Pin it to the wall, would you? On the map, on Baker Street.”
I was in the kitchen making myself lunch when he said it; I was contemplating making lunch for him too, but I wasn’t sure he’d eat. I remember: I was standing in the kitchen, looking down at a plate, considering bring down a second from the cupboard. How I would make him a sandwich and a cup of tea. I remember wanting him to eat. I was worrying a little. He was so thin. He hadn’t eaten since early the day before. And then, like it was nothing, he told me this man was set to kill us. This man with the eastern European name. It was written in his handwriting on a scrap of paper. He’d torn it from somewhere. A name.
“Pin this to the wall, would you?” He held up the slip of paper with the name on it, waiting for me to retrieve it, the way I always do. Ivan Milunić.
His shirt was pulled up a bit, exposing his navel. I stared, I think. I stared, and I didn’t even notice that I did. I didn’t think about it. I just drank him in, unaware entirely. I remember too much about his stomach, though: his breath in and out, a bit of hair just under his waistband, a small, unexplained scratch down along his left hip. I remember all that: I must have stared. His eyes were shut. He didn’t notice. Well: I can’t say that. He might have noticed. He probably did. He didn’t care. He let me. He must have known.
I had just met a woman on the train, though I never told him that. He probably knew about that too, either from the way I walked up the stairs, or how I paused in the sitting room, or the way I’d buttoned my shirt. I don’t know how, but he’d know. She was pretty. She was nice. We flirted. She smiled at me; she told me her name. She gave me her number. I was thinking about her, the way her jacket fit against her waist, the way the nape of her neck smelled like strawberries. I never called her; why didn’t I? I got distracted. That was all. Someone was preparing to kill us; life suddenly got short. I forgot about her. I don’t remember her name anymore. I don’t even remember her face.
But just then, when he said it: I was making lunch, thinking about the nape of her neck, thinking about Sherlock’s thin frame and the fact that I could see his hip bones over the edge of his waist band. I could see his navel. Desire: it was all blended together. For her; him. I don’t think I noticed that, the blending of them. His hip bones, the nape of her neck, his stomach. I could see his breathing. I felt good. And in the middle of all that desire he said a name, lazily, with no concern at all, as if he frequently listed off the names of men who’d been hired to kills us.
“Pin it to the wall.”
Maybe it’s a very common name, I don’t know. But Ivan Milunić was arrested for fraud, forgery, and conspiracy yesterday. Conspiring to do what? Kill someone? Presumably. Who? Who this time?
If I’m right, he was part of Moriarty’s web. Or he was, years ago. Low-level: he was only some hired muscle. He had some obvious tattoos, scars; he was easy to recognise. Sherlock wasn’t concerned about him. He felt we could handle him. Nothing came of it, in the end.
I’m fairly sure that’s him. It must be. They’ve arrested him out of the blue, just days after the press conference, after all that attention: a quiet arrest of a mercenary. One of Moriarty’s shadowy crew.
Moriarty is dead. Who will they arrest now? Is everything out in the open? Cut off the head of the serpent, and its body flails around for a while afterward. The blood spatters everywhere. Is that what’s happening? I’ll clip this. This means something, I’m sure of it. I’m developing a collection of these. What am I doing?
A list of arrests: one after another. Frequently several in one day, all linked to Moriarty’s various connections and crimes. Sometimes they mention him directly; other times, it’s only implied. And some I just have a hunch about. It’s a small pile of newspaper clippings and bits of news sites I’ve printed out. It’s my little obsession.
It could be a story, one day. A long, meandering story about a web of crime syndicates and their connections. How they worked together to create a lie that brought down the cleverest man in the world: the greatest crime of all.
I haven’t written about Sherlock’s suicide, which, given how much time I’ve spent thinking about it, is strange. But I don’t want to write about it; that story is senseless, full of lies, and it has no satisfying conclusion. I thought it would stay that way, unwritten, at least by me. But maybe not. Maybe all these arrests, Moriarty’s death, maybe there’s a story in here. This little pile of paper isn’t just an obsession, it’s a collection of plot details that might make the end of that story make sense. Maybe. If I can trace the whole thing, piece it together, maybe it can.
But no, probably not. There are too many missing details. The newsprint can’t hold it all. I can’t hold it all. It’s just a collection of potentially connected facts, that’s not a story. And I’m not in a position to have the crucial details whispered into my ear anymore.
Sherlock never whispered.
A series of arrests is not a story, not if you don’t know the connective bits that binds them together. The real stories, the complicated one that don’t fit into a soundbite. I only half-know it, I’m only guessing. I’m fabricating. It’s all fiction now.
And here’s another: a group of illegal immigrants with an underground bunker full of automatic firearms. With links to so-called organised crime. Are they related as well? Maybe. Who knows. How could I know? I remember all those laser sights, their sharp red lights on Sherlock’s forehead, dancing across his throat, hovering over his chest; there was a collection of them on me, too. So many guns pointed at us. They must have come from somewhere, and there were blokes, presumably, aiming them at us. What about all of them? They didn’t vanish into thin air. They exist. Will they all get quietly arrested?
I’ll cut this one out. I can’t make the direct link, but I have a feeling about it. A feeling is enough. Enough for my collection, anyway. A pointless collection can afford to have low standards. But there’s something here. I know it. It’s like your fingerprints are in here, Sherlock. And if I can piece it together, I might see your face in it.
That’s madness. It’s not that: it’s just a kind of closure, that’s all. It’s perfectly normal. For the circumstances, which are, of course, decidedly not normal.
What I should do, really, is pin all these up on the wall, in chronological and thematic order, on a map, and see them all at once. That way I can get a sense of the entire web, track what’s going on. There’s progress in it, somehow. It’s following a path. It would be telling, I think. Definitely. I should pin them up on the wall.
Mary would hate that.
I have a box of thumbtacks; where are they? In the kitchen? In a drawer, yes. Here. Here they are. I can put them on the wall behind my desk, that will be perfect. It’s got that crack through it Mary wanted me to fix. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it as soon as I’ve got a grip on these arrests. A week or two: then I’ll get out the plaster and smooth the whole thing away. Like it never happened.
“Are you ready?” She’s still got curlers in her hair. We’ve got plenty of time. She’s not even dressed yet.
“I just need to put my tie on,” I tell her, which is a lie. But a tuxedo and shoes are easy. I can run a comb through my hair, I’ll be fine. I don’t need hours to get ready, not like Mary. I don’t entirely understand it: she straightens her hair and then curls it again. Why not just leave it curly in the first place? It’s bizarre.
She keeps calling it my book launch party, but it really isn’t. It’s for my book, that’s true, but the launch is theirs. This wasn’t my idea. I’d happily just have them send the book to the stores and see how it does. See if anyone wants to buy it. I don’t really know the people they’ve invited, and I doubt anyone really wants to talk to me. The people who go to these things, they’re all in marketing or the media, they’re not really that interested in people like me, or stories like mine. They’ll want to talk about Sherlock, though, because of the news. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I’m not sure.
It’s starting to feel strange again, talking about him. I can’t put my finger on why. It’s reality intruding.
What do they want me to say, anyway? Yes: I’ve been telling everyone that he’s innocent for years now, and finally you’re starting to believe me. Fantastic! Thanks for that, really. Thanks. I have to avoid getting angry with them; it’s not their fault. They just parrot the lines they need to. I have to just smile, nod, laugh, and drink more champagne.
I really hate champagne.
I’ve got a map here somewhere; in the drawer of my desk. Right: it’s under that stack of fresh paper. Perfect: I’ll pin that up. Yes. Then these: the first set of arrests. Those are obvious: the financiers, they’re directly linked. The back accounts, the transfers. Scotland Yard didn’t shy away from naming names then. Lords and ladies, willing to fund a mass murderer and a psychopath. Lovely: just lovely. Two blokes from MI5: treason. Secrets. Coventry. Didn’t mention Moriarty, but they hardly needed to. A little knowledge goes a long way. There was a dominatrix who knew exactly what those two like, I suspect. Then the guns, the Croat. There. Is this a pattern?
I can put a mark on the spot where they found Moriarty, that’s should be the centre. But they’ve never said exactly where he was. Greg will tell me, I bet. When I see him. I’ll ask. He’ll tell me. I’m sure he will. I should get some yarn, I can tie links between the arrests I understand as directly linked together. That’s what Sherlock would do. It made sense. It makes things look clearer.
“What on earth on you doing?” She’s already angry. “John, what the hell have you done to my wall?” One hand on her hip. Her bare feet are flat on the floor.
“It’s for a story,” I tell her. I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want to look her in the face when I say this. I need to do this, Mary. I need this. Please. Please just let me. “I’m trying to make sense of it.” She doesn’t say anything. “You wanted me to fix that crack anyway, didn’t you? I’ll plaster it over. In a week or so. That’s all.” Still: nothing.
I need to turn, I need to look at her. That’s what she’s waiting for. So: turn. Look at her. She’s wearing a lot of eyeliner. It makes her look like someone else, someone with gigantic eyes. Someone younger than she is. She looks beautiful. She looks professional, intelligent, savvy. She looks like she’s in control of things. And she is. Her gigantic eyes are boring holes in me.
“I’ll fix it,” I tell her. “They’re just tacks.”
“Which story is it for?” She doesn’t believe me. Why doesn’t she? She knows I write about Sherlock. I write about crimes. She knows that. She’s read the book. She read the dedication page too. She thought it was sweet. Why is this strange to her, then? This is what I do. I’m a writer. I write stories. This is my material.
“It’s about Moriarty,” I tell her. I have to make this up fast. “In the end. All these are related. This is his reach, these are his connections here. This man,” I lay my finger on the article, the one with no picture, “this man was hired to kill me.” That’s true. Not just me, really, but it’s true.
“Wow,” she says. I’m not sure what that means. I’m really not sure. I don’t know if it’s ironic, or sarcastic, or disbelieving. Or genuine. I don’t know why it’s so hard to know what Mary means; it’s like she deliberately says things that can be read any number of ways. Why does she do that? “That sounds really different than the stories you’ve pitched, John.” Ah. Right. She’s doesn’t like it. She hates it. I’m sure she does. Well, I knew she would. She’s concerned that I’m getting off track, that I’ll miss my deadlines. My editor would hate it too. Not enough human interest, it doesn’t fit into the series. It’s not one of the outlines we agreed to. They like stories about Sherlock manipulating people, Sherlock in a hat, Sherlock getting things wrong. The clean up job isn’t so interesting. Sherlock’s not in it. There’s no one central character. I don’t even know who the hero of this story is; who’s finding all these secret operatives? Who’s taking Moriarty’s web apart, piece by piece? It’s not a narrative, it’s not a story they’d want. Justice on its own isn’t a story, I guess. Making sense of a senseless death isn’t enough of a story. It’s an obituary. A long overdue one.
All of this work isn’t for a story. It’s not: I know it’s not. This is for me. I need this. I don’t know how to tell her. She won’t understand.
“I’ll fix the wall.” I’ve already said that. “I just needed a big space to sort out the details.”
She sighs. “Well, all right. Fine. I hate that beige anyway, I guess. You might as well repaint it afterwards.”
“I can do that.”
“Maybe in red. I’ve always wanted a red wall.” She looks me up and down, pointedly. “You’re not ready.”
That’s true. I’m not. I’m still wearing jeans and a jumper.
“I’ll be ready in a minute,” I tell her.
“We’re leaving in ten.”
“Okay.”
She smiles then, like she won an argument. Did she? I’m not sure. She wraps her arms around me, she kisses me. She tastes like toothpaste.
“Are you excited about tonight?”
Can I say no? Absolutely not. This is her party. She’s spent months on it. She’s doing it because it’s her job, but also because she loves me. I have to remember that. She does these things for me, because she wants me to be successful. I want that too.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Yeah, I am.”