“John.”
I know what she means. It’s all in the tone of her voice; she’s concerned, she feels sorry for me, she’s apologetic. She lied to me, at least once. Probably more than once, but I can’t remember now. There were other conversations between us, weren’t there? That was another time. Another universe, the one where Sherlock died. We don’t live there now.
Her hand seems frail against my arm, but she’s anything but frail. Mrs Hudson is part of the plan, she’s a co-conspirator. I should remember not to underestimate her.
“Are you all right?” Her big eyes are fixed on me. That’s genuine concern. She knew what she was sending me into. She knew what would happen, what I would see. Has she been sitting downstairs wringing her hands and imagining how this was going? Did she want to come in, watch, make sure we were getting on? Odd voyeurism: did she want to see me collapse? To see us embrace, to see us finally kiss? Not that we would do that, of course. Not that he would want to. She always thought we were together, contrary to all evidence. She always thought so. What did she think I would do? Kiss him, or kill him? “You’ve had such a shock, haven’t you.”
I’m tempted not to answer. I’m tempted to be honest. But no: what good would that do? There’s nothing she can do to make this any easier. Not now.
“I’m fine.”
She could have told me, that might have helped. Whenever she found out: she could have told me secretly, quietly. As if that would have worked; Mycroft would have known she’d done it, somehow. He’d have read it on my face on CCTV, or felt it somehow through the walls of Mary’s flat. He’d have known. But she could have tried to warn me, she could have helped me to guess, she could have done that much. She could have let me cope with this revelation in some privacy, with some degree of dignity. She could have given me a chance to get my head in order before I came face to face with him. I could have pretended to be surprised. So when he said to me, You didn’t guess? I could have said, Yes. Yes, of course I did, codes in the classifieds, a rash of arrests, of course it was you. I knew it was you. I’ve been waiting for you to turn up.
“Fine,” I tell her. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You certainly aren’t,” she looks behind her; don’t doubt that he can hear you, Mrs Hudson. He looks preoccupied, he’s setting up screens and some kind of radio on the desk, but don’t doubt him for a second. He hears everything. Yes, of course he’s listening to us. He can’t not listen, it’s his way. It’s not even deliberate, it’s just the way he is. There won’t be any secrets told in the kitchen that he doesn’t catalogue in the sitting room, you know that. Look at him: he’s beautiful. He hasn’t changed, except that he has: so thin, his hair is too long. He’s hunched over his phone in a posture that can only be his. I’ve seen that posture since: I’ve seen it in other people. Students in coffee shops, a man on the corner, looking at me from a distance. It was you, wasn’t it. All that time. Jesus, Sherlock. It was you. “You’ve had such a shock. You must be reeling, you poor dear.”
I don’t know how to answer that. My hands are still a bit shaky, but I can manage. I can manage the milk and the bread, the beans and eggs and tomato sauce, a bag of crisps, some beer (thanks, Mrs Hudson). I can manage. Food: I know what to do with food. I know where it belongs, I know how to avoid the worst of the experiments sitting in the fridge. There are none there now, though. None at all, it’s empty. This is the real fridge, not the one in my memory. I can still see the thumbs sitting in there in a bag, like a phantom. I can see the head too, faintly. That was so long ago. There was a portion of someone’s thigh in the crisper once, like a section of a tree, lying flat on a plate. I remember all the places where your bizarre collections of flesh sat, and the smell of the bleach I used on the inside of the fridge. I remember.
“I didn’t see him until this morning, though, you should know.” She whispers it to me, as if the volume of her voice matters. “Before that, everything came through his brother.”
Before that. Before this morning? When did she find out?
“I didn’t believe him at first, you know. I thought he was delusional, or felt guilty. Something like that. It couldn’t be true, could it. You saw it all! You saw poor Sherlock, you saw him when he fell off the–”
Oh no. No no no I can’t have that. No. Not even now, not even knowing he survived it, I can’t.
“No. No, Mrs Hudson. Please.”
She stops. She lays her hand on my back. That’s meant to be comfort; it works. She’s real, he’s real, and I’m really here. Right. The past is gone, and most of it is a lie. It’s such a big lie I have a hard time wrapping my head around the truth.
Still. I don’t like to think about him falling. Some part of him died then, surely, the part of him that I mourned. As if my mourning made him die, forced it to be real. That’s not how it works though, is it: it was a trick. It was a game, a ploy, it was all on purpose. But I’m still not ready to relive it, not yet. Not in the kitchen. Not now, like this. Not with ground beef in my hands. Sticks of butter. Open the fridge door; it’s only half empty now. Milk, beer, lettuce. Cheese. Just...breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. There’s a faint buzzing noise in the background, like static, is it the telly? Where’s Sherlock? What’s he doing? Nothing: he’s not doing anything. He’s looking at his phone, half-perched on the chair, half leaping up. The noise must be my jangled nerves. Can he hear them?
Of course not.
Jesus.
She sighs. “I wanted to tell you,” she whispers. “But he told me it would get you both killed.” Sherlock is texting frantically. Who is he texting? It’s work: he’s working. There are still phones littered all over the place. So many phones, why?
“I didn’t want that, of course. I thought a reunion would be so nice! He’s home, you’re both home now! It’s just like it was, isn’t that nice? He’s been talking about you all morning you know, John this and John that, he’s missed you so terribly. Did he tell you that? I’m sure he did. He would have done, I’m sure. He did, didn’t he? Oh, he was so excited to see you. He’s been frantic, he wanted you here at eight, if you can believe that, eight in the morning, to babysit a boiler! It’s not a good enough story to get you here at eight, I told him, and he gave me that look. So impatient, so keen to see you. He’s mad, isn’t he. Absolutely barking mad. Oh: I picked up a new shower curtain, I had to pitch the last one, it was getting moldy. Terrible. And the tub was in a state when the tenants moved out, I can tell you. I spent the better part of a morning scrubbing it out, you know. There’s some soap here, too, it was on sale, I hope that’s all right. Do you need anything else? Razor blades, or–”
“I’m fine.” It’s an assault of words. I didn’t realise how quiet I’d been. I’ve barely said a word. Sherlock hasn’t said all that much either, which, now that I think of it, is a bit odd. Neither of us are talking. We’re just existing.
Existing is okay; existing is better than what you were yesterday. This morning. One step at a time. You’re sitting in front of your computer, typing so fast your fingers are a blur. There you are, half-silhouetted in the light from the windows: there’s no mistaking it: it’s you. “We’re fine, I think. Fine. Sherlock?”
You look up. Yes: it’s really you. “Razor blades?”
“In the bathroom.” You nod your head in the direction of the bathroom, as if I’ve forgotten where it is. I haven’t forgotten, Sherlock. I haven’t forgotten anything. You smile. I don’t know what that smile means: is it for Mrs Hudson, to reassure her? Or is it for me? I don’t know.
“We’re fine.” I packed everything, didn’t I? I think so. Not food. Everything else. I didn’t want to leave a trace of myself behind for Mary. I wanted to vanish. I wanted her to question whether I was ever there at all. Is that cruel? I don’t mean it to be. It’s a form of apology, really.
God. I’ll have to tell her at some point: Sherlock’s alive, you know. He’s back. I wonder what she’d say. She’d see the marketing potential; she’d want him to come to a reading, or go on telly with me to sell a book. The next one, maybe. Or she’d laugh. Or she’d say, Oh, that’s nice, how nice for you. Yes. Yes, it’s very nice. She wouldn’t get angry, she wouldn’t yell or tell me I’m living a delusion, though I can imagine her doing all of those things. That’s too intimate a conversation for us. She wouldn’t do that, not now. She’d think it, but not say it. How nice for you. Yes, that would be it.
Ah: Mrs Hudson’s soap, I’ve found it. I don’t think I have any, so that’s good. I should take it to the bathroom, unwrap it, put it in the dish. Sherlock probably has his own in there already; his expensive stuff. I won’t touch that. He never said I shouldn’t, but I don’t. I mean: I didn’t. I never did. That was his.
His cupboard has his clothes hanging in it, still in bags from the dry cleaner’s, I checked. I didn’t recognise any of them. He left all his clothes here when he died; Mrs Hudson must have got rid of them. There was no point keeping them, and they were no use to me. I was afraid to go near them at the time. They’d smell of him, and that would be too much. I regretted that. It was all that was left, and I let it go. Because he’s dead. No: he didn’t die. Right. There are new clothes in the closet now. Similar, but different. Still more expensive than I care to imagine. The same, but different. That’s how you must be. Changed. Returned from the dead.
No. You were only in hiding. Partial hiding, I suppose. Because I saw you. From time to time, at least. Where have you been living all this time? Were you always so close? I don’t know how I feel about that. Comforted, angry, confused: I don’t know. You were there; you were so close.
What else did she bring us? Toothpaste. Washing up liquid. I wouldn’t have thought about needing all of this stuff until some point later when I was staring into a sink of dirty dishes or standing in the bathroom with my toothbrush in my hand, feeling idiotic. So that’s good, yes. That’s good.
“Thanks for all this.”
She smiles at me, then opens her arms. She’s going to hug me. Is that a good idea? Comfort: she touches me and it comforts me; am I going to cry? I don’t want to cry. That’s ridiculous, everything is fine. For god’s sake, pull yourself together. It’s just the shopping, that’s all. The shopping, some toothpaste, some soap. She smells like lavender and roses, like powder. She squeezes me.
“You know, I’ve got some of my herbal soothers if you’ll be needing something,” she pauses and rubs my back. “To calm you a little.”
Herbal soothers. Yes, of course. That’s not a bad idea. Herbal soothers and a few bottles of beer, that might be in order tonight. Do we have anything stronger? Sherlock used to keep a bottle of scotch hidden somewhere. I guess that wouldn’t have survived the terrible tenants.
There were terrible tenants, weren’t there?
She pats me on the shoulder and looks into my face. I’m not sure what she’s looking for or whether she’s found it. She touches my cheek.
“Poor John. You let me know.”