I’m surprised you’re willing to eat at all. Isn’t this a case? All these arrests, this Moran fellow? You never used to eat while you were working on a case. You’d starve yourself until you were nearing collapse, though you’d never show it. All those late night dinners after a case: remember those? Eating slows your brain, you said then. You can’t afford to slow down while on a case. Not while on a good one, anyway. Nothing lower than an eight.
This must be at least an eight. If anything is a ten, surely this is it.
Maybe it doesn’t matter if your brain has slowed down. It looks like you’ve got it all figured out anyway; you know who’s after you. This case is solved. Ready for me to write it up in my over-romanticised way, as you’d say. I’d start now if I knew the first thing about it.
Well, I know the first thing. The very first. I was there. But I don’t want to write about that. Too much blood. Not yours, though. Not yours. How was I supposed to know that? I wasn’t. It was a deception designed just for me.
Is there nothing left for you to figure out, then? Is that it, it’s all over? Waiting like this doesn’t require you to avoid digesting anything, I suppose. Because that’s all we’re doing. Waiting. Waiting for one the phones on the table to chirp, for all those computers to ping, for the telly to make some kind of announcement, for the radio buzzing in the background to do something. We’re only waiting here for the other shoe to drop. For Moran. What’s he going to do, wander in like Mrs Hudson? Hello there, Sherlock. Risen from the dead, have you? Let me reverse that bit of good fortune, shall I? Then we’ll leap into action.
Until then, we wait.
I should get my gun. I should have it with me. I brought the bullets. I’m ready.
You eat. You lift the fork to your mouth, put it on your tongue. It’s mesmerizing. You chew, you glance over at your collection of phones. Then at me. Eyebrow raised. Oh: I’m staring, aren’t I.
Well. What did you expect? What did you expect from me, Sherlock? Christ.
Okay: eat. I can eat. My stomach is in knots, but it’s dinner time. I’ll have dinner. With you. Here. 221b, in the kitchen, of all places. Like normal people.
At some point, if you stay here, if you don’t die again or find some other important task that captures your attention and requires you to lie to me and abandon me in agony like some sort of achingly loyal pet, if you stay put and live with me here you’ll probably turn the kitchen into a lab again. I never really minded that. Your microscope, your test tubes and pipettes, bottles of acids and bases, and that constant chemical smell, I didn’t mind any of it.
Did you have another kitchen lab somewhere, all this time? Because you weren’t dead, were you. This isn’t some kind of miracle resurrection, you were just hiding. From me. Not just from me: from Moriarty. From everyone. Hiding where?
Both eyebrows raised this time. You’re waiting. You’re waiting for my questions, is that it? Well. All right. Fine.
“So.” Always a good place to start. Spin the pasta on my fork: for once you’ve eaten more than I have. Take a deep breath. It’s just a conversation. It’s only questions. I have so many of them.
“Where’ve you been all this time?” And why did you lie to me?
You smile. This must have been what you were waiting for. My stomach is pulsing like a warning signal. No danger: there’s no danger in this. This is easy stuff, conversation. Talking. Right. I can do this.
Why am I terrified of your answer? Have I been so stupid all this time, you’ve been right under my nose and I missed it? You always said I was an idiot.
You shrug. “I’ve been here.” Here? Baker Street? Really? You point outside the window, as if that helps. “I rarely left London at all.”
But you weren’t here, not precisely here. Mrs Hudson said she hadn’t seen you until this morning. No: not here. It was never as easy as just coming home, was it. If I had just had the courage to open the door and walk in, you wouldn’t have been sitting there waiting for me. God. Imagine that. It took me three years to come back; that would have made your absence my fault, somehow.
“I didn’t stay in one place for very long. Hotels, bedsits, abandoned factory buildings, the back of a van for a few days. Thames House, god, I hate that place. Too much security, too many prying eyes. A series of terrible little hovels related to MI5, mostly. From darkest Hackney to the sunny little attics in Hampstead and everything in between. I was a transient, you could say. Homeless.”
No other kitchen labs, then. No other flatmates. You didn’t pick someone new and start over, then. You didn’t, did you? You look at me, and wait. Question number one: answered. You want question number two.
“What were you...” What’s the right word to end this sentence? Doing? Working on? I feel like I should know the answer to this. Moriarty, Moran, you were tracking down a web of criminals. I know that. I’ve seen the papers. I’ve watched the news. Dozens of them, arrested. You were tracking them all down. I know that. I don’t need to ask that question.
“How did you manage to...” To what? To...do whatever it was you were doing? How did you manage it without anyone finding out you weren’t dead?
You wait. You watch me. You don’t finish my sentences. I sort of wish you would.
“There were never any rumours, nothing. No one saw you, how did you manage all those cases, all that work, without...” Without me seeing you, that’s the question. With no one seeing you. How did you manage to keep yourself a secret for so long? Did Greg know? I don’t think so. He would have told me. He would have.
You nod at me. You understand. “It was the most controlled existence, John. Much like this.” You roll your eyes at the walls: not 221b, not Mrs Hudson and me, no. Mycroft and his security. The safehouse. “MI5, branches of the military I hadn’t even heard of. But mostly I was hiding in plain sight. No one ever expects that.”
Well, no. I suppose they don’t. I didn’t. Moriarty didn’t either, apparently. You won, Sherlock. You beat him. You killed him. How did you do it? Did you shoot him? Did someone else do it? It was yours to do, I hope they let you. I would have done it for you. Then taken you out for dinner. Just like always.
Hiding in plain sight: you were hiding in my plain sight too, weren’t you.
“Did I...” God, if the answer is no, I’m going to be embarrassed. If the answer is yes I’ll be embarrassed too. No-win situation. “Did I see you? I thought I saw you. So many times.”
You smile. That’s a yes. I did see you. And you saw me. Your eyes don’t leave mine.
“Mycroft never liked that. He thought it was dangerous. And that you wouldn’t appreciate it. He worried you might think you were hallucinating or losing your mind.”
I did. I did think that.
“But if a person truly believes that someone is dead, he won’t entirely recognise that person at first, will he. Not at a glance. It’s just his eyes playing tricks on him. People don’t truly observe, John. They see, but they don’t observe.”
That’s an echo: the version of you in my head said that to me all the time. You knew I wouldn’t observe, is that it? Were you testing to see if I would? I failed that test, then. I failed; is that why you stayed hidden from me? If I had recognised you, would you have taken me with you?
“Were you testing me?”
“No.” You look down at your plate. “No, nothing like that.” You pick up your fork again. You haven’t answered the question. Wait: yes you have. You answered it, you didn’t elaborate. I remember that: you’ll answer a stated question if you feel like it, but not the question that’s underneath it. You only answer the question on the surface, the easiest part to say out loud. No reassurances, not from you.
“Then why did you do that? Let me see you like that?” Not to test me, not to tease me. Not to make me tip over into insanity, surely. What use would I be to you then? So why? Why, Sherlock?
You chew, and look at me, fork returned to your plate. Your eyes are too pale for your face. They should look odd, off-putting, but they don’t. Not to me. The lightness of them just lets your brilliance through. You brilliant, cruel bastard.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
I wasn’t all right. I wasn’t all right at all, couldn’t you tell? Couldn’t you read it on my face?
“Was I?” Oh god, I don’t want him to answer that. I’d like to take it back, but I can’t. I said it, it’s sitting there on the table between us. I can clear my throat, I can cough, take a drink of water, but I can’t claw those words back.
“Yes.”
I can hear him swallow. What does that mean? Is he nervous? Uncomfortable? He’s still looking at me. I’m not going to meet his eyes just now, not just now. Fork: pasta. Tomato sauce. Cheese. My food is getting cold, I should finish.
“I thought so,” he says. “Yes.”
There was a version of you in my head that knew everything. For once, for bloody once, the real you has no fucking clue. How can you know so much and be so brilliantly ignorant at the same time? The earth goes around the sun, Sherlock. How can you not know that? How can you not fucking know?
What did you think would happen to me after that? After you said those terrible things, after you stood on the roof, after you–
No. I can’t. Not yet. It was a lie, it was all a lie. That fucking roof. Jesus.
“You lied to me.” You did. “Why did you lie to me?’
Alone protects me, you said. I’m a fake, you said. Holy hell. All these lies, the set up, the fall, your fucking bloody body on the pavement, Sherlock. You lied. You lied to me, why did you do that to me? I would have gone with you. I would have hidden, I would have made dinner over a bunsen burner if I had to. I would have stayed locked away with you, little attic in Hampstead, some tip in Hackney, I would have. But you left me, you lied to me. Why did you do that?
“You mean at Barts?”
Ouch. Hearing you say it, god. Of course I mean at Barts. Your eyes are darting around; fine motions. It’s me you’re looking at. You’re trying to read me. You’re terrible at this, Sherlock. You’re terrible at it. Go on and observe, why don’t you. Observe me. Don’t just see. Observe. I’m livid, Sherlock. I’m fucking livid. You hurt me.
“That wasn’t my idea.” Your fingers are drumming against the table. You’re nervous now, aren’t you. Well good. You should be. “I never thought you’d believe it, but Mycroft–”
Mycroft. I saw him before you died, he didn’t tell me anything. Of course he didn’t. He apologised. I thought he was apologising for what he did to you, for how he ruined you, but maybe he was apologising for this. For having you tell me lies I could never make any sense of.
Jesus.
“Think it through, John. If you’d believed it, that I was a fraud, if you had denounced me to everyone, that would have assured our safety, both of us. You see?” I don’t. I really don’t. He’s talking so fast, it’s hard to keep up with him. “That would have split you from me entirely.”
Split me from him? Split me into pieces. I couldn’t have believed that, I wouldn’t have. I was there; I know he’s not a fraud. He leans closer to me, his voice is soft and fast. I can’t look at him. I’m furious. I’m terrified. Secrets: these are secrets he’s telling me. I don’t want to know. I have to know. It’s been so long.
“No one would question my suicide, or your participation in any of my apparent crimes. Not if you denounced me, you see? Everyone who knew the truth would have believed that Moriarty’s plan for me worked, that everyone had turned against me. Including you. That I was dead and buried. It would have made it seem like an unquestionable success. No one would be looking for me. You understand?”
I do. I do understand. He needed me to turn my back on him to keep him safe. Not to fire a gun, not to pull him out of the way of an oncoming bus, no. Nothing so easy and straightforward. He needed me to lose faith in him, to not trust him anymore. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t.
“I knew it wouldn’t work,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “ I knew it wouldn’t. You refused to question me, even when you should have.”
I’m not sure if he’s praising me or not. Are you pleased by that, Sherlock? Or do you hate it? I couldn’t believe you were a fraud. Because you weren’t. You aren’t. You bastard. I know you.
He shrugs. “It worked out all right. Your condemnation would have been useful, but your eulogising did just as well.”
Eulogising?
The Strand. Oh my god. The Strand. My stories, the comments. My rebuttals. You saw all that, didn’t you. Maybe not the comments. Let’s hope not.
My book. Oh.
I always defended you, I always dedicated everything to the memory of my dead best friend, my absent flatmate, the man I loved and never confessed it to. Shit. You’ve seen it, haven’t you. My dedications. With love. Always. You’ve seen it. You know. You’ve got to know.
Shit.
“Ah!” He leaps up from the table. What? What is it now? The telly. The news is on, what is it? Breathe. Breathe now, it’s fine. It’s fine. Get up, leave the fork behind. My food is cold now, I’m not hungry. Out to the sitting room, it’s getting dark out. The glow of the telly makes everything blue, it obscures how things really are. I see the light of it on your face. I remember that; you in front of the telly. With me.
It was impossible for me to doubt you, Sherlock. It was impossible.
“Finally,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for this all day. Look!” He points at the screen.
It’s another arrest. A dark house, a reporter, a newsreader in a box in the corner, wearing pink. Always wearing pink. The well-lit studio framed below, the dark house in focus above. There’s a ticker: arrest, Scotland Yard. Organised crime. Another one?
“Is this one of yours?”
His face has lit up like it’s Christmas morning. Is this live footage? I think it is. Yes, yes it is. The door opens and light pours out. I can’t make anything out at first. Then I see it: two figures. It’s a man being led from a house. There are lights flashing everywhere, a sea of reporters, and the camera is shaking. It zooms in closer and shaking gets worse. There’s a man in a suit, looking away, leading the suspect. That must be who he is: he’s in handcuffs. Subdued. He’s wearing a hat.
He’s wearing a deerstalker.
The criminal on the telly, being escorted out of some house in full view of every media outlet, is wearing a deerstalker. It might have been yours, it looks identical. A Sherlock Holmes hat.
What? What is this?
“Sherlock–”
“Wait,” he says. He puts his hand on my arm. His hand. He tugs me closer to the screen. Closer to him. “Listen. He’s about to say it. He’d better say it. Wait.”
The man looks around, then spots the camera. He narrows his eyes.
“Listen,” Sherlock says. “Wait, here it comes.”
“OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE!” The man is shouting into the camera, his eyes wide, the deerstalker perched awkwardly on his head. Is it yours? I think it might be. “OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE! There! There, all right?” He turns and looks at the man in the suit. “I done it.” The camera pans away, and a confused reporter appears, microphone in hand. The newsreaders begin to pepper her with questions, and Sherlock turns the volume down.
What on earth was that?
Sherlock grins at the telly. “Excellent. Perfect.”
“What the hell was that?”
He turns the rest of that grin toward me. “That’s my message.” Message? For whom? “Fairly clear, isn’t it?”
A Sherlock Holmes hat. Olly olly oxen free. Come out, come out, wherever you are. Oh, right. I understand: it’s a message for Sebastian Moran. You’re taunting him, aren’t you. You’re daring him to find you. And here you are, in the most obvious place of all. With me. The bait.
“I’ve been waiting for hours for them to arrest him,” he says. He picks up one of his phones and glances at it. He puts it down. “I can’t possibly be any clearer, can I. He’ll surely understand now.”
Understand what?
He steps over to the window and parts the curtain with his hand, as if to show anyone who happens to be looking: Sherlock Holmes is alive. And he’s waiting.
I’ll go get my gun.