The water is too hot: that burning ache in my hands each time I reach in to grab a fork is a distraction. Pain: a reminder that I’m not asleep. I’m not dreaming. I’m not making this up. Am I? No. I’m not. This is how things work with you: lies and pain and you with no concept of what you’ve done. What you’ve done to me. Dishes need washing: I wash them, because that’s what I do. It’s normal, like I am. A normal man, a normal human being, reacting the way any human being would.
But you don’t see that. Because you have no idea what normal actually is. You just see pathology and weakness, you see frivolity and stupidity in me. I know, I know. One slippery clean plate: I leave it in the rack to dry. Plunge my hands in again to get another: it’s a hot, tingling sensation. Water and soap, unrelenting stainless steel. It’s too hot. Get out of there. Pain is a warning sign: the water’s too hot, it will burn my skin, I need to get out. Danger.
You can’t do things like that, Sherlock. You can’t do things like that and expect me to not be angry. What, you waltz back into my life and I’m supposed to accept it? Like this is okay?
What the fuck is wrong with you?
Both of you. Jesus. What kind of a bastard does something like that? Only a Holmes. No wonder neither of you had any friends. If this is how you treat people who love you. Lies and deceptions and fucking blood all over the pavement. For Christ’s sake, what is wrong with you both?
What did your parents do to you to make you so cold-blooded? I’m an idiot. It’s biological, I’m sure. Relentless. You’re wired all wrong. I fell for it. I never thought you’d do something like this to me.
You’re standing by the window again, peering out. Like you’re waiting for something. You’ve forgotten that I’m even here. Or you’re just avoiding looking at me. Could you possibly be showing a bit of shame? No. Of course not, no. Not you. Shame is for the weak, the sentimental, the romantic, isn’t that right, Sherlock. Sure. That’s me, that’s how you think of me. That’s how you always thought of me.
Well, I don’t care. I’m a human being, it’s normal to have feelings about the suicide of your best friend. You understand that, don’t you? It’s normal. What you did to me is not normal. You don’t fake a suicide in front of someone who loves you. Jesus Christ. Right in front of me, too. Right in front of my eyes. All that blood. You have no sense of it, do you. Of what that would feel like. Was that really necessary? Such a fucking production. All for me, all to hurt me. Cruel. Cruel and cold-blooded. Jesus.
And you thought I was all right?
“Idiot.”
What? Who?
Me? Me. Of course. Me. An idiot. Always.
You’re staring at one of your phones again, one of your dozens of phones. Not everyone is as clever as you, you know.
Well, yes: of course you know that, you never stop thinking about it, do you. Measuring everyone else against your massive intellect; everyone comes up short. Especially me. No one is as clever as you. That’s my problem, that’s my fault. If only I’d just observe, as if it’s as easy as that, as if it’s just a choice not to see. I can’t, Sherlock. I can’t see the things you see. The world isn’t as simple for me as it is for you. You have nothing but contempt for the rest of us, don’t you. Normal people with normal emotions. It’s normal to love people, you know. It’s normal to love people who give your life meaning. It’s not vacuous sentiment, it’s not ridiculous. It’s not losing or failing or whatever it is you think about it. It’s a normal human capacity, I won’t be ashamed of it. Making room for a person in your life, in your heart. Compromise. Affection. Love. Don’t mock me. Stand at a distance and watch me fall apart, will you? Did you enjoy it? Did you find it amusing, watching me suffer? Did I stroke your ego, standing in front of what must have been an empty grave crying like a child and praying to god you’d not be dead? Is that what you wanted?
Well, you never were a kind man, were you. I can’t say I ever thought you were. But I never imagined you’d be so cold. Not to me. I was an idiot. Me. I’m the idiot for imagining otherwise. You’re a psychopath, and I mourned you. With affection. With love. I mourned you with more love than I have ever had for anyone else. That’s all I am now. An idiot.
Do you know how many times I regretted the things I said to you? Calling you a machine. Mocking you. I regretted the things I didn’t say, and the things I didn’t do: I walked out on you when you needed me most, or so I thought; I wasn’t there to stand with you on that fucking roof. Do you know how many times I stood there with you since then, trying to hold you back and failing? I should have stopped you, I should have grabbed you and held you, I should have kissed you and told you that I loved you, told you not to die, not yet. Not without me. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of you. It doesn’t matter. I know you’re not a fraud. Because I know you, and I love you. Jesus Christ, it cut into me, the regret of all that. God. I was wrong about everything; I was wrong about you.
I’m so earnest and you’re such a fucking liar.
“What am I going to have to do?” You slam the phone down on the table.
I hear it before I realise what I’ve done: china cracking, shattering. The plate, I’ve dropped it. It was hot, it was slippery, it was wet. But I threw it onto the floor. It’s in pieces now. It’s like me: it’s not fixable. It’s in pieces forever now. This is your fault. All your fault. My life is a mess. I wish I’d never met you.
That’s not true.
I wish I’d been right. Just once. I wish you were the man I thought you might have been. I liked you more when you were dead.
You look at me. Affronted. What: I’ve interrupted you, have I? Interrupted your precious train of thought? God, I’ve missed those trains of thought, hours and hours of you talking, reasoning through things, I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you so much and you just stood back and watched me, playing with me like some kind of marionette from a distance. I’m just a mechanism, I’m the machine to you. The emotion machine that entertains you, like a pet. A loyal, loving pet, displaying whatever emotion you want to trigger. That’s me, a retriever, happy enough with a pat on the head. Oh for fuck’s sake. I’ll interrupt you.
The bits of the plate crunch under my feet. I don’t care: I’ll grind them into the floor. Ball my hands into fists: I’ll pummel you. I want you to hurt as much as I’ve hurt. You need to feel it. You knew everything, you knew: you saw my stories, you saw what people said. They thought you loved me, I wrote you that way. I made things up. The Sherlock I wrote about would never have done this to me. I fell in love with a fantasy. I don’t know who you are. Goddammit. You machine. You fucking, bloody-minded machine.
I’m so angry, I’m so livid, I can’t even feel it. My hands are numb, my arms are shaking. One good punch and you trip backward, hand to your face. Right: yeah, that’s only the first. A twinge of guilt: no. No, you deserve this, you deserve it. I’ll hit you, I’ll get you down on the floor and hold you down, I’ll hit you until you’re unconscious. Bleeding. No. Wait. No, I can’t. What am I doing?
A moment of hesitation and you’ve pinned me against the wall. I’m shaking, I’m weak. Your hands are pressed hard against my wrists, your knee digs into my thigh. Your breath is hot on my face. We’re breathing. We’re both breathing. I loved you, Sherlock. Goddammit. I wanted you back so much. My lungs are burning, I’m in pieces.
“John?” Your voice is soft, and remarkably calm.
I want mine to be. I want it to be. There’s something welling up from my chest. It’s pain, it’s a swollen panic, it’s rising up to engulf me. There are tears on my face. Oh god.
You need to understand. You were wrong. You were so wrong, and everything about this is wrong. We’re back home here like nothing happened, like I’m not torn to shreds, like my heart isn’t beating so hard and fast that it might burst. Making beds and putting away the shopping, having dinner like two old friends who never parted. Like you didn’t die, like I didn’t mourn you. I’m not all right, Sherlock. I’m not all right. I may never be all right again.
“I.” That’s all. My voice is broken. Like me. I’m going to sob now, the words are going to come out all squeaky and garbled. You’ll laugh. You’ll mock me, you’ll look at me with contempt. Emotion: I wish I could switch it off. I wish I didn’t have any at all. If I were a psychopath, I wouldn’t have to feel like this. It’s humiliating. “I wasn’t all right.” It comes out in a sob, and there’s nothing left of me. I can’t say any more.
I wasn’t all right, Sherlock. I wasn’t. You destroyed me. I missed you so much. My knees give out. You’re holding me against the wall but I’m falling now. Falling down, collapsing. I have no strength left, my chest is bursting with grief. I need my hands back. I need them to cover my face. Oh my god. Please, please make this stop. I’m sorry I hit you. I’m sorry. But you died. I watched you. I couldn’t save you. I can’t live without you.
You let me slide down against the wall but you don’t let go of my wrists. Precaution, that’s fair enough. I just hit you. There are tears in my eyes, you’ve gone all blurry. There’s a mark on your cheek, but no blood. Nothing broken then, I hope. Nothing broken. Just me.
I’m sitting on my heels. You’re holding onto me, your hands around my wrists. Your leg is pressed against mine. You did that once, you sat too close to me. Watching telly. What was that for? Why did you do that? I don’t understand you, Sherlock. I don’t. I don’t know why you do the things you do. Why do you lie to me? Everything hurts. I can’t get a good breath. I’m choking, I’m sobbing. My face is wet. This is humiliating.
“I see.” That’s what you say. Your voice is still soft, but it hurts me. I never thought I’d hear it again. “I may have...” Your sentence trails off. You clear your throat. You’re so close I can feel the words against my face. “I may have underestimated the impact.”
The impact? Jesus Christ, the impact of what? Your body against the pavement? Christ. The impact of you dying? On me? The impact of your suicide on me, your blood all over the pavement, your funeral? The impact of your absence from my life? Did you not know? Did you not guess how much it would tear me to pieces, how shattered I would be? That I would never get over it, I would never be able to entirely move on?
You were my life, Sherlock. You were the centre of my existence. You were everything good in my whole world. You’re the most important thing. What did you imagine I was going to do, shrug and move on? Be sad for a few days and find a new person to laugh with at crime scenes, to read the papers with, to linger over breakfast with and laugh at stupid telly? I loved you, Sherlock. I love you. It was never going to be that simple. There’s no one like you. You’re irreplaceable.
You let go of my hands, you let me go. I’m panting. So are you. You’re very close to me, you’re bracing yourself against the wall. I never thought I’d see you again. I’m here with you, I’m collapsed upon myself, I’m leaning against your shoulder. I can feel you breathing. Adrenaline. Your heart is beating just as fast as mine. I hit you. I’m sorry about that. I was so angry, I’m so hurt. Underestimated the impact? My scars run so deep, Sherlock. I don’t know if I can ever explain all of this to you. I don’t know if you’ll ever understand what you mean to me. I can’t ever tell you. I can’t, there aren’t enough words.
You press your forehead against my shoulder.
Damn you. You bastard. You convoluted, overwrought bastard.
It’s always more complicated than it seems, isn’t it. Always. You did what you had to do, you had to die. You had to die or he would have killed you, isn’t that it? And me. Both of us dead, and how many others? Who knows. It was an impossible situation. You had to die to beat him. I had to suffer to keep you safe. In order to see you again. Pay the price in suffering, pay the price to solve the case. To destroy him and his web of criminals. Murderers and kidnappers, snipers, assassins, spies and traitors and all kinds of evil. The worst of the worst. You won, in the end. You killed him, you painted targets on all of them, didn’t you. Dozens of arrests, you won. You calculated the risks, you made the choice, you solved the case. And I didn’t know, I never knew. All this time. I was part of your plan, you were watching me. And you thought I was all right.
Idiot.
If you had asked me to do this, to live without you for three years, to pretend you were dead, to mourn you and move on in order to put an end to Moriarty, would I have done it? I would have wanted to, for you. If it was what you needed from me. I would have tried.
But I would have failed. I would have sought you out, I would have found you. I can’t live without you. I know. I’ve tried. You were right. If you had told me the truth, we would both be dead by now. Because only you being dead could have kept me from going after you. You were right, and I hate it. I hate it.
“I have a bottle of Scotch somewhere.” Your voice seems small, muffled. You’re not angry with me. So you do understand. Maybe. A little. It’s so complicated. I want to say something, anything, but I can’t: my chest is full of panic and my mouth is full of tears. I’m sorry. My head is pounding. I’m sorry.