No, you can’t leave the flat, that’s what he said. No, you can’t go to Tesco, even though it’s just around the corner and you’re an actual adult who can take care of himself. It’s too dangerous, he said. The flat is a safehouse now, he said. What happened to all that? Was that just to make me too paranoid to wander out without permission? Well, I’ve got permission now. Here I am, flat-footed on the pavement, just like anyone else would be, except for the gun digging into my lower back. Here I am, my hair is still wet. I’m staring up at the windows and looking for you there.
There you are. Your hair is mussed and sticking up on end in places, you’re pacing in front of the window. You’re nervous. I can do this, Sherlock. I can do this. It’s just Tesco, it’s only down the road. I’ll be back in a moment. I’ll be fine.
I might have looked up at you like this yesterday morning, if I’d known the truth. There was so much I didn’t know yesterday, standing in this exact spot. It’s as if I can see the ghost of myself, my past self, twenty-four hours past, standing here by the door, taking a deep breath. I had no idea. None. I walked in completely blind.
Let me tell you what you’re going to find in there. Let me tell you. You’re not going to believe it.
The white van from yesterday is still parked in front of the flat. What is it? A moving van? It must be hard to find a space to park it around here. A local? Must be. I assumed it was the man here about the boiler, but I suppose not. That was another lie.
“Keep moving, John.”
This is going to take some getting used to. There’s a bit of static, it’s not like a mobile. More secure, you said. It’s certainly louder. I’m sure anyone within a few feet of me is going to be able to hear your voice.
I know these things look like regular earphones, but they feel different to me. It seems really obvious: look at me, I’m taking direction from a man who’s meant to be dead. But I know: no one would think that. They’ll think I’m listening to an iPod, something like that. I’ll look like any other prat on the street with his ears tuned in to something else, pretending his life is different than it actually is. I’ve seen those people. I never think twice about them. I know it looks perfectly normal to have cords hanging across your chest like this, but it certainly doesn’t feel normal to me. It’s not music I’m listening to. It’s you.
“Come on, quickly. Now. Go north.” It’s like you’re shouting into my head.
“Can you turn the volume down a bit?” I can see you peering at me, talking into that odd black device. You’re still in your pyjamas. Your dressing gown is starting to slip off one of your shoulders. You don’t even notice.
“John, it’s best if you don’t talk directly to me unless you absolutely have to.” Right. Well, that’s familiar, at least. You talk, I listen. Fine. “Now go! Go north.”
North? But the Tesco is directly south. It’s just down the road.
“North, John. I need you to go to the Tesco off of Euston Road, all right? Take Allsop Place south, not Baker Street.”
“Euston!” That’s three times the distance. It will take me almost twenty minutes just to get there.
“Shhh, just go. Quickly. Honestly, John, for your own safety, you’ll need to do as I tell you without questioning me.”
I’m sure you can feel the weight of my stare from a floor above and through the window. I’m quite sure you can. I need to do as I’m told without question? Really? Is that how this is going to be? I can hear you sigh.
“John. Please. You can be stubborn at me about anything else, all right? North to Allsop Place, okay? Go.”
Fine. Fine! I’m going. North to Allsop Place, fine. But I don’t need to go down Allsop Place to get to Euston Road. I thought you were the one who had a map of London in his head. It’s certainly telling of how well you know your way to the nearest Tesco, these directions. Allsop Place to Euston Road just to go to a Tesco? Well, fine.
“Volume better?” Actually, it is. It’s less like shouting now, more like talking.
“Much.” I mumble this time, into my hand. The microphone is sensitive, I know. He can hear me.
“Good.”
He’s silent for a moment. I can hear him breathing. He’s watching me. I know he is: one of his computers has access to the CCTV cameras. One of the advantages of working with his brother as opposed to against him, I suppose. Where’s the nearest camera? Oh: there, right. Above the shop window, just there.
“Don’t look directly at the cameras, John. That’s a dead giveaway. All right, can you cross here? That’s it. Yes, going south now. Good. South on Allsop. Excellent.”
What are we doing here, Sherlock? What, precisely, are we doing here?
“Alright, stop here a moment, would you? Stop and...I don’t know, look at your phone. I’ll send you a text if that will help.”
So I stop. On the pavement, in front of a shop. Why? Is there a camera nearby? Don’t look for one; I fish my phone out of my pocket, and he’s sent me a text. His fast thumbs make short work of texting. That’s not even a new number: that’s his old number. His name appears on my phone as if I were expecting a text from him. As if he hadn’t been gone all this time.
Act like this is a normal text. From Stamford, or something. Saying something in that incomprehensible poor spelling.
That’s funny. I can’t help but smile at that. The only person I know who sends incomprehensible texts is you, Sherlock. Text him back: can I move now?
“Yes, all right. Go ahead.” I pocket my phone and keep walking. The road bends east, which is at least in the direction of the Euston Road Tesco.
It’s chilly. Bright, but chilly.
“Good, yes. Follow it around to Marylebone Road.”
Yes, Sherlock. I know. I did live in this neighbourhood for nearly two years, you know.
“You mentioned this spot once, in one of your stories. But you got it wrong.”
What stories? I never mentioned it on the blog, I’m sure I–
Oh. Not my blog, no. I set a crime scene on Allsop Place in one of my stories for The Strand. The one about the wealthy client who invited us in and made us wait too long in her sitting room. You spent the time making jokes about the appalling and tasteless paintings, and it turned out that the client fancied herself an artist and put only her own work on her walls. I had to spend twenty minutes pretending to admire them.
So you were reading my stories, were you? Well, of course you were. They were all about you.
“That wasn’t Allsop Place, it was the Outer Circle, right on Regent’s Park. I was surprised you got that wrong. I remember you remarking on the views at the time.”
I didn’t forget, Sherlock. I knew it wasn’t Allsop Place where that woman lived. I was trying to protect the innocent. Well, not so innocent in that case.
You commented on that story, didn’t you. I bet you did. There was an odd comment, now that I think of it. Someone telling me that a house like the one I described couldn’t be found on Allsop Place. Were you trying to remind me? I don’t remember if I replied to that one. It was pedantic, it missed the point. That should have been my first clue that it was you: pedantic, missing the point, obsessed with the details. They’re only stories, I think I said. Bitterly, because they weren’t only stories. They were real. You were right. I should have said Outer Circle. The client ended up in jail anyway. They’re only stories, does it matter? The details always matter to you. Was that you? Trying to correct me still, leaning over my shoulder to read what’s on my screen.
If only I’d known. I should have guessed, I suppose. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even begin to imagine this.
“All right, east here. Don’t cross the street, not yet. Stay on the north side. And east down Marylebone Road.” Yes, Sherlock. I know where the Tesco on Euston Road is.
I spent months with your voice in my head. Not once did you provide advice on which route to take to get to Tesco.
I can’t help it, that’s funny. That’s funny, I have to laugh about that.
“What?” You sound so confused. “What’s funny?”
It’s nothing. I just shake my head. It doesn’t matter: who knows what I’m listening to. No one notices. No one even looks at me. I’m just a tired man, hungover from the previous night, trudging down the road toward Tesco laughing at something he’s listening to on his iPod. He doesn’t want me to speak: fine. I’ll text him.
So you read my stories? Did you leave comments on them too?
I can hear the trill of a phone; his phone. He didn’t even change the number. All this time I could have sent him texts and he would have received them all. It’s a good thing I didn’t; imagine the humiliation of that. All I would have said is Come back to me. I can’t live without you. I love you.Dodged a bullet there.
“I read them. Your memory for details is quite dreadful, John. Each one had dozens of errors in it! But of course there was nothing I could do about that. Your editors were clearly more interested in the romance, not the details of my deductions. It’s disappointing. But everyone thought I was a fraud by then, didn’t they.”
Yes. Yes, they did. And I fought them all. You must have seen that. Me defending you. That wasn’t part of the plan, was it. You hoped I would believe your lies and not the evidence of my own experience. I couldn’t do that. I eulogised you instead. Romance. Yes, I suppose it was.
“I left comments where they were warranted.”
Did you? God. And I never guessed. Not once. You’d think I’d recognise words you’d put together, but I didn’t. Just picky readers, a bit of criticism among all the praise. There were always readers curious about the details, they couldn’t have all been you. People are genuinely curious about your deductions, always.
“Mycroft hated that.”
Of course he did.
You must have seen all the people who thought you were in love with me, or I was in love with you. What did you think of that? I’m not going to ask. You’d just ignore that, I’m sure. As you always do: people make assumptions, you ignore them. It doesn’t matter what they think. People are idiots, aren’t they.
“John, cross the street here, would you? And walk around the crescent rather than staying on Marylebone Road.”
Well that’s a circular route. Am I avoiding something? Is there someone waiting for me with a gun somewhere between here and Tesco on Marylebone Road?
“I know that’s a bit of a detour, but he’s more likely to see you this way.”
More likely? More likely? Am I on a safe trip to Tesco for something vital, or are you dangling me in front of your sworn enemy?
“Sherlock, do you actually need anything from Tesco?” There’s no one around; no one will hear me.
“As I said, it’s best if you don’t speak to me directly. And not particularly, no, pick up whatever you want.”
Right. So this isn’t about Tesco. This is about me being seen. Why? You want to stay hidden, but you want Moran to see me? Is he monitoring the CCTV cameras the same way you are? How did he get access to them? Is this a means of teasing him out into the open? Well, you did say I was bait. I thought you were joking. I should have known better. I suppose I’m playing bait right now, then.
I should hate that. But I don’t. I sort of love it. I can feel the rush of adrenaline. I have a gun pressed into my skin under the waistband of my jeans. I can handle myself. London is a battlefield. It never really stopped, did it. It was only me who stopped.
“Around the crescent, there. That’s good. When you get to the halfway point, perhaps you could stop and admire the trees, or something. Maybe snap a photo. I’ll let you know when you’re in the right spot.”
I thought the most dangerous thing was the fantasy of your voice in my head. It seems that the real thing is even worse.