I’m fine. I’m all right, I wasn’t there. Mary’s fine. We’re both fine.
It’s the wrong time, isn’t it, to tell people that we broke up. I just keep sending variations on the same text to everyone I know. No one asks why Mary’s flat, and only Mary’s flat, exploded; everyone believes the story about the gas line, it seems. No questions about it at all. Not one.
I thought humans had a built-in sense that’s triggered when things aren’t quite right, some sort of brain stem prey-animal holdover that gives us gooseflesh if a story doesn’t quite make sense. But we don’t. We like to think we do, but we’re wrong. Our collective intuition is faulty. We’re too afraid of appearing paranoid or delusional, we don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea and think ill of us. It’s all about what the neighbours think, isn’t it. Take out the tinfoil hats, boys, we’ve got a live one. If everyone else thinks something makes sense, we don’t even stop to question it.
We like to think in probabilities. How probable is it that a ring of criminals set explosives into the walls from the flats next door to ours, above and below; how probable is it that those explosives had been sitting there, ticking away, waiting, for longer than I care to consider? Chances are, it’s just the gas line. Of course it is. More probable. And everyone believes it.
So that’s it, then.
I’m fine. I’m all right. No, I wasn’t there, thank god. I know, terrible, isn’t it.
I’m not telling anyone about you. You didn’t say I shouldn’t. Moran knows; what does it matter if it’s a secret or not, at this point? You didn’t say anything about it at all. But I don’t tell anyone all the same. It doesn’t feel like public information yet. I wouldn’t even know how to explain.
I’m at 221b, you know. Yes, back home! Sitting here with Sherlock, watching him stare blankly at his computer just now. I know, a real treat, it’s just like the old days. Well, the boring parts of the old days. Yeah, he’s not so dead after all, as it turns out. Only Sherlock! I know! He’s quite an actor, isn’t he! He sure had me fooled! No, I’m not sure how he did it. Don’t really want to ask, it seems rude, somehow. See you later, mate, have a good night!
No. No, I can’t say that. I don’t know how to approach that one. Maybe I’m just not ready to share you. Not quite yet.
God, I’m exhausted. You’ve been staring at that computer screen a little too long without blinking. You need some sleep. We should go to bed.
We. As if that’s a thing we do together now. Well: we did. Sleep. Together. That’s probably the furthest thing from your mind right now. Sleeping, or sleeping with me. Winning, losing, death, life, all of it, that’s all hanging in the balance now, not whether or not I can rest my forehead against the back of your neck again. Or rest my hand against your stomach and feel you breathing. Sleeping is what you do in between other, more important things. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it.
“Well?” I think you might have forgotten that I’m here. You look up at me, startled. I know you’re working. You’re planning and plotting, you’re watching dots on maps, it’s all very complicated.
“Well what?”
“Have they found him?” That was the upside, wasn’t it? Trace the detonator, right? I can already guess the answer is no. You would have said something, surely. You’d be in a more celebratory mood. Maybe we’d go out for chinese, or something. Late night dessert at Angelo’s, champagne, a fitting return to the land of the living. But I don’t know anymore. You’re quieter than I remember. You were always talking in my head. I’d forgotten about your stony silences.
“No.” You look back at the screen. “No, they found another of his playthings instead. Eighteen years old, already known to police for drugs and theft. Barely finished Year Seven. His father is in prison for murdering his mother, so he’s effectively an orphan. That’s the sort of person Moran attracts. The most desperate. That’s the level we’ve reached, John. Arresting lost children.” A lost child who nearly blew up my ex-girlfriend, let’s remember. But yeah. Yeah, I see what you mean. The dregs. He’s reached the dregs, now. So it’s almost over.
What do we need him to do now? We need him to strike. Strike here? Even though you’ve made it impossible? Strike at me, and get caught at it, isn’t that right? Come out, come out wherever you are. But only in the right place, and at the right time. Is that it?
“Do you need me to go out again? Wander about? Wave at cameras?” Not tonight, I hope. It’s dark. I’m tired. You’re tired. Let’s go to bed, Sherlock.
“No.” You’ve picked up another phone, I swear there’s more of them now. “Too dangerous. He’ll be looking for you now.”
Too dangerous? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say anything like that before. “He wasn’t looking for me this morning?”
That earns me a look I only partially understand. “He knows now you aren’t where he thought you were. He knows I’m better prepared for him than he thought I was. We need to move with,” you hesitate a moment. You’re going to say something you hate, something your brother has told you many times, I’m certain of it. “Caution.” Yes. Caution, just like Mycroft. Targeted and careful. Strategic. That’s not your way, is it, Sherlock. You’re all brains for puzzles and none for self-preservation. “His network may be reduced to nothing, but he’s still a better shot than you are.”
Better than I am?
“Well, maybe not better. About even, let’s say. And I still don’t know where he is.”
“So what are we going to do?”
You look at me, then back at the screen. “I have seven different plans.” Of course you do. “All of them are likely to end rather badly.”
“So you need one more, one that’s likely to end well.”
You sigh. “One would do.”
Sleep now, Sherlock. We’ll sort it out in the morning. You’re exhausted; so am I. It’s late.
“I’m going to bed.” Stand up, and pause. Wait. Will he come with me?
He doesn’t look up at me. He’s staring intently at something on one of the phones. He picks up another. Then another. He types something into one of them. Puts it down. He’s not going to come with me. Of course he’s not. Why would he do that? His bedroom is down here, mine is upstairs. We’re only flatmates, for god’s sake. Just friends. He let me cuddle him a bit last night because for the last three years I thought he was dead. He’s over it now; we’re back to normal. Sort of. We won’t talk about that, because there’s nothing to talk about.
“Goodnight, Sherlock.”
“Goodnight.”
That’s all right. That’s fine. You stay down here, Sherlock. You work until your eyes fall shut, and maybe you’ll fall asleep at the desk, in your chair. Then in the morning I’ll bring you a cup of coffee. Or you’ll realise you’re too groggy to go on, and you’ll curl up on your bed, where we slept together last night. And maybe you’ll miss me being there. Or you won’t. You won’t think about it at all, because, well. Life and death. Moran. Bullets with my name on them, your name on them, too. You’re orchestrating things. You’re worried. That’s enough. I understand. It’s not an absence of affection, I know that. It’s just a different kind.
That’s okay. I can live with that.
It’s dark up here. I haven’t been upstairs since this morning. The window’s still open a crack. It’s a bit chilly.
It’s all right, him staying downstairs. It’s all right. It’s what he does, it’s how this works. I remember this. I used to give up and head up to bed all the time. He can push through with no sleep, it seems to only make him hungrier for a solution. It might help us both if he stays awake. It’s not the same with me.
I slept in my clothes last night. Proper pyjamas tonight though, it’s grown chilly. I suppose the heat won’t come on. It’s warm enough downstairs. I’ll warm up soon enough.
God. I’d forgotten about this bed. I’d forgotten how much I hated Mary’s, Christ, the comparison makes it so obvious. That bed was awful, how did I endure it for so long? You sink right into hers like into a puff of cream. This is better. Yes, this is perfect. The sheets will heat up in a moment. I should have kept the window shut.
You were right about the crack on the ceiling. I don’t think I would have noticed it was gone until now. But I remember many nights lying here looking up at it in the faint light from the window, the way it curved out from the wall and stopped abruptly in the middle of the ceiling. It was a reminder that this isn’t a new house; it has a history. The walls have settled over time, it’s not perfectly level. It’s like a living thing, it’s adjusted to its place. It’s shifted with the earth below it, with rain and time. A carpenter’s perfect angles break against London’s shifting floor. We’re only hovering here, dependent on it staying still. But it never does, not really.
It’s gone now. Nothing but smooth plaster.
Yeah, it’s all right. He’ll stay downstairs, I’ll stay up here. That’s how it was, most of the time. That’s how it should be. It’s okay. I mean, I’m not expecting anything. It’s enough just to have you back at all. It is, it’s enough.
There’s a sort of innocence to you, how do you do that? I can’t think of anyone else who would have let me do those things and not thought it strange. There should have been something afterward, you should have reiterated our status. I’m flattered by your interest, John, something along those lines. I would have been flustered, I would have denied everything, and then we’d have laughed it off. You should have said something. But you acted like it was okay, and it was okay. It was fine. You don’t really understand the boundaries around friendship, do you? You don’t have very many friends. Maybe that’s all it is. Some things are okay: a hug now and then, a clap on the back, that sort of thing, but curling up around you in bed, resting my hand on your stomach. I might have kissed the back of your neck, I don’t know. I might have. That’s crossing a line.
But not to you. No, you don’t think anything of it. I missed you, that’s all. I was drunk and I missed you and you understood that. So it’s fine. We just go on as normal. There’s no edge to it; you won’t have it. You’ve missed me too.
Yeah, it’s all right.
A door shuts somewhere; is that you? Bathroom, to bed? Are you? That’s good, you should sleep. I can hear you, you’re walking. Stairs. You’re coming up the stairs. You’re coming up here. To me. Are you? You want to tell me something; you found him, is that it? You know how we’re going to tease him out into the open tomorrow, it’s solved. That’s what you’re going to say. You’re going to relax now, you’re going to tell me how you figured it out. That child-like glee in your voice, I remember that. And I’ll fall asleep with you talking to me. Yes, that’s good. I like that. Don’t: just. God. Don’t imagine anything else.
It’s dark, but I can see the door swing open. I can see the outline of you. I can hear you exhale as you step in. Yes, I know. It’s cold in here, isn’t it.
You step in, push the door back to slightly ajar. You walk in, you’re barefoot. Are you naked? Jesus. No: no, you’re wearing pyjama bottoms, no t-shirt. Bare-chested. Well, all right. You didn’t know how cold it was up here, did you. I’ve closed the window. It will warm up. What is it?
You drop something on the bedside table: phones. At least three of them. Maybe four. Then you pull back the bedclothes. And you get into bed with me.
Why?
You’re cold, aren’t you. You shift down against the sheets, you shift closer to me. Body heat. Do you think I’m asleep? You know I’m not.
God. I’ve imagined this so many times. I’ve remembered it; you used to do this from time to time, do you remember? Of course you do. I don’t know what you were thinking. I don’t even know what I was thinking, really; it seemed natural at the time. It was something you did. I liked it. It was important somehow. It was. Wasn’t it.
“You used to do this.” I’m whispering; well, it’s night. It’s dark. It seems like a time to whisper.
“Hmm?”
“This, you used to–” What am I saying to him? “You’d get into bed with me, sometimes. When you wanted something. Or you wanted to talk. You remember that.” Of course you do. You were there. You don’t forget things.
“Mmhmm.” Have you become nonverbal now? You’re tired. Yeah. I know. You’re here to sleep this time, are you? Not to talk. No victories to crow about tonight. You probably want me to shut up. You want to sleep here, why do you want to do that? For comfort. You’ve been lonely. You’ve missed me. I missed you too. So, so much, Sherlock. You don’t understand.
“I thought about that a lot.” I’ll stop in a moment. I just want to say this. You don’t have boundaries with me, for some reason. So I’ll tell you this. I don’t have to explain everything. I just want to say this: this is continuity. There’s nothing odd about it. You used to do it and it was okay. You can keep on doing it. I won’t try anything. I won’t. “It was comforting, thinking of you here. I don’t know.”
“Mmm.” You take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I can feel the heat of you now. You shift again, very slightly. Your leg touches my knee. You leave it there. You’ve got to notice. You’ve got to. God: no boundaries. We’re so close. Other people wouldn’t do this. Not flatmates. Not friends. You’re not like other people.
Do you know what you’re doing? You’re not an idiot, you’re certainly not. But there’s that innocence you have. Are you doing this on purpose? You must know. You always know people’s deeper motivations. Can you see mine? I won’t try anything. I can love you as you are. The way we are. It’s all right. It will become normal, with time. I won’t think twice about it.
You turn toward me, and now there’s more of you touching me. God. Sherlock, what are you doing? The hard bone of your shin is pressed against the muscle of my calf. It fits there, through two layers of flannel. I can’t help it; my breath is speeding up a little. You’ll notice that. You know. You must. I know you do.
Really? Sherlock, really?
I thought, maybe. I thought that might have been the case. Enough time together, maybe we might have ended up like this. Did you think about it too? Was it a revelation to you, or was it something you already knew? I wonder.
“Irene Adler.” That’s the question. I’m not framing it as one, but it is. It means something to me.
“Mmm?” Still no words from you. I can feel your breath on my face. I’ll turn; on my side, so we’re face to face. Conversational. You shift a little to account for it; you lay your leg over mine. That’s no mistake.
I’ve asked you this question so many times in my head; did you love her? Yes, no, of course not, of course I did: I’ve heard every answer. I want to know. I don’t know why. It changes everything. I was jealous; she could tell. Surely you could too. I want to know.
“Did you love her?” I never managed to ask you outright. I was afraid of the answer. The obvious answer: yes. Did you sleep with her? Did she touch you? I want to know. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It feels like it does.
You laugh a little. I can feel that. The mattress shakes a bit. That’s funny, is it? Is that funny? Is that a yes, or a no?
“She’s not dead, you know.”
What? She is, though. I told you she went to America. But she didn’t. She died, I didn’t want to tell you. How else do you think they got her phone? What do you mean she’s not dead?
“I know Mycroft thought she was. He told you that, didn’t he. He didn’t tell you to lie to me, though. You did that on your own.”
Your fingers brush against my wrist, and then stay there. So lightly; just resting there, two fingers. Not moving.
“I thought it would hurt you." You’re not whispering, so I won’t either. Our voices are soft enough. We don’t need to shout. We’re so close. “I thought you loved her.”
“She’s not dead.” I don’t know why you keep saying that, as if it’s an answer. All right. So she’s not dead. She faked her death twice. Once more than you have. Let’s hope it’s not a competition. “Last I heard she was somewhere in Prague.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Why won’t you answer me? Even in my fantasies you answered: yes, no, of course not, of course I did. No, John. I was in love with you. How is it you manage to come up with a completely different answer in real life? And one that’s even more difficult to understand?
“So.” I have no idea what to say next. You’re waiting for me to respond. I don’t understand this conversation. You’re talking as if you’ve told me something deeply significant. I don’t know what it means. “You’re in touch with her, then?” I honestly have no idea what else to say. I can’t keep asking. You clearly don’t want to answer.
“No.” Through the faint light through the window I can see the shape of your face, the hard angle of your cheekbone jutting out. I remember that: I remember thinking about your face like this, turned toward me. Just here. Like this. This is what you looked like moments before I’d lean in to kiss you. Your eyelashes; your eyes are open. I watch you blinking. You’re studying me.
So Irene is alive. She didn’t die after all; she beat you, and she didn’t die. You admire that, I know you do. You hate it and love it; you like to know someone can beat you. If you loved her, you’d have been in touch with her, is that it? If you loved her, you could have her. You’d be in Prague. You faked your own death; the two of you could be undead together. Oh. It is an answer. I understand. She’s not dead. You haven’t mourned her. You just let her go. Because she wasn’t yours.
You never let me go. Not once.
I understand.
I never let go either, Sherlock. And I tried. Dear Christ, I tried. I just can’t.
You can push me away if you want. We can turn it into a joke. I’ll do it slowly so you’ll guess what it is I’m going to try to do. It’s all right either way, Sherlock. I promise. I won’t sulk about it. You must know now; people don’t get this close unless it’s for this. Our noses are nearly touching; I can feel your breath on my lips. You aren’t shifting back, though. You aren’t turning away. You’re staying still. Your fingers don’t move against my wrist. You’re waiting. You know.
Oh god.
Your lower lip between mine is thick and warm.
That’s you. Of course it is; it tastes like you. Your breath is shaky. I’m barely touching you. It’s all right, Sherlock. I let it slip between my lips, slick and damp. That was it: all right? You don’t have to do this. You’re not pushing me back. You’re just breathing. I can feel your fingers twitch. Have you been waiting for me to do this?
All right. It’s all right, Sherlock.
Let me try this again.
Your lips are softer than I’d imagined. I don’t know why I thought they’d be anything other than this: rich and warm and wet, and open. I can feel the edge of your tongue against my lower lip. Your breath is speeding up just like mine. You latch onto me, your lips, you pull me in. Yes. All right. Kiss me then, Sherlock. Your tongue is scraping against mine. You knew last night, didn’t you. Maybe you always knew. Kiss me.