The machinery is very intricate and probably more expensive than I can fathom: it’s tiny. The ear piece is so small you have to glue it in with tweezers. What powers it? It’s a speaker, isn’t it? A tiny speaker glued to the inside of my ear? It’s too small, it won’t work. I won’t be able to hear anything, and then you’ll have to try and dig it back out again, I’m sure. It itches a little when you adjust it.
Fancy technology like this must be the advantage of working with MI5. It’s like James Bond. Have you got a shiny little gun that looks like a pen? Some poisoned darts in a pair of sunglasses? A car that turns into a boat with the touch of a button? Ouch, what are you doing in there?
“Careful!” Having you insert a pointed metal object into my ear doesn’t strike me as anyone’s best idea.
“Yes, I am.”
You say it in the affirmative, as if I’ve just complimented you. I want to laugh, but any movement might plunge those tweezers through my ear drum. So I just smile instead. Very funny, Sherlock. Very funny.
You haven’t actually changed at all, have you. You haven’t. Neither have I, really. Did you think it would be this easy, waltzing back into my life again? You’ve got your hand resting against my neck, just lightly. Not holding me still, just reminding me not to move. I suppose you are careful, really. When you want to be. I missed you, Sherlock.
It’s baffling to me, really. You pretended to be dead; we had a funeral for you. I mourned you for so long. And you watched me all that time, you knew everything, didn’t you. You watched me leave Baker Street, you read my stories in The Strand, you saw my terrible grey flat. You saw me move in with Mary, didn’t you. Maybe you saw us the day we met. We were happy, at first. In spite of all of this, in spite of the lies and all the things I didn’t tell her. Mycroft knew I bought the ring. You must have known as well; you must have. He would have told you. Maybe he tried to warn you. You knew where I bought coffee, where I got the paper too, I’d imagine. You knew I didn’t love her anymore, didn’t you. You knew we’d broken up when I arrived here; how did you know that? You knew almost everything, didn’t you. It’s as if you watched me leave you, but you never left me. Did it hurt you, watching me? It must have. It must have done. You didn’t want that, I know you didn’t. I know that now.
“You put ads for me in the classifieds.” We haven’t really talked about that. But you did it, you put ads in the classifieds for me to find, obviously. At least thirteen of them. That I found, anyway. There might have been more.
“I did.”
“It was the smugglers’ code. I recognised it.” You knew I would. Or you hoped I would. That’s why you left them for me. You wanted me to know. You wanted me at those arrests, working with you, standing at your side and admiring your work, like I always used to. But you weren’t there yourself. Why? That would have been too dangerous, I suppose. Were you watching? Did you see me? What was I meant to do there? Just watch? Was it a warning of some kind? What was I meant to deduce from it? What did I see but fail to observe, Sherlock?
“Mmm.” I can see you squinting at me out of the corner of my eye. You shift something inside my ear and it burns momentarily.
“Ouch!” The glue must be drying. “Why did you do it?”
“A bit of metal was visible from that angle, I had to shift it.”
“I mean the ads. Why the classified ads?”
You sigh, and I can feel it against my cheek. That’s familiar now in a very good way. Will it be the same tonight? Will you climb the stairs again and curl yourself around me? It wasn’t just a one time thing, was it? I’ll cope if it was. I’ll cope. But I hope it wasn’t. Come to me again tonight, Sherlock, if I make it through this. If I come home. I’ll peel you out of your clothes if I come home, Sherlock. I’ll memorise your skin with my hands and my lips.
“I couldn’t very well get a front page headline, could I.”
“No, I mean, why did you do it at all? Wasn’t it dangerous to get me involved? If I was your–” What’s the word for it? Cover? “If my belief that you were dead was so critical, why the classified ads?” Not that it convinced me otherwise. The illusion was complete, I must admit: even once I saw the ads I didn’t let myself imagine they were from you. That would have been a sign of madness. It was too much to hope for. You were dead. Were you trying to drive me mad?
“You sound like Mycroft.” Do I?
Whose plan was this, anyway? Yours, or his? It was Mycroft who told Moriarty enough details to destroy you, was that deliberate? Was it a mistake you capitalised on? What about the roof at Barts; was that Mycroft’s idea? Or yours? Are you conceding to him, or is he conceding to you?
Was it Mycroft who insisted I not know the truth until I arrived here and saw you, standing in the kitchen like you weren’t dead at all? Or did you want it that way? You thought I’d have guessed by now. Were you trying to help me guess? Mycroft knew I hadn’t. Did you argue about it? He wanted me to give Mary the ring. He wanted me to get on with it, move on. You couldn’t have wanted that, could you? Not anymore, no. Did you want to tell me the truth, and did he hold you back? That’s a nice thought. Too nice, I reckon. Too nice by far. You’re not nice, Sherlock, I know that much.
You shake your head at me. “Those arrests weren’t dangerous, not really. Moran never knew about most of them, he still doesn’t know. Why would it be dangerous for you to see?”
This is the argument you had with Mycroft, isn’t it. I suppose I should thank you. It was a gift, wasn’t it, a gift to me, outside of Mycroft’s knowledge and control. What were you trying to do? Wake me up? I had fallen asleep, in a way. I had become a sleepwalker. I was beginning to believe my own lies. Did you know that? Maybe you could tell. I was slipping away. You were becoming a character, fictional, an anecdote. You were becoming diluted in my words. My flatmate, the one who died. Let me tell you about him, you’ll laugh. I couldn’t hold on much longer. You must have known.
But it was dangerous, of course it was. Mycroft knew that. Getting me involved; it would ruin your cover. It put me and Mary in terrible danger. It made us all targets. “He put explosives in my flat, Sherlock.” He was preparing to kill me. You know that. That was rash. Was it worth it? Maybe it was. Maybe it was worth it to save my soul.
“Well, yes, but that was only a precaution on his part.” A precaution? Stuffing a flat full of explosives is something you do as a precaution? “He was only beginning to suspect that I was alive, he didn’t believe it could possibly be true. That was Jennifer’s doing, she was always more suspicious than he was. She finally managed to convince him to reactivate your surveillance and establish a new failsafe. It had nothing to do with what you knew or didn’t know. We should have arrested her ages ago.”
Jennifer? “Who’s Jennifer?”
“Jennifer, you know, Jennifer Barclay, the one you– oh. She called herself Amber when you met her the first time.”
Amber. Sweet Amber, the nursery school teacher. So open, so kind; she laughed at my jokes. I never suspected a thing. But she was an accountant. Her arrest wasn’t in the news. She’s the reason Mary’s flat was lined with explosives?
“She said you were cruel.” She meant you, didn’t she. She knew about you. She thought I did too. She thought I was involved. Involved in what?
“From her perspective, I suppose I was. She fancied herself in love with Moriarty. He seduced her at one point. He found her useful. He had her in the palm of his hand. I wouldn’t meet her in person, obviously, and that made her suspicious. Well, eventually it did.”
Wait, was Amber–
I mean Jennifer, was Jennifer–
She was your girlfriend?
No: Moriarty wouldn’t have a girlfriend, surely. Not really. He used people. He took Molly out a few times in order to get to you, did he do the same to Amber? He could make himself look so small, so vulnerable: he spun stories to make people pity him and hate you. Molly liked him. He was an excellent liar. You would have had to keep up his deceptions, once you were pretending to be him. All of them, including his falsified love life. Three years of it: three years. You must have flirted with her, sent her sweet email messages, texted her in the mornings and told her you missed her. You told her other things, too, I’m sure. You told her you wanted her. You must have. Never in person, of course. Is that what you did? Did you learn to flirt and seduce as part of this operation? She thought she loved you. You made her think you loved her, too.
You must have been convincing. At least for a while.
It’s ridiculous to feel jealous, isn’t it. Ridiculous. It was a ploy, that’s all. Still. Three years of saying things to her you weren’t saying to me. I don’t usually feel jealous, you know. I only feel jealous when it’s you.
You run your thumb across my ear. You can be so gentle when you want to be.
“He sent her to watch you.” Watch me? “He thought you would tell her your secrets, if you had any. She’s good at being sweet, isn’t she.” She is. I didn’t suspect a thing. We met; she was nice. Too nice, maybe. That was evidence of something. I wasn’t thinking in deductions: you were gone. We went to the cinema. She laughed at my jokes. “If I were still alive, he was sure you would know it, and you would tell her. She reported back. She thought you and I must have been lovers, because you were sad, and you wouldn’t kiss her.”
Oh god. I was going to kiss her; I was going to. But I couldn’t do it. That was personal, how did she know that? She wasn’t entirely right, of course. We weren’t lovers. Not yet, anyway. But she wasn’t entirely wrong, either. Was it all on my face, even then?
I’m a terrible liar, aren’t I.
She spent an evening with me, and she emailed you, or texted you, or left you a message on Moriarty’s answer phone. She told you I was in love with you. What did you think, Sherlock? Did you think it was funny? Was it a surprise? People always thought we were a couple. They always said so, and you always ignored it. Did you ignore it that time too? Did you understand what it meant? Would you have left me so long, without any hint that you survived, knowing something like that might be true about me? Maybe you would. If you had to, you would have.
Is that what the ads were for? Were you trying to comfort me, once you could? Were you trying to make me hope?
“Just as well you didn’t kiss her, really. She had a gun and some cable ties in her purse.”
Right. Of course she did. Even the most mundane elements of my life were on the verge of becoming comic book violence, and I had no idea whatsoever. Spies and explosives and ads in the classifieds. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t believe it. I would remain blissfully unaware. I would be engaged to Mary, and you would be my best anecdote.
You’re done with the ear piece, are you? It’s invisible. If Moran abducts me he won’t find it. You’ll be able to tell me from which direction you’ll be breaking through the windows to come and find me. As long as I don’t dig it out with my fingernail or break it in some other way. As long as he doesn’t kill me first.
The microphone is as thin as a strand of hair. I don’t entirely believe that it will work either. I’ll go into this thing deaf and mute, and you’ll just have to do your best. Your best is always better than anyone can expect, Sherlock. I trust you. You hook the microphone around my ear. It protrudes a little bit, not very far. I’ll probably brush it off by accident. I’ll break it or drop it onto the pavement without noticing. It doesn’t matter: I know what I have to do. I’ll do my part. And you’ll do yours. What happens next will be far too calculated to be considered fate. It’s just what happens next.
“All right.” You look me up and down, like you’re looking for spots where the bullets could sink in. Anywhere, Sherlock. Anywhere. But that’s all right. “Go upstairs.”
“Hmm?”
“We should test the volume. Go upstairs.”
Fine. I’ve got to leave in an hour, and Mycroft still hasn’t got back to you about the Criterion. Stamford will be there. I have no idea what I’m going to say to him. What can I say? And you’ll be listening to every word. I can’t tell him you’re alive, can I. Not yet. That’s our secret still.
I can hear a crackle in my left ear. You’ve switched something on. I can’t believe it works. I shut my bedroom door, I don’t want to mistake your voice from downstairs for the voice in my ear.
“John?” It’s so soft, like you’re whispering in my ear. I sit down on my bed. “Can you hear me?”
“Barely.” Maybe that’s the point. “Can you turn it up a little, or is that a bad idea?”
“How’s that?” That’s better, yes. That’s louder. Now it feels like you’re speaking very softly, lying beside me in the dark. If I close my eyes I can almost feel you against me. “Better?”
“Yeah, it’s better. Though I don’t know if I’d be able to hear you in a noisy pub, frankly.”
There’s a ticking noise. “Now?” Oh god. “I can make it louder if that’s required, this is about forty percent.” Now my head is filled with you. It’s not too loud, it’s not overwhelming, but you’re there, all right. You’re there beside me, like you always are. Fully present, and weirdly absent.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s probably good.”
“All right, switch on your radio, would you? And talk for a while. I want to adjust the recording volume so that we get enough ambient sound.”
I switch on the radio. It’s some kind of call-in programme. “What do you want me to talk about?”
“Anything, I just need your voice. Sing a song, if you like, it doesn’t matter.”
Well I’m not going to sing to you, Sherlock. That would be embarrassing and you wouldn’t like it, trust me.
“I...um. All right. I–” I have no idea what to say. All the things that spring to mind are too sensitive or too difficult to talk about. Last night, for one. I could talk about last night. I could talk about how ironic it is that you’re speaking directly into my head after I spent too long with your imaginary voice in my head. I could tell you about that. “Did Mycroft get back to you yet? About the– Well, you know, about the Criterion.”
“Yes, actually, a few minutes ago. The windows are sealed. He’s reserved you a table.”
Great. As if you can seal windows against bullets. “All right. And I’ll– Well, I’ll leave in about an hour, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve worked out the path I’ll take to get there?”
“Of course.”
This is much harder than you’d think, you know. Talk about anything. Absolutely anything? There are too many things to talk about. None of them are appropriate right now.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“Did you go to your funeral?” That’s an odd question, I know. So I laugh a little. Not because it’s funny. Just because it’s odd. ”Everyone always talks about wanting to do that, you know, to hear what people say about them. It’s a unique opportunity.” This was a dumb idea. I shouldn’t have brought it up. “Did you listen to the eulogy, or did you ignore it?” I don’t really want to know the answer to this question. I don’t. But I’ve asked now.
I can hear you breathing. “I was there.” Of course you were. Of course. You saw me, didn’t you. You saw me say nothing, you saw me cry in front of your grave. “I needed to ensure that no one opened the coffin. But it wasn’t something I’d ever had a particular yearning to do.” A drug addict with no friends and a brother who’d sooner have him sectioned, right. Of course you didn’t dream about attending your own funeral. You don’t care what people think of you, do you. You never did. Not really. “I heard parts of what Lestrade said, but to be honest I wasn’t paying much attention. Moran was there as well, I was keeping an eye on him.” Was he there to point a gun at my head? Was every event in my life accompanied by me in crosshairs? “I was at Harry’s funeral, though.” You– You what? It was such a small room, how could you possibly have– “It was a very nice service, I thought. You spoke very well. I was sorry to hear about her death, John. I know that can’t have been easy for you.”
Unbelievable. You were always nearby, weren’t you. All the times I thought I was alone I never was. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
She died alone, you know. You probably do know. She died in hospital with a failing liver and no more will to live. I meant to be there. You never know when something like that is going to happen, it’s very hard to predict. I knew it was coming; so did she. We didn’t really talk about it, I didn’t want to be morbid. I wanted her to have some hope. She had been improving, but that’s common enough; a burst of improvement before a rapid demise. They didn’t call me in time. It was the middle of the night, and there was nothing I could have done. She didn’t regain consciousness. She didn’t know I wasn’t there. She wouldn’t have known if I was. She died alone. I thought I would too, one day.
“Mary was very good to you.”
Yes, she was. She held my hand through the service. I thought I might collapse if she let go; I couldn’t take it. Harry and I never got on, it’s true, but she was family. She was all I had left. And her funeral reminded me of yours. If Mary hadn’t held on to me, I wouldn’t have been able to speak at all.
“I thought you were going to marry her.”
Yes. She didn’t know I was thinking about it, but you did. You watched me buy the ring, didn’t you. You watched me walk home with it in my pocket. You knew it was for her. You knew what it meant. I bought it three days before you had them announce that Moriarty was dead and you were redeemed. Is that a coincidence, or not? You’re not motivated by sentiment, it’s ridiculous of me to presume you might have been. If I had married her, Sherlock, I would have buried you for good. You must know that. And the day you eventually came back, I would have turned and walked away from you. I’d have had to. You understand. There would be no way around that. Decisions like that can’t be unmade.
But I chose you in the end, even though you were dead. I chose you.
“Yeah, I thought so too, at one point. Things change.”
I’ll leave in a hour. That will make me a bit early, but that’s all right. I don’t want Mike to sit at the wrong table. Let’s get this over with.