The world should be colour-coded; the parts that are under the strict watch of Mycroft Holmes and his MI5, the safe zone where no one can be hurt, and the world outside it, where anything can and will go wrong. I’m approaching the boundary, I know I am. You keep telling me so.
“Straight on here, John.” Your voice is gentle in my ear. It’s like you’re just next to me, curled around me, whispering to me. I can almost feel your fingers moving against my ribs. If I close my eyes it’s still night. “You’re not far now. Left at the corner, and then you’re out.”
There are three men just down the street, looking this way. Looking at me. Why? Is one of them Moran? No. No, they’re not looking at me, they’re just looking. Just bored, waiting for something. Not me. It’s nothing to do with me. My gun has grown warm against my back. Who brings a gun out to meet an old mate? That’s me, I’m the one. You never know when you’re going to need it. All right. Breathe. I’m still in the safe zone. Still safe.
You say I won’t need a gun. I’ll be protected. I’m being watched. There will be men from MI5 there in their civvies. They’ll have guns hidden under their waistbands as well, probably better ones than mine. But still. You never know. I’d rather be prepared.
There’s a sharp clapping sound behind me: a woman’s shoes against the pavement. It’s a normal sound, an everyday sound, but something’s different. She’s determined, she’s walking quickly toward me. The pounding sound of hard-soled shoes on the pavement, too fast, too certain. Don’t put it past him to use a woman, Sherlock, you know he would. He used Amber.
Would she have killed me that night, if I’d kissed her, if I’d gone up to her flat? Cable ties on my wrists and a gun pressed against my temple, maybe that’s how it would have ended. That could have been the end of me. And I would never have understood why, or what I had been embroiled in. There was no doubt in my mind then that you were dead. The pain was still at its sharpest then. It would have been a shame to die before I knew the truth.
She wouldn’t have killed me; I didn’t know anything. I couldn’t have confirmed any of her suspicions, if she had any. Your deception was too perfect, it was unshakable. I was safe. I didn’t kiss her. I was thinking of you.
Those shoes: she’s right behind me. Sherlock, can you see her? Talk to me. Is she one of Moran’s? Is she part of the network? I can reach my gun with my right hand, I can have it at her head before she can incapacitate me; my muscles know how. It’s easy. Easier than anything else. It’s natural: I’m ready. I can hear her coming. Her shoulder is against my–
Oh. She’s no one.
She brushes past me, she doesn’t even look at me. She’s in a rush, she’s going somewhere. A meeting, she’s got a date, she needs to pick up her children, I don’t know. She’s got nothing to do with me. Or Moran. I’m just an obstacle on the pavement, someone to move past. Of course I am. I’m inside the perimeter. You didn’t warn me. She doesn’t know we’re walking through a battlefield. I’m still safe.
Breathe in, breathe out. It’s a normal day, just like any other day.
It’s a healthy paranoia, I think. It will keep me alive. My paranoia and you, peering through every CCTV camera at me.
It’s going to be a long walk to the Criterion, isn’t it.
I can hear you, even though you’re not speaking. You’re only breathing into the microphone, flicking switches, moving objects around on the table. Phones, probably. I can hear the rapid tapping of your fingers on a keyboard. You’re watching me, I know you are. CCTV cameras. You’re watching my every move. I know that: you’re looking three streets ahead to see what I’ll find there, aren’t you. As if you’re my guardian angel, watching over me from above.
“What’s funny?” I can’t help it: it’s the tension. The relief. The idea of you as an angel: that’s what’s funny. “You’re grinning like a lunatic, John.”
You’re not speaking at full volume, the way you would have if I were in the room with you. We’re having the kind of conversation you can only ever have in your head. We’re both very practiced at that, aren’t we. The farther away we are the softer we speak to one another, the gentler we become. That’s counterintuitive, surely.
I shouted when I saw you on the street, after you died. Didn’t I? I had to shout: you were in the distance. I recognized you immediately, just from your posture. That was you, wasn’t it. Of course it was. No one else can look like you; I should have known that. I shouted then, I’m sure I did. I feel as though I did. Come back to me, Sherlock. Come back. Come back! Maybe I didn’t. Maybe my voice was just loud inside my head. Angels, though: angels don’t need to shout. They flutter past and whisper in your ear. Turn left, turn right, wait here. Stop. Go. Straight ahead, come on now, John. A classical angel, nude with maybe a bit of strategically-placed drapery, wings and bathed in light, whispering sweet nothings in my ear and strumming on a harp. Ha!
“What is it, John? What’s so funny?”
“It’s nothing.” I can whisper into the microphone without moving my mouth very much. It hardly matters though, does it. I’m still in the safe zone. Moran is blind for now: you’re the only one who can see me on the CCTV cameras. Well, you and whoever else you’ve roped into protecting me. It’s in the national interest, I’m sure, my well-monitored walk.
“All right, left here. Not too quickly.”
A detour, of course. No need to question it. You’ll take me by the safest route possible. My guardian angel, leading me through an invisible maze, your imaginary hand in mine. I’ll follow. No one would ever have awarded you a halo, though, I’m sure. Except for me, maybe. On some days. Some days you deserve one in spite of yourself, Sherlock.
“The edge of the perimeter is a couple of streets away, are you ready?” I am. I’m ready. “You can’t be grinning to yourself like you’re touched in the head, John, it will look suspicious.” People do smile to themselves, Sherlock. It happens. Sometimes people are just happy.
My phone. My phone is ringing. “Hold on.”
“What?”
“Phone.” The number is withheld. It could be anyone.
“Dammit.”
I’ll hold it against the opposite ear; I don’t want to dislodge the microphone so soon. “Hello?”
“Doctor Watson.” Oh, christ. What do you want?
“Good afternoon.” I should say his name, just so you know who it is. You should know who it is. You probably already know, now that I think of it. Well, just in case. “What can I do for you today, Mycroft?”
“Bloody Mycroft. Ignore him, John.” Two voices now: yours and your brother’s. In stereo. This might be too much Holmes.
“It’s dangerous, what you’re about to do.” No preliminaries. Well, that’s a blessing, I suppose.
“I’m aware of that, yes.”
“I know you’ve got a hero complex, Doctor Watson. And I know you’ve been willing to give your life to save my brother’s before.” Does he know that? Well, yes, of course he does. I shouldn’t even bother to question what he knows anymore, he knows everything. And he keeps it all in an extensive catalogue in his office, I’m sure, complete with photos and video. A complete file of my life, up to and including Mary’s ring size. “But you don’t need to do so now.”
No?
“What’s he saying? Is he trying to convince you to stop? He thinks I’m being unfair to you. Unfair! As if he knows anything about–”
“You can change your mind, you know.” Mycroft is all calm and you are a storm of discontent.
“–bloody fairness. Honestly. This was your idea, not mine, and it’s a good one, so he should–”
“I have a car waiting for you, it can be there in two minutes if you like.”
“–just sit his bloated arse down and help me pinpoint Moran before he kills more citizens of his blessed bloody empire, for god’s sake! ” I think you two have clearly grown sick of each other. Three years on the same side is entirely too long.
“The driver will take you beyond the perimeter and away from this–” He pauses. This what, Mycroft? What is this? “This unfortunate situation. I can arrange a new flat for you, somewhere terribly nice. Nicer than Baker Street, certainly. You won’t have to see him again, if you’d rather not.”
Mycroft Holmes, that’s not an offer. That’s a threat. He must know I’m not happy to live without you. Is he threatening me?
“No. That’s quite all right, thank you. I’ll finish this.” I’d rather stay with you, that’s the truth. I know what it’s like in the world without you. I don’t like it.
Maybe he’s testing me again. He does that; he tests my resolve from time to time with safe but distasteful alternatives. A man can be judged on his decisions at a point of crisis, isn’t that right? He’s colder than you are. He’s colder than all of us.
He thought you were being unfair to me? I suppose you were; years of plotting dependent on me and you never let me in on the plan. It’s awfully upright of you, Mycroft, to care about my consent in all this. It’s not that, though, is it. A willing sacrifice is more reliable than an unwilling one. I understand. I’m willing, you should understand that. I volunteered. I can end this, and I will. “The Criterion is safe?”
“Of course.” A simple task for him, I’m sure. What does that mean, exactly? An army behind windows, rifles trained on the front door? The entire waitstaff replaced with agents from MI5, each with a gun hidden under their uniforms? Microphones dangling from every light fixture? You said something about sealing the windows. Sealing them with what? “The location is entirely secure.” Secure. Of course it is, yes. Entirely secure.
“Then I’ll be fine.” I don’t actually believe that. Not really. Something’s bound to happen. I know it. You’re worried, and you’re almost never worried. Not about me. My chances are probably less than fifty fifty, that’s how this goes. I wonder what the exact probability of my survival is, in your estimation. Forty percent? Thirty? Twenty five? Enough to try, whatever it is. It’s best not to know.
“If you make it to the Criterion, yes. You’ll be fine. If you can also make it back from the Criterion, then we’ll count ourselves extremely lucky, Doctor Watson. Extremely lucky indeed.”
“I understand.”
“Oh, hang up on him. He just wants to stick his oar in, the bastard.”
“Do you understand, John? Once you leave the perimeter, I cannot vouch for your safety. Think carefully about this.” He wanted me to give Mary the ring. He wanted me to move on. Why? I can’t tell if he’s looking out for me or just trying to hurt you. It might be both. Or he’s after something else altogether. “Think about the risks. There’s still time to change your mind, you know. Is it worth it?”
I don’t need to think about it. I’ve spent three years thinking about it.
There’s a pause, and neither of you speak. I can hear both of you breathing, waiting for my answer. You’re watching me, aren’t you. Both of you. He’s probably watching me on some gigantic screen in a secured underground location, or inside his plush office with a cup of tea in his hand, looking bored. You, Sherlock: I know where you are. You’re home where I left you, sitting at the table, tapping away at a keyboard, the way I always pictured you. There’s a cup of tea next to you too, growing cold because you’ve forgotten about it. You and your brilliant mind, Sherlock. You and your secret heart, your lips against mine, the feeling of your even breathing on my skin, your wayward, bony elbows: yes. Yes, it’s worth the risk, Mycroft. Of course it is. Everything worth having is worth risking, in the end. Sherlock always knew that. The world is a better place when he isn’t dead. Isn’t it? I’d like to keep it that way. I’ll end this. I know what I have to do.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Simply that. That’s all I can say about it. Of course he’s worth the risk. The life I had is worth the risk. I’d like it back. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get going. I told Stamford I’d meet him at half four.”
I can hear you breathing, Sherlock. I can hear you. Do you know what he asked me? You can’t possibly know, you can’t hear him, can you. But you can probably imagine. You know your brother. You know what he’d ask me.
“Thank you, John.” Did I just pass some kind of test? “Your courage is exemplary. If all should not go as planned, you will certainly be remembered for your limitless loyalty.” Oh that’s cheering. Yes, thank you, Mycroft, I’m relieved to know that you’re already making notes for my eulogy. You’re just bleeding with confidence, aren’t you. “Frankly I can’t imagine what he’s done to deserve it.”
Three years of both of you on the same side is most definitely too long. When this is over we should take some cases as far outside the reach of the British government as possible. Maybe some nice little domestic mysteries in the south of France.
“I’ll leave you to it, then. Best of luck, Doctor Watson.”
“Thank you.” I’m not even sure he heard my response. He’s hung up.
“Is he gone?”
“Yes.” I slip my phone back into my pocket.
“Did he try to convince you not to do this?”
“He did.” I won’t mention the offer of a ticket out. There’s no point. “I declined.” I can picture you just now, sitting in the flat in front of your computer with a dozen phones in your lap, and I imagine you’re smiling at that. Smiling at me on the screen.
“All right.” I hear a clatter of keys. “When you cross the street at the corner, going north, you will be outside the perimeter. I don’t expect he’ll notice you immediately. He only has a handful of snipers left, and they’re all across the city at the moment. They can’t watch all the footage at once. It will take some time. Just walk, don’t be too jumpy. Not every person or passing car is out to get you. Walk as if you suspect nothing. It’s just an ordinary day. All right? I’ll watch out for any activity and alert you. Now: go on. Cross here. North.”
North it is, then.
Walk; cross the street, like any ordinary pedestrian. I can do that. My legs feel slightly numb. Left, right, left. With every step it feels as though the earth shudders beneath me, as if I can sense the impact of my steps on the entire planet. I am making only the slightest disturbance; it’s so slight it’s entirely unnoticeable. But I won’t be unnoticeable forever. It’s only a matter of minutes until he sees me. Left. Right. Left. And just like that, I’m on the other side. Open. And now it begins. Come on, Moran. Here I am. Find me.
I can feel my heart beating in my fingertips. My breathing is slow and steady, just like yours in my ear. I’m alert, I’m calm. I’m ready. London is a battlefield again. Watch me, Sherlock. Watch over me. Let’s go.