You must be able to hear me breathing. Inhale, exhale, scan the street, scan the windows: no guns. I don’t hear the sound of a gun firing, not yet. Nearly there: a few more steps and I’ll be inside. I’ll be safe.
I’ve made it, unscathed. Well, not quite yet. Not quite.
Is this the weakest point, the moment just before you reach safety? It always is. That’s always how it plays out; the most ironic way possible, like a horror film. That moment relief arrives a second too soon; that’s when you get caught. Every inch of the battlefield is primed for the war; every inch of it, even the last one.
Just one more step. Over the threshold now, one more step and I’m in. That’s it. God. I’m inside: I made it.
And he didn’t even notice, did he. It’s not that easy to catch this bloke’s attention, as it turns out. All that tension and drama for nothing. Maybe you don’t need the protection of a safehouse after all. He’s just not that observant. You'll have to just ring him and tell him where I am. He's having coffee with a friend. Go find him. He's certainly not waiting for you with a gun tucked against his back. No, certainly not.
I can hear the dull rumble of conversation, light jazz playing in the background, a coffee grinder. Cups against table tops, the clacking of glass against glass, a woman laughing. In my left ear, I can hear the rattle of a vibrating phone, a ping from your computer, your fingers flying across the keyboard, your breathing. My limbs feel rubbery and faintly weak with strain; I’ve been too tense, too alert. I shut the door behind me; I’ll seal myself in. Safe. From the edge of one perimeter to another, only this one has better coffee. Unless something's changed. Something always changes, with time. We made it, Sherlock. We’re here.
Breathe; I can hear you relax a little, too. I can hear it in your breath, Sherlock. You’re nervous. We moved too fast, didn’t we. If I hadn’t kissed you last night would you be as nervous? It doesn’t change anything, not really. Not yet. I don’t know.
“I’m here.” I’ve got used to the odd undertone I need to use to talk to you. Barely moving my lips. No one pays attention to an average-looking man walking into a restaurant. I just mock scratching my cheek to hide my lips.
“Yes, good.” You’re in the middle of something, I can tell. Has he seen me? You're distracted, aren't you. When all you have is a voice to go on, you learn pretty quickly to distinguish tone and mood. Pay attention, Sherlock. It’s my life on the line, here. Watch out for me. What’s wrong? If this doesn’t work, I’ll hunt him down next. I’ll go door to door.
The place is only about half full. God, I haven’t been here in ages. Not since before; before you fell, before everything changed. We used to come here when you’d been hovering around Barts waiting on test results. It’s close, nicely anonymous, not too poncy. It smells like ground coffee and floor polish. It feels the same. But your former self is missing: you’d be anxious, walking in here, talking a mile a minute, frustrated and emphasising every other word with your hands. You wouldn’t care who overheard us. It didn’t matter then. You’d complain about a client, or about someone at Barts not giving you access to specialised equipment or a particular lab, or not letting you borrow a set of livers in a jar: something like that, always. It was comforting, comfortable, familiar. You were in your element, your mind was racing, you were always thrashing against the ordinary world the way you wanted to. Fighting back against normality. It was always life or death for us. But not like this. Not the way it became. Those seem like our innocent days, now.
"By the window, John."
There’s only the one table in front of a window; it’s got a little reserved sign sitting on it. That must be mine. Reserved for me. When playing at being bait, one must be appropriately dangled, obviously. And in this case, being dangled means sitting directly in front of a plate glass window on a road with more CCTV cameras than anywhere outside of Downing Street or Buckingham Palace. All right, then. Here I am. Do you see me yet, you bastard? Come and get me. We’re done with waiting.
There are two seats: one facing the wall, and one facing the door. Facing the door for me, then. I want to see Stamford when he walks in. I want to see anyone who walks in, in fact. I want to see him before he sees me. I want to look into his eyes as he opens the door and steps inside. I want to know: are you Sebastian Moran? Are you here to kill me? Bit outrageous to imagine that I’ll be able to tell just from a set of pupils and irises in an unfamiliar face, isn’t it. But I reckon I can. I reckon I will. I want the extra few seconds of warning to pull out my gun and aim. I only need a few seconds. That will be more than enough.
Yes, this is my chair, this one here. I’ll drape my jacket over the back of it and make myself comfortable. I might be here for quite a while. Ah, a waiter. Manager? Owner? Who knows. He’s coming over to me, he wants to know why I’m sitting at a reserved table, presumably. Some strange man staking out a table marked reserved. He’ll want to tell me off. Does he know why I’m here? Has he already heard of me? Does he know that I’m to be a sitting duck? They must have had to tell him something.
“There’s a reservation in your name.” Yeah, I figured that, Sherlock.
“You’re...” He looks down at a pad of paper in his hand. It must be written there: the only person permitted to sit here is Doctor John H. Watson.God, did I bring any identification? In my wallet, yeah. I’ve got something. Don’t I?
“Yes, I’m John Watson.” It’s my table, mate. The most dangerous spot in London; it’s for me. What did they tell you? I'm a producer for some well-funded telly programme, a restaurant reviewer, a talent scout? Who knows. Surely they didn’t tell you the truth. Someone will point a gun in here and fire at me. Surely all the staff would have called in sick. Or not: maybe some of them would like to watch. Are you that sort of bloke, then? Violence, blood, danger, that sort of thing? I understand. I really do. It’s a strange lot in life. I empathise.
“Right,” he says. “Yes, that’s...fine, good. Is there–” He pauses. He looks nervous. Maybe he does know. His eyes flick over to the window for a second, then back at me. “Is there something I can get you?”
“Just water, for now.” My mouth is dry and I’m getting a bit of a headache. I think I had my teeth clenched the whole way here. “I’m waiting for a friend.” He probably knows that. Reservation for two, in the bull’s eye.
He nods at me and leaves, more quickly than is strictly necessary. He knows. Yes: I’m the target. It’s all right, he’ll be aiming for me, not you. Stay out of the way, mate. I’ll handle him.
Yes: seated here, I am precisely in the middle of the window. I can see the street, the traffic, it’s at an intersection. There are so many directions from which I can be seen. I’m sitting beneath a lamp, my face must be illuminated. I think they had to adjust the table a bit, you could have fit two tables in here, if you’d needed to. They rearranged the furniture for this, didn’t they. They pulled back the curtains as far as they could go. Isn’t that suspicious? Haven’t you made it a bit too easy? He’s not as clever as you and your brother, though. Not as clever as Moriarty. You have to give him some advantage, don’t you. Me: that’s his advantage, I’m sitting right in the centre of the window, lit like a greek statue, on display for all passersby. I’m impossible to miss. But you’ll have to miss, Moran. You’ll have to. I’m not going to die today.
My glass of water is sweating a little on the bar mat. Hold on. That bloke there, across from–
That’s–
I know him. Don’t I? I could swear–
In the lobby, in the lift–
I remember. The military haircut, the outrageously muscled arms. That’s the bloke with the dog. From Mary’s block of flats. He lives one floor down from her. The evacuations: he was there. Bedbugs, he said. It wasn’t bedbugs. That was a lie. Was it him? Is he–
“Sherlock...”
Moran? Is that him? Sebastian Moran. I’ve met him. I’ve talked to him. I’ve said ridiculous things to him: something about the weather, the lift, the football scores, the sorts of nothing you talk about with strangers. I’ve seen him dozens of times, in and around Mary’s block of flats. He has a dog. A big, muscled dog, a fighting dog. I think they’re illegal now, aren’t they? He was there when they were putting explosives in the walls. Maybe it was him, trying to kill us. To kill me. Sherlock–
“Relax. He’s MI5.”
“He–” No. Is he? MI5?
But that was months ago. Before any of this began. Before Mycroft called me in the night, before your name was in the news again. He couldn’t be. I think I saw him buying a newspaper at the same shop I did not long after I moved in with Mary. Before Harry died. He was a neighbour. I saw him–
“He’s your security detail.”
He looks up, and nods at me, very slightly. Then he goes back to reading the paper. Like any other stranger. How long, Sherlock? How long have I needed my own private bodyguard? I don’t remember if I saw him before, in the other place, the greyer, sadder place. I wasn’t paying attention then. I didn’t look up. I didn’t notice people's faces after you died. Was he there even then? Has he always been my neighbour one floor down? Does he have a receiver glued into his ear as well? Who’s whispering to him, Sherlock? Is it you? Your brother?
I honestly don’t know if I’m annoyed, embarrassed, or flattered. Or frustrated. If I’d guessed, even for a second–
If I’d second-guessed the evidence of the newspapers, my own eyes, the closed casket–
If I’d kissed Amber, gone up to her flat, found her gun and her cable ties in her purse, read her texts to Moriarty, overheard some whispered phone call in the night–
I’ve been on the verge of seeing you all this time, haven’t I. If I'd turned around when you didn't expect me to, just once, just once–
You were just on the other side of my perception, weren't you, waiting and watching me. Hoping I wouldn’t guess, but wanting me to. Willing me to. You know my methods. Apply them. I didn’t dare. I couldn’t have unravelled all this, not without you. I could have started to, though, if I'd let myself guess.
“Stop staring at him, John.”
Was I? I suppose I was.
Fine. I’ll stare out the window instead, look out at the battlefield and look for the enemy. There’s no enemy out there, not now. Only people. Innocents. Men in ties, women in coats and high heels. Children being led to piano lessons, playing games in their heads and dragging their feet. Innocents, all of them. Blithely imagining themselves safe. There are men with guns everywhere. No one would believe it if I told them the truth. I certainly didn’t. Paranoid delusions: real life isn't like that. I should have known better. Once you fall out of the dream, it’s hard to climb back in.
The first time I saw him, I think, shortly after I’d moved in, it was raining, and he was getting out of a taxi. No dog then, just a heavily-muscled man and a garment bag. It was bright pink. I was a bit drunk. I made a joke about the colour, a frankly appalling shade of pink, or something like that. I was thinking of you. It was a fond memory, and he was a stranger. He smiled. He must have thought I was a right idiot. Absolutely without a clue.
Who else, then? How many of the rest of them are MI5? There are two other men sitting alone; I can see their strategy. They’re covering every angle. They’re all facing me. Or facing the window, maybe that’s it. One of them is staring into a laptop screen; the other is pretending to read a book. I’m surrounded, aren’t I. Are there more of them? The couple by the door, paying no attention to me whatsoever: are they MI5 too? Anyone could be. Absolutely anyone. Nothing is as it appears. Nothing ever has been.
The door: someone’s coming in. All right, I’m ready. Sherlock? Are you watching? Is it him? Warn me, Sherlock. The moment you know.
"It's Stamford."
Oh. Only him: my oldest friend. He’s standing in the doorway, not a care in the world, looking in the wrong direction, at every other table instead of this one, looking for me. Over here, Mike. I’m right here.
What have I got you into, Mike? I hope you’ll be able to forgive me if we both survive this. You may never accept an invitation from me again.
He was wrist deep in intestines and his glasses were slipping down his nose the first time I met him. He was skinny then, and thoughtless, as most blokes under twenty-five are. He had a crush on my flatmate's sister, I remember that. Whatever happened to her? What was her name, Hannah? Heather? Something like that. "Just a moment," he said, that first time I saw him, not taking his hands out of the cadaver. "He's not someone you know, is he?" He thought that was funny. It sort of was, I suppose; back then I didn’t know anyone who’d died. Not yet. Death was only a theoretical concept then. Mike was a good study partner; took his coffee black, and he'd drink it no matter how cold it got. I wonder if that’s still true.
He sees me. I can see it on his face the moment he does; relief.
Gillian! That was her name. Gillian. Yes, I remember her. Blonde and pretty and a little bit vacant. Friendly, happy all the time. She frequently neglected to wear knickers under her skirts, not that I minded. She was reading sociology or literature or something like that. Maybe it was drama. Something so far from cadavers I couldn't quite fathom it. The world was much simpler then. Everyone wanted to marry a doctor.
“Oh finally!” Jesus, Sherlock! Volume, for god’s sake! "Finally he twigs! Wonderful!”
Moran?
“He sees me?” I whisper it through my friendliest smile.
“Yes. Yes! He’s watching, John. He knows!”
All right. Breathe. Be normal; don’t be alarmed. Could I have done this for three years, pretend I didn’t know you were alive, out there somewhere, watching me? Maybe. I don’t know. Probably not. It’s painful. I want to find the camera he’s got hold of and glare at him. I want to dare him to come after me.
This is the beginning of it, then, isn't it. It will all be different from here. All right. I'm ready. It's the beginning of the end, and I really need the last three years to come to a definite end.
Will we go back to the way we were, before you fell? Maybe. Except that you’ll crawl into bed with me in the night, and I’ll stroke you and bury my hands in your hair, I’ll kiss you and wake up with your body draped over mine. Won’t I? Let’s hope for that. Wave to Stamford, smile, stand. My neighbour (I wonder what his name is?) is looking up at me, for a moment, vaguely alarmed. I’m not supposed to move, not now. I've been spotted. The game is on.
"Sorry I'm late!" Are you late, Mike? I didn't notice. I'm not paying any attention to the time.
"It's fine, it's fine." He sits in his spot, across from me. He doesn't debate my choice of chair. He doesn't think about whether or not his back is turned to the door. He's never been in that kind of danger, he doesn't think about his vulnerabilities. Cadavers rarely attack from behind. He smiles at me, he sits down and so do I, he glances outside as if there's nothing of note out there. Nothing lying in wait. He takes it all at face value.
I chose him for this, I need to remember that. I chose him, this wasn’t your idea. He may never forgive me for it, once he finds out. What if Moran opts to fire at him and not at me? A warning shot: kill the innocent man on the left, not the accomplice on the right. No: don't think about it. One thing at a time.
"Good to see you, John." He smiles. Mike always forgives me my long silences and distractions. He's never offended by them, never asks why I haven't called or what on earth I’ve been up to. He just calmly sits across from me and smiles. "How's Mary coping?"
Coping with–
God. Well, right. Her flat just blew up. Our flat. That’s a fair question. That feels like ages ago now. "She's all right. The insurance settlement has been more generous than we expected. She's found a new flat already. Much better location."
"Ahh, is it somewhere nearby, then?"
He thinks I’m talking about my own flat, doesn’t he. He thinks I'm still living with Mary. Well, of course he does, I was up until two days ago. I was going to marry her. He knew that: I told him that. Ages ago: he was probably waiting to hear the news of our engagement.
"Um, no. No, I thought this would be–" Public. Outside the perimeter. Easy to home in on and track. No: I can’t say any of that. Well, it's close to Barts, isn't it? "–easier for you to get to. And I like this place." That much is true. Fond memories. Mike knows we used to come here. He must remember. I need to tell him some of the truth, at least. I’m not a very good liar. I can tell him about Mary. About me and Mary. "I'm back at Baker Street, actually." Can Moran hear me? Let's hope so. That should give him the key bit of information we want him to have. "Mrs Hudson needed a hand, and–" Don't mention the boiler. That’s a secret.
"Oh!" Mike is genuinely surprised. Confused, more like it. I can understand that. I haven’t wanted to go anywhere near Baker Street for years now. He knows what your suicide did to me. He knows Baker Street will only ever remind me of you. I should tell him about Mary. I’m not sure he ever really liked her, though he never said a word against her. He wouldn’t. He’s kind that way.
I wonder what you thought of her, Sherlock. Maybe I don’t want to know.
"Mary and I, we–" How am I supposed to feel about this, anyway? Contrite? Crushed? Depressed? I don’t know. How do I feel about it? Relieved. Free. Guilty. It feels like it happened ages ago. We’d been marking time, waiting for something to change. Well, something did change: everything true has been reversed, the impossible is now reality. My paranoid delusions came true. You’re home again. I kissed you; we slept together. You've taken over my brain, Sherlock. You've colonised me. Again.
I can't tell Mike about that. God: I can’t imagine having that conversation just now. He’d be surprised, wouldn’t he? I’m not gay. He knows that. But he knows I loved you. He’s a friend, he knew. He doesn't even know you’re alive.
What am I meant to call you now, anyway? Are you my boyfriend? That sounds odd. We’ve only slept together once. You don’t seem like anybody’s boyfriend. I don’t know. You wouldn’t bother with descriptors and titles, would you. You’re Sherlock Holmes. My Sherlock. That’s enough.
Mary and I broke up. It’s on the record. I can talk about that. I broke up with her. It’s over. "I–” Wait: I don’t want to reveal too much. He’ll ask why, maybe. I don’t know how to answer that. What’s a good euphemism for mutually ending a relationship? “We ended it, I moved out a couple of days ago. Before the explosion." I should have said accident.
"Oh." He looks surprised, and then concerned. About me: he’s concerned. Well, yes, he’s a friend. He’s a good friend, and he has a kind heart. "I'm sorry, John." He probably thinks she ended it. Of course he does. I was supposed to propose, but I didn’t. He doesn’t know that. Maybe he thinks this is the result of a proposal: a solid no, and a request that I move out. God: imagine that.
What do I do? Smile at him. Not a broad smile, not a happy smile. I just got dumped, I should be in pain, I should be suffering and glum. I can't tell him the truth, not yet. It doesn’t matter what he thinks, not just now. He thinks Mary dumped me. That’s fine. It’s a good reason to want a cup of coffee with an old friend. "Thanks."
“You’ve had a rough few days.”
“Yeah.” You have no idea, Mike. “So, how have you been?” I can hear a chorus of pings. It’s you: your phones. What’s going on? Tell me, Sherlock. What’s he saying?
Mike shrugs. “Same old, same old. Each new crop of students finds new and innovative ways to cheat on their exams, that’s not news.”
“Go after him yourself, Moran, come on. Don’t send a child.” That’s you, under your breath. It suddenly feels incredibly intimate. Why didn’t I kiss you before I left? I should have. I’ll regret that if I die here today. It seemed inappropriate somehow, in the daylight. I felt shy about it at the last second. I shouldn’t have hesitated. You wouldn’t have minded, would you. If I’d kissed you.
Mike tries to wave down the waiter, but he’s ignoring us. Wise: they know. They know to avoid the table. We’re the bait.
“Molly was asking after you this morning.” Why was Molly asking about me? “I told her you called, I hope you don’t mind. She wanted to know if you were all right. She’s been worried about you.”
Hm. I wonder why. I never knew Molly that well. I always felt a bit sorry for her, really.
Molly. Barts. She was there, after you–
Hold on. Wait just one–
Molly. You were in her morgue, weren’t you. Dead.
There was blood. How many pints of it, did you say? How many? B positive. It’s not even your blood type.
Where did you get that blood?
You poured it on the pavement. Or someone did. Someone helped you. More than one person, maybe. There might have been a team. You didn’t actually hit the ground, did you. Not really. You mustn’t have. How did you do that, anyway? You jumped off the roof and you survived. The blood on the pavement wasn’t yours. It was in your hair, you had it planned out, it had to be realistic, you had to convince me. It was critical that I mourn you. You had no pulse; you were dead. You had it planned out while you were on the roof, didn’t you. Even before that, I suspect. There was a team, you had it all coordinated. I got a call, you sent me away, knowing I would come back. He was dead up there already, but you weren’t. A man on a bike ran into me. I didn’t see you hit the ground; I fell instead. Because you didn’t. It was a ruse. You had help, though. You must have had help.
Who would get you that much blood?
Who else? She always lets you take whatever you like from the morgue. Because she loves you, and she hopes it will make you love her back. No: that’s not fair. It’s not fair. She knew, and she didn’t tell me.
You were in her morgue. You weren’t dead. She got you the blood, she helped you. She helped you fake your own death. Didn’t she.
Jesus. She knew. Jesus Christ.
“How’s she’s doing?” I shouldn’t be angry, but I am. I can’t help it. She knew, and I didn’t. She lied to me. Just like you did. Breathe, Watson. Now is not the time. She was at the funeral. She looked sad. She hugged me and I didn’t cry in front of her. I saved that for you, for when you and I were alone. You were in your grave, and I cried. But no: that wasn’t you. No. “I haven’t seen Molly in ages.”
Sherlock, I’m right, aren’t I. She’s a part of this. She’s a part of it, and I wasn’t. Well, that’s not true: I was a part of it. I just didn’t know.
“Oh, she’s all right. She was never quite the same after–” He stops short. Yeah, I know. After you died. She’s the keeper of the secret. The burden of it must have buried her, changed her. I’d feel sorry for her, except that I don’t. She could have hinted. She could have saved me years of agony, but she didn’t. Who else knew? “Well. She’s doing all right, she’s teaching for us now.”
“Oh really!” I can play this down. Can’t I? “I’m sure she has a lot of valuable insights to share.” That’s for you, Sherlock. I’m right, aren’t I. I know I am.
I can hear you. You exhale loudly into your microphone.
“It’s not her fault, John, don’t blame her.” You say it in an undertone, as if you’re whispering in my ear. Do you know how intimate that feels? Do you know how much it disarms me? The distance between us has never felt so great. It’s a vast gulf, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to cross it again. “She knew both of our lives would be over if she said anything. She wanted to, believe me.”
Oh, sure. Yeah, the burden of incredible knowledge. She knew. She talked to you. I’ll pity her, shall I?
“Careful, John. Careful.” What?
I can see policemen across the street. My neighbour is studiously reading the paper. Something’s happening.
“He’s close. I know he’s close.”
“How’s the writing?” Stamford, changing the subject. He looks a bit uncomfortable. I’m no good at acting, obviously. He knows I’m angry. Angry at Molly, for some reason he can’t fathom, I suppose. Or he thinks I’m angry with him for bringing you up at all.
“Keep talking, John. They’re watching you.”
Great. I’m a terrible actor and now I need to give an award-winning performance. “Stalled, frankly.”
He nods. “You’ve been through a lot.”
“Yeah.” I haven’t even tried to write anything in weeks. I need to renegotiate my deadlines, now that I think of it. Well, if I get out of this. I’m about to be shot at; surely they’ll give me a few extra months. “It’s been hard to concentrate. I’ll get back to it.” Eventually. Hopefully.
“I really liked the book.”
“Did you?”
I can see him. Sherlock: I can see him. Do you? He’s young; seventeen, maybe. There’s a gun tucked into his sleeve. It’s hidden, but I see it, out of the corner of my eye. Can you? He’s not three feet from me.
Sherlock. Look. Do you see him?
He’s pretending to light a cigarette. He’s right in front of me, on the other side of the glass. Moran sent a seventeen-year-old boy to kill me. Do you see him? Point blank range. Point blank. No one misses at point blank range, Sherlock.
You’re texting. I can hear it. That vibrating sound. Your breathing isn’t steady. You’re talking to him, aren’t you. He’s threatening you. He’s threatening me. Stamford is talking. I can see his mouth moving but I can’t hear him. I nod. I smile. He must be talking about the book. He liked it; he’s laughing about something. I don’t look over; but I can see the gun. I can see the boy; he’s just a boy. He’s nervous. He’s got earphones on. Moran is talking to him the way you talk to me. Orders. He probably doesn’t even know who I am.
Sherlock: Sherlock, pay attention. He’s in front of me. What do I do?
“Wait, John. Wait.”
All right. I am. I will.
The tip of the barrel taps against the glass. Where are the police? They’re here: they’re watching. Sherlock: please. What now? I’m waiting.
My heart is beating so evenly and cleanly; the dual beat like a stutter. There’s a gun pointing at my head now. I can see it. The world has shifted into slow motion. I won’t move until you tell me to. That’s the plan. I’m the bait. I’m the target. I see his finger shift on the trigger. Don’t look at him. Smile at Stamford. He doesn’t know. He’s not looking. He’s trying to wave down the waiter. He had no idea.
“Sherlock.” It’s a whisper: it’s goodbye. It’s I love you. You told me not to move. So I won’t. Save me, Sherlock. Find him. Eyes front, soldier. Eyes front: don’t look into the barrel. Breathe.
“John! Get–”
The sound of the gunshot is deafening.