The Progress of Sherlock Holmes

Almost Unnoticeable

Awkward conversations about personal subjects: really not my area. John, sitting at the kitchen table, cup of coffee in his hand. In a worn t-shirt and pyjama bottoms; slippers on his feet. John didn’t used to do that; used to be so formal, even first thing in the morning. Shower, dress before he came down the stairs. Damp hair combed, shoes on and tied, creases pressed. (More military habits: the hospital corners remain, and I still disrupt them.) John is more casual now, more relaxed. (Minus his cane, his limp, his constant despair.) His t-shirt is so worn that the next wash will begin to tear it along the hem. I can see a bit of his scar through the fabric; reddish skin, angry, slightly mottled.

(The more of him I can see, the more worn his t-shirts as he sits in the kitchen in the mornings, the more often pushes his feet into his slippers: is that a gauge of his happiness? If so: he appears to be very happy.)

Newspaper spread in front of him. (He always reads the international news first, all of it, even the parts that trickle into the back pages. Has a special focus for Afghanistan (of course) and local crime (naturally). Slowly loses concentration after that. Only skims in the following order: British politics, sport, obituaries. Ignores the rest.)

In the middle of today’s paper he will find another of the articles I have collected for him and scattered around the flat. The various theses of these arguments should express my point precisely without any muddled words on my part, without me starting up an epic row. Found this one in the library, copied it, stapled it together. Underlined key points, made notes in the margins. Treger, “The Influences of Sociosexuality and Attachment Style on Reactions to Emotional Versus Sexual Infidelity,” from the Journal of Sex Research (2010).

When he finishes reading the reports of the latest news, he will turn a page and see it. It will be the fourth article he will have found so far this morning, leading him to the inescapable conclusion that Mary’s infidelity is innate, immutable and inevitable, all without me saying a word.

The first (found at the LSE library, ironically) was sitting on top of the toilet (Ezrar, “Relational Family Therapy Perspective on Adult Detachment,”Journal of Family Psychotherapy (2010): relies too much on nonsense theory and qualitative evidence, but the general thesis will get the point across), another, left on the table next to the armchair (Hawkins, “Defining Intimacy in Diverse Asian Cultures,” Graduate Research (2010): slightly off topic perhaps, but contains some ideas on the subject of intimacy in general that are quite relevant), and finally one next to the microwave, chosen to introduce a bit of levity to these dire affairs and convey a sense of my wry wit and sympathy (Fincham, “Faith and Unfaithfulness: Can praying for your partner reduce infidelity?” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology (2010), obviously trite and not worth the paper it’s printed on, but amusing and underscoring the basic point nonetheless). He will turn the pages, see my notes, and then he will understand.

Sunlight hits the top of his head; his shiny hair. Golden. Bits of it grey. I want to touch it, feel how the blond hair is different from the grey (softer? thinner?), but instead hold my hands still. Palms pressed together. Wait. He will turn the page. He will understand. Tips of my index fingers pressed to my lips. Keeping my mouth shut. He takes a deep breath in; then exhales slowly. Sips from his cup. Watch his eyes zipping back and forth as he reads the tiny columns; down the page, and then up; zig zag, zig zag.

“Am I really that interesting?” he says, not looking up. He turns a page.

I suppose I’m staring at him. Perhaps not a good idea. Oh well. “Of course.”

“Really.” He looks up at me, stares back for a moment. Smiles. There’s a warmth in his eyes; he doesn’t actually mind. He might even like it. Looks back at me, his flecked eyes; a strange intimacy in the looking. The obstacle of the table, the weight of the wrong words between us, the wrong decisions. Easily pushed aside. Rub fingers against my lips, imagine touching his. “What are you deducing about me today?”