The Quiet Man

A Good Friend

The good thing about Mike Stamford, well, one of the good things, is that he doesn’t mind if we sit and eat lunch without talking. That’s about all I can handle right now; sitting in the park, my sandwich in my lap, a coffee on my knee. He’ll sit there, as he is now, and say nothing at all for an hour.

He knows what I’ve lost. He’s a good friend. I appreciate that. He doesn’t ask me questions and he knows Sherlock isn’t a fraud.

I can smell bread baking somewhere down the street, and I remember. It’s as if we’re still there, Sherlock and I, coffee cups in hand. Dartmoor. And because I know Mike won’t mind, I don’t try to stop myself from remembering.

Bread fresh out of the oven in the back kitchen, pulled out to cool. The whole inn smells of bread, faintly, even our room does. The moment we walk in, there it is, the smell of it. It’s a bittersweet memory. Heartache, anger. Hurt. Affection. Comfort. Love, even. In an instant: that’s what I remember.

Love? Yes. Love. Oh, stop. It’s not like that.

Well.

A room with two beds. Two leaded windows. A braided rug on the floor. Purple tulips in a vase on the dresser. Gingham curtains. Me with a bag, you with a black case. There’s a moment there, when I watch you put your case on the quilt, and I can’t quite believe my luck. You don’t let anyone near you, but you’ll share a room with me. A bed, even. Sometimes.

You put your case on the bed, you made a wry comment about the view, we leave. I pick up the key. The owner thinks we’re a couple, and I don’t correct him.

He’s not entirely wrong, that’s why. He’s just not entirely right.

The hours I spent lying on this bed, in this room, alone. Angry. Well, hurt, really. My memory of this bed, and this room, is a bit skewed because of it. The smell of bread and heartache forever intertwined. I’m lying awake, staring up at the crack in the ceiling, waiting for you to open the door, to give me a sheepish look. To open your mouth first and then wait for the right words to come out. I’ve seen that face before. It’s easy to forgive you when you’re looking for the right words. So easy. It’s not about the words with me, and you know it.

I lie in that bed waiting for you come back, to open your mouth to try and find a way to tell me you were wrong. Because you were wrong.

We were friends, weren’t we? Of course we were. Don’t tell me we weren’t. I made that mistake once, and I won’t do it again. You didn’t lie to me, Sherlock, and I didn’t lie to you.

But you don’t come back that night. Why didn’t you? We could have ended this quickly. You could have said, sorry, and I’d have said, all right, and that would have been it. The longer I lie here the more hurt I get, because I feel like you’re avoiding me. That makes what you said feel true.

You’d think that it would be impossible to be hurt by anything he says or does, after all this time sharing a flat with him and being called an idiot on a regular basis. You’d think I’d have a thick skin by now, and you’d be right. I do. But he knows exactly how to hurt me if he wants to.

He just rarely wants to. Almost never, really. But in Dartmoor, with a scotch in his hand, he wants to. And he does.

Mike coughs into his hand. He smiles at me, and looks back at his newspaper. So accepting of my silences.

It’s easier to start at the beginning again.

I put my bag down on the quilt. Our first time in this room, led there by the owner. The owner’s boyfriend, as it turns out. I put my bag down on the first bed, claiming it like a school boy, the one by the door. You put your case down at the foot of yours, the one by the window, your eyes full of something else. You’re thinking, you’re processing. You’re eager to get out of here, and I’m eager to follow you. There’s a hound to find, so they say. A hound? Why not? You’re excited about it. Antiquated language as a clue: I wouldn’t have noticed. It wouldn’t have occurred to me. I’m excited too.