The Quiet Man

Wish Fulfillment

Really, John? Did my face actually “fall” when I realized we were too late? I think it stayed roughly where it was.

You know, Sherlock, people actually like a bit of artistry in a story. A bit of metaphor, some colour. Some vague indication that a writer knows how to use his words, that always goes over well. Writing is meant to be entertaining to read, not just a factual statement of events. I’m not producing a spreadsheet. It’s a story.

It’s romantic sensationalism.

People like it. Mrs Hudson likes it. Her friends like it. The people on the website seem to like it quite a bit. The editors are all thrilled with it. You think you know better than all of them?

Who cares what people like? The facts, John! The facts are what’s important!

Well, the facts are there too, aren’t they.

Buried underneath needless emotional dreck, yes.

Oh, cheers.

I have a deadline, Sherlock. I want to submit something this week.

I happen to like that emotional dreck. I think I’ll keep it. And there isn’t anything you can do to stop me.

And, as it turns out, emotional dreck is also true, you know. As true as your facts. But emotions just clutter up a well-functioning machine like you, don’t they. Distraction, needless, pointless distraction from the so-called facts.

But you aren’t a machine.

I said it once, just that once, but I didn’t mean it. You know that, right? I was frustrated. You were being cold, cruel, I hate it when you do that. Acting like you don’t care about people. But it was a performance of cruelty, you did it on purpose. You were lying to me. You were sending me away.

It still hurts to think about that.

Being alone protects you, you said. Did you believe that, in the end? You couldn’t have. You didn’t have to wait for me to come back. You could have jumped at any time, but you waited. You waited to talk to me again, face to face. You waited to say goodbye. Was that for me, or for you? I like to think it was a bit of both.

You’re a human being. You went out of your way to ignore any emotions you might have, didn’t you. You would have cut the emotional part out of you if you could have. Pointless bit of flesh, right? Just gets in the way. No friends except for me. No lovers, no girlfriends, no boyfriends. Only me. I don’t know how you managed to push all your feelings away so much of the time, I really don’t. But I know you have them. Had them. I know you did. You must have been so lonely for so long. You didn’t fool me.

Maybe that’s what I’m meant to tell you. You don’t fool me, Sherlock Holmes. I know you’re human. I know you care about me. Is that what will give me closure? Making sense of you? Am I meant to forgive you? I’m not sure I can. I don’t know how to, not yet. I don’t want to reduce you to something I can explain away. I’ll only be able to do that if I forget most of what I know.

Moriarty ruined your reputation, but we could have fought back. I’m fighting back now, and it’s working. There are questions, Sherlock. Moriarty’s faked records aren’t all panning out. He’s good, but he’s not that good. We could have rebuilt. I would have helped. Why did you give up? You don’t care what people think. So you say. We could have left, started over. Your brother would have made that happen for us, wouldn’t he? This is his fault. He’s the one who fed Moriarty enough details to pull this off. He owes you. He owes me. He could have vouched for you. They can’t prove something that isn’t true, not forever. So why did you do this, Sherlock? Why did you leave me alone?