The Quiet Man

Safehouse

“Why a safehouse?” It’s a strange thing to call 221b, a strange thing to try and turn it into. It’s never been a particularly safe place. Interesting, yes. Safe? No.

He curls his lips at me. He’s annoyed. At me? No. He’s annoyed that he has to be in a safehouse. That they had to build him one. That he has to stay in it.

His lips are exactly as I remembered them, but different somehow: they turn up a little as he speaks sometimes, a quiet little half-smile most people wouldn’t notice. I remember that. But my memories were washed out, it seems. I missed all the key details, the things that make him real. I didn’t entirely remember these gradations of colour, or the precision in the shapes that make him. I remember the creases there, the way they deepen while he’s thinking, I thought about them all this time, but not quite like this. I remembered the sharp edges of his upper lip, sharp as if they were carved in stone with a chisel. His angles are more extreme than other people’s, harder and more pronounced, as if his skin takes on the shape of his personality. But I couldn’t picture his lips like this. As they actually are. Not quite.

Amazing.

“Sebastian Moran.”

What? Who? I’m not sure how that’s an answer to my question. But I’m in no fit state to argue.

He sits across from me; he’s watching me. Monitoring me, more likely. Here we are, in the sitting room like we used to be, me in my chair, him in his. I remember sitting here without him, and the agony of that empty chair across from me. The senselessness of it. No. Not now. Oh my god.

“He’s the last,” Sherlock says. “He should know by now, he at least suspects.” That you’re alive? I didn’t. I didn’t suspect.

He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth: I remember that too. His perfect oval fingernails, perfectly clean, manicured. I remembered them remarkably well. I imagined his fingers so many times: holding open the paper, aiming a fork at a bit of tomato. I imagined them knitted in mine, resting against my hip in the night, sliding across my chest and onto my stomach, with his lips pressed against mine. Oh god. Now is not the time. Jesus.

“He’ll be looking for me now.” Sherlock: you haven’t noticed, have you? You’re going to. Christ. I can’t hide this from you. Don’t think about it. He’s deep in thought, his eyes are hovering on some point over my head. I’m just in shock, I need to drink more tea.

Would I have imagined those things if I’d known he was alive? I don’t know. I don’t. Maybe. Maybe not. Christ.

He can’t read minds, no matter how much he’d like to.

“I’d rather go find him myself than sit here waiting for him to work it out.” He jumps out of his chair, and paces toward the window. He’s like a caged animal. Well, I suppose he is: he’s been forbidden to leave the flat. I knew Mycroft had some power over Sherlock, but I never imagined he’d have the power to forbid anything.

“As if I can’t be trusted with my own safety.” He peers through the curtain at the street below.

Well, you never could be trusted to take care of yourself, could you. You take every available risk, every one, to get what you want. And what do you want? Excitement, to solve a case, to make a point. I love that about you. I love that.

He looks over at me, raises an eyebrow. What?

Oh: so this is my fault, is it? This cage? My fault? The classifieds. I told Mycroft something he didn’t already know, something about your current risk-taking behaviour. Getting me involved: you weren’t supposed to do that, were you. So those codes were meant to be our secret, between you and me. Is that it? In the newspapers. The newspapers, Sherlock, that is not a private space. It was against the rules, wasn’t it, sending me into the breach like that. Well, it’s not my fault I got frustrated, it wasn’t enough to go on. You were driving me mad. Just like you do: I should have known. What did you expect me to do, who did you think I would suspect? Who was I supposed to call instead? You were dead. Your precious name was off the table. Christ.