The Quiet Man

Inventory

Mustard. Pickles. Three bags of frozen peas. Well, dinner will be a challenge.

“I need to go to Tesco.” I do. There’s nothing here. He probably doesn’t want to eat anyway, but I’ll need to. Eventually. Ideally tonight, somewhere around dinner time. Life, such as it is, does go on, after all. Regardless of how many miracles occurred before lunch.

“No.”

What? He’s sitting at the desk, sitting in front of three open laptops. Three. Why three? Who knows. There are so many phones on the table I think they might be multiplying. How many phones does he need? He doesn’t touch most of them. They’re just sitting there, silent, piled on top of one another. Every time I turn to look there seem to be more of them. Only two seem to be in active use. No, wait: three. He’s texting on one with a green case, I haven’t seen that one before. He doesn’t look up at me. He’s busy.

Yeah, I’ve seen him busy before, I know how that works. He could stay like this for days. I might find him asleep sitting at the desk in about twelve hours, the imprint of a keyboard on his face. Not as if that hasn’t happened before, I’m quite familiar with the sight. Everything and nothing changes, all at once. Isn’t that funny.

“We have no food, Sherlock. I know that doesn’t particularly matter to you, but–”

He switches on the telly. It’s loud: far too loud. He turns the volume down to background noise and stares at it. That weird blue glow on his face: I remember that too. Sitting on the sofa, him and me, watching telly. His leg against mine. He was sitting far too close to me. I could feel the heat from him. I didn’t kiss him then, either. I didn’t. Did I? No. Obviously not.

Not now. Now is not the time.

“If I go now I’ll be back in time to make dinner at a reasonable hour.” A walk would be nice. Bit of air. Time to think. I still don’t feel entirely– Well, what? I don’t feel entirely present. I’m not quite right. I feel like I’m sleepwalking, still waiting for that other shoe. It will drop on my head, I’m sure. I’m quite sure. Oh, there’s some pasta in the cupboard, that’s something. God knows how old it is. But pasta doesn’t go off, does it? It’s dried. Should be fine. Pasta with mustard and peas, fantastic.

A quick trip to Tesco, it won’t take long. It will make me feel better. I’ll feel more human. More normal. Good. I can pick up something for you, too. Popcorn. You’ll eat that. I’ll put a bowl in front of you, maybe you’ll eat something without noticing.

Probably not.

You’ve got so thin. What would Irene say about your cheekbones now? You’ve made yourself a cup of coffee. Too much caffeine, not enough actual food. I know you don’t eat when you’re on a case, but we’re only waiting now, aren’t we? We’re just waiting. You’re a fish in a barrel, aren’t you? You should eat. You don’t need to think just now.

A quick trip to Tesco. Perfect, yes. It’s just what we need.

“No.” He doesn’t look up. No?

What, I can’t go to Tesco? I’m not yours to order around, Sherlock. Not now, not after all this. For Christ’s sake. Are you going to tell me I can’t eat anymore either? Because you don’t? You’re too busy, so I can’t eat? No. That’s not how this works. You’ve forgotten, apparently, but I haven’t.

“Sherlock, I need to get food.” I’ll just get my jacket. Where is my jacket? I took it off at some point. Where did I leave it? Upstairs? No, no there it is, it’s on the–

“Do you recall what I told you about Sebastian Moran?”

Sebastian Moran. Right. Yes. The man who’s trying to kill you. Something to do with– I don’t know, actually. He suspects you’re alive, right? Sebastian Moran. He was an associate of Moriarty’s. Something like that. He wants to kill you. Revenge? For instigating all these arrests, destroying the criminal web. And for killing Moriarty, presumably. You did that, didn’t you. How did you do it? Did you shoot him? Did you strangle him with your bare hands? Did he struggle, did he fight back? Did he hurt you? I should have been there. We could have killed him together. You could have let me do it; I wouldn’t have minded. I wouldn’t have lost any sleep over it.

Sebastian Moran, right. He’s looking for you. He wants to kill you. I know that.

What does he have to do with Tesco?

“Yes, I recall.”

“And you recall that 221b is currently acting as a safehouse?”

Safehouse. Right. He can’t find you. Not here. You’re protected here. I know that. That’s Mycroft’s doing. A team of experts, special security, cameras, motion sensors, so on and so forth, yes. 221b is now a carefully monitored location where you’ll be safely bored out of your skull somewhere this Moran fellow can’t get at you. Here you are out of sight, unfindable, untraceable, locked and barred and trapped until further notice, and it’s your own fault. I did take that in, yes.

It’s a safehouse for you, the one who’s supposed to be dead. Is it also a safehouse for me? I did have a security detail. Is he after me as well? How hard would it have been to off me if he’d wanted to? For god’s sake. I was out in public all the time. I did readings from my book. I signed copies of it at Waterstones. It was in the papers, there were adverts. Come on. I’m not his target. I was on the street an hour ago, has the world outside become more dangerous in the last hour? For you, maybe. For you. Not for me.

“You’re not allowed outside, yes, I recall that.” Mycroft forbids it. Ha! Well, no one forbade me from doing anything. I don’t have a brother who is most of the British government. “I don’t recall anything about not being allowed out myself.”

He looks over at me. He doesn’t roll his eyes, but I feel like he probably wants to. God: fixed by that stare again. Not really fixed, though. Not fixed at all. “He’ll be watching, John. Now’s not a good time. I know how much you enjoy a dangerous situation, but I’m not sure a trip to the shops is worth risking your life, is it?”

Risking my life? That’s a bit hyperbolic, isn’t it?

“You think this Moran is going to shoot me down on the way to Tesco?” The world doesn’t work that way. It just doesn’t. Well: it didn’t. Not in the last three years. But stranger things have happened, I must admit. There’s a zone of extraordinary that surrounds you, always. That much hasn’t changed.

“I think he’ll try. If he’s been paying attention. Yes, if he’s paying attention he would most definitely shoot at you on the way to Tesco.” He picks up a phone and glares at it, then drops it back on the desk. “And that would be inconvenient.”

Inconvenient? For me to get shot at? Yes, I’d say so.

“Anyway, Mrs Hudson will take care of it.”

“Wait: Mrs Hudson is allowed to do the shopping, but I’m not?” That seems rather sexist. Mrs Hudson is in her seventies, for god’s sake, and she isn’t our housekeeper. That’s taking advantage, isn’t it?

“We each have our niche, John.” He puts his feet up on the chair and leans back. His hair falls in front of his eyes and he pushes it away.

“And what’s mine, then?”

He smiles at me. “Right now? Bait.”

Wait. What? Bait? I’m bait? For whom? For Moran? Moran doesn’t care about me, I have nothing to do with this. He must be joking.

Jesus, what’s that?

The door. It’s the door, someone’s come in. The door downstairs, it’s opening. I can hear the noise from the street, suddenly. Who’s here? He’s jumped up, he’s reaching for something in his pocket. A gun? No one should let Sherlock carry a gun, it’s not responsible. He’d shoot his own ear off by accident, he’s careless with firearms. Guns are my job.

It’s not a gun he’s got: it’s a phone. Another one. He’s checking his phone. His thumbs move so fast across the keypad they’re a blur. I’m holding my breath.

Moran: I wouldn’t know him if I saw him. But Sherlock will. He’s texting madly. He’ll have to tell me. Where’s my gun? Christ, where is it? It’s upstairs. What was I thinking? I’m not prepared. I’m not ready. I’d forgotten what it’s like to live here. What it’s like with you.

Breathe. Listen: The door, the noise from the street. A car driving past. Rustling of plastic. Feet on the floor. Feet: heels. Heels? Sherlock puts his phone back in his pocket. He grins at me.

“I told you,” he says. “Mrs Hudson would take care of it.”

“Sherlock!” It’s Mrs Hudson, shouting from downstairs. Sherlock grins at me. I can hear the door shutting again. Her hard heels tap against the floor. It’s only Mrs Hudson. She’s come back with the shopping. Christ. “Sherlock? John! Come give me a hand, would you?”