The Quiet Man

Bedclothes

Yellow tape; the road is slick with rain. There’s a light spinning red and blue on top of a police car. It’s a crime scene. And I’m not wearing any socks. Or any shoes. How did I leave home with bare feet? There’s probably glass everywhere. Sherlock? Where are you? It’s a crime scene. I don’t want to be here without you. Sherlock?

You’re not here. The entire Metropolitan police force is standing in the road, looking up at the roof. I don’t know what they’re looking at. There’s no one there, not now. That was years ago. There’s a body on the pavement; it’s wrapped in a clear plastic sheet. There’s blood pooling at its feet. Where are you, Sherlock? I can’t do this. Not without you.

“We need your help, John.” That’s Greg: Greg, you know I can’t do anything without Sherlock. I’m just an army doctor. I’m just a blogger. I write books, that’s all. I can’t do this.

He leads me over to the body.

“He’s alive,” Greg says. “I couldn’t believe it. It’s been years, but he’s still alive.”

Suddenly I realise where we are: Bart’s. We’re standing on the pavement outside Bart’s. I know who this is.

“He didn’t die.”

“No, he didn’t, he’s still alive, John. But he’s weak.”

“No. No, he didn’t jump.” You did, though. You did, I saw it. That’s a lie.

“We can’t keep doing this, John. We’ve been staring up at the roof for three years now. We need your help. It’s your turn.”

I understand; I’ve been shirking my duty to you. I didn’t want to come back here. I was afraid. The entire Metropolitan Police force are keeping you alive. As long as they stand still, looking up at the roof, you’ll live. Until I step in and take over. Then they can go home.

I can do it. I can: I’ll stand here, and the blood will retreat into your veins. My eyes are aching. It’s going to start to rain again, and then it will be just you and me, Sherlock. You in the plastic sheet, and me staring up at the roof, the last place I saw you alive. Until now.

“Don’t move, John.” That’s you: that’s your voice. I almost laugh. “Don’t move. I can almost sit up.”

I won’t move. I won’t move an inch. But everything in me wants to look down at you, just to see your face again.

What?

What’s that?

The mattress is dipping beside me. There’s a bit of light coming in through the window from the street. I can hear the wind; the window must be open. There’s a car driving past; a splash of water, a puddle. There’s a dog barking in the distance. I was asleep: I’m awake now. I’m in bed. I’m in Sherlock’s bed.

Sherlock’s bed. In Sherlock’s room. With Sherlock.

He yawns, he gets into bed next to me. I can see his outline in the dark, getting into his bed. The bedclothes rustle and slide down my chest, then back up again, brushing against my nose. He rubs his eyes, he stretches his legs. He’s lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling. He was working; he’s finished. He’s tired.

He put me into his bed because I was drunk. Very, very drunk. I might still be a little drunk. Now he’s joining me here. In the dark. Did something happen? Or nothing?

“All right?”

He takes a deep breath. He must know I’m awake. He’d have felt it. He always knows that kind of thing.

“All right.”

“Something happen?”

“No.” He exhales. “Well. Something, somewhere, yes, I think so. Something must have happened. I’m just not entirely sure what.”