The Quiet Man

Point Blank

You must be able to hear me breathing. Inhale, exhale, scan the street, scan the windows: no guns. I don’t hear the sound of a gun firing, not yet. Nearly there: a few more steps and I’ll be inside. I’ll be safe.

I’ve made it, unscathed. Well, not quite yet. Not quite.

Is this the weakest point, the moment just before you reach safety? It always is. That’s always how it plays out; the most ironic way possible, like a horror film. That moment relief arrives a second too soon; that’s when you get caught. Every inch of the battlefield is primed for the war; every inch of it, even the last one.

Just one more step. Over the threshold now, one more step and I’m in. That’s it. God. I’m inside: I made it.

And he didn’t even notice, did he. It’s not that easy to catch this bloke’s attention, as it turns out. All that tension and drama for nothing. Maybe you don’t need the protection of a safehouse after all. He’s just not that observant. You'll have to just ring him and tell him where I am. He's having coffee with a friend. Go find him. He's certainly not waiting for you with a gun tucked against his back. No, certainly not.

I can hear the dull rumble of conversation, light jazz playing in the background, a coffee grinder. Cups against table tops, the clacking of glass against glass, a woman laughing. In my left ear, I can hear the rattle of a vibrating phone, a ping from your computer, your fingers flying across the keyboard, your breathing. My limbs feel rubbery and faintly weak with strain; I’ve been too tense, too alert. I shut the door behind me; I’ll seal myself in. Safe. From the edge of one perimeter to another, only this one has better coffee. Unless something's changed. Something always changes, with time. We made it, Sherlock. We’re here.

Breathe; I can hear you relax a little, too. I can hear it in your breath, Sherlock. You’re nervous. We moved too fast, didn’t we. If I hadn’t kissed you last night would you be as nervous? It doesn’t change anything, not really. Not yet. I don’t know.

“I’m here.” I’ve got used to the odd undertone I need to use to talk to you. Barely moving my lips. No one pays attention to an average-looking man walking into a restaurant. I just mock scratching my cheek to hide my lips.

“Yes, good.” You’re in the middle of something, I can tell. Has he seen me? You're distracted, aren't you. When all you have is a voice to go on, you learn pretty quickly to distinguish tone and mood. Pay attention, Sherlock. It’s my life on the line, here. Watch out for me. What’s wrong? If this doesn’t work, I’ll hunt him down next. I’ll go door to door.

The place is only about half full. God, I haven’t been here in ages. Not since before; before you fell, before everything changed. We used to come here when you’d been hovering around Barts waiting on test results. It’s close, nicely anonymous, not too poncy. It smells like ground coffee and floor polish. It feels the same. But your former self is missing: you’d be anxious, walking in here, talking a mile a minute, frustrated and emphasising every other word with your hands. You wouldn’t care who overheard us. It didn’t matter then. You’d complain about a client, or about someone at Barts not giving you access to specialised equipment or a particular lab, or not letting you borrow a set of livers in a jar: something like that, always. It was comforting, comfortable, familiar. You were in your element, your mind was racing, you were always thrashing against the ordinary world the way you wanted to. Fighting back against normality. It was always life or death for us. But not like this. Not the way it became. Those seem like our innocent days, now.

"By the window, John."

There’s only the one table in front of a window; it’s got a little reserved sign sitting on it. That must be mine. Reserved for me. When playing at being bait, one must be appropriately dangled, obviously. And in this case, being dangled means sitting directly in front of a plate glass window on a road with more CCTV cameras than anywhere outside of Downing Street or Buckingham Palace. All right, then. Here I am. Do you see me yet, you bastard? Come and get me. We’re done with waiting.