The Quiet Man

Linger

It’s late; I don’t have time for this. I’m already going to wake up groggy in the morning. What is it, two? Three? Don’t think. Just sleep.

I close my eyes and I’m in my bedroom at 221b. As always. In spite of deliberately rearranging the furniture so the window would be on the opposite side of the room, and in spite of the new sheets, pillows, and pajamas, it still turns into 221b when my eyes are shut. I can almost hear the footsteps of the neighbours next door, Mrs Turner’s dog barking, and you shuffling around downstairs. The transformation is complete.

You come in wearing only a sheet. It’s the day we end up in Buckingham palace, but that hasn’t started yet. It’s all still in stasis, the dark before the trigger, back before the events begin that force time to move forward, toward its inevitable end: you, on the pavement, blood on your face, your eyes frozen open. It all stops there. But it’s not there yet. It’s long before that.

It’s still dark, it’s early. It’s a few seconds before you come in and climb into bed with me. I could lie here forever, knowing what’s about to happen, waiting for it. Waiting for you, and knowing you’ll come.

Most nights, this is where I stay. It’s easy, it’s comfortable. You’re still there, but just out of reach. Not dead, not gone forever. Just on the other side of the door, ridiculously, wearing only a sheet. I can fool myself into believing it, most nights. It helps me sleep.

I’m only partially awake, but I can hear your feet on the stairs even before you push my door open, pull back my bed clothes and lie down beside me with your cold, bony knees. I can hear your bare feet against the wood. You cough: not for my benefit. It’s not a warning, it’s just that you’ve got a bit of a cold, a fever. The cough is just a cough, not a message. But I don’t know that yet. I’m partially awake, comfortable, warm. I hear you coming, and it makes me smile.

I don’t know why. It just does.

You push open the door; the hinge squeaks a little. You sniff and wrap the sheet around yourself. You’re cold. I can tell. Your shoulders are hunched up, you’re uncomfortable. Your hair is flattened on one side and twisted out sideways on the other. Your eyes are half-shut.

I’d shift over a bit if I needed to, but I don’t. There’s plenty of room. I know what you’re going to do.

You don’t say anything. You take the bedclothes and pull them back; for a moment, I’m cold too. My nest is disturbed. You fold yourself into my bed, and I feel it tilt under your weight. Your leg rests against my knee. You really are cold.

You pull the sheet up to your chest haphazardly, as if you don’t know how to tuck yourself into someone else’s bed. You turn your head and look at me. You sigh, and I can feel it against my face.

“John.” You’re making that face at me. It’s the one that makes it clear you want something.

“Yes, Sherlock.”

You don’t do this very often, do you. Just now and again, once you notice I’d been gone for a while, and have come back. Or for some other reasons I fail to comprehend as it’s happening. I spent the weekend in Dublin visiting an old mate; I don’t know what you got up to while I was gone, really. There were some texts I didn’t entirely understand. It rained, it was cold. You were out somewhere, ducking under gutters and trampling through tips, who knows. Out catching a cold, among other things.

So I can’t say I’m surprised when you climb into bed with me. What does surprise me is that you appear to be wearing nothing but a sheet. I presume you have pants on. I don’t know why I presume that: decency isn’t on your list of things to be concerned about. I will discover later, sitting on a sofa in Buckingham palace, that I am wrong in my assumption about pants, but I’m not troubled by it either way at this point. It’s early, I’m pleasantly half-awake, and you’re draped over the other half of my bed. It’s comfortable.

“I’m ill.”

“Are you?”

“You know I am. I already told you. Now I’ve got a fever.”

You complained about it last night. You seemed fine then, if a little glassy-eyed. You were tired, you hadn’t eaten. Of course you felt unwell. I untangle my arm and press the back of my hand to your forehead. You’re warm. Your hair is a bit damp. There’s a virus going around.

“I took my temperature already,” you say, sounding whiny and tired. “As I said: I have a fever. Do keep up, John.”

“Hmm.” I start to make a list in my head: I’ve got some paracetamol, I can make tea. I could pick up some orange juice, some soup. Mrs Hudson probably has something on hand.

“Make it go away.”

“You should rest.” I tell you. It’s not the answer you want. “You don’t have anything on today, do you?”

“I could have,” you say. “If something interesting cropped up. I’d leave the house for an eight.”

“An eight?”

“Of course. Nothing less than a seven.”

I have no idea what you’re on about. I brush my hand against your cheek: it’s usually warm, with a hint of stubble. Unusual. You’re fastidious about your shaving. I shift my hand down under your jaw and you lift your chin up for me. I check your lymph nodes; they’re a little swollen. “Are you congested? Sore throat?”

“Of course,” you say. Your voice sounds rougher than normal. You shiver suddenly, so I pull the bedclothes up over you. Tuck you in properly. It’s what I do: I take care of you. You settle in, turn onto your side, tucking your arm up under the pillow.

“Heal me, John.” You shut your eyes.

Your shin is pressed against my leg. I can feel you breathing, both on my skin and in the tremor it sends through the mattress. Definitely a fever. I stroke your hair. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“This isn’t fair,” you say, rubbing at your eyes. “Your bedroom is so much warmer than mine.”

That’s true: it’s always a bit warmer in my bedroom than anywhere else in the flat. In the summer time I prefer to camp down in the sitting room when it gets too stuffy. The window is small and sheltered, it doesn’t get much of a breeze. But it’s cool outside this morning, and you always prefer to sleep with the window open. It’s probably freezing in your room.

“Well, stay here, then.”

And this is when the day really begins. I’m the first trigger. I make the decision to break out of this quiet space. I could stay here, with my hand in your damp hair and your breath on my throat. But sometimes the sweat on your forehead turns into blood in my imagination, and I find myself on the pavement with you in my arms, and I feel the last bit of your life ebb out of you. I can’t linger here. It happens too soon that way.

So I get up. I put some clothes on while you tell me about the chemical properties of polyester, and something about thumb prints. You burrow into my bed like it’s yours. You’re strangely charming, even now. Maybe especially now. You’re like a cat, gloriously luxuriating on every surface. Everywhere you plonk yourself is your home in an instant. I don’t begrudge it.

I walk down into the kitchen. Something smells off, but I’m not keen to investigate. Probably something to do with thumbs.

The first thing I do is put the kettle on; then I go into your bedroom and shut the window. You’ve torn your bed apart; all the blankets are on the floor, and one of your pillows. Difficult night, I take it. You should have woken me.

I bring you tea on a tray, along with toast and an egg for each of us. I serve you breakfast in my own bed, and it doesn’t ever feel strange to me.

I sit with you, eating breakfast, drinking tea, talking about nothing in particular. It’s another stasis point, one I can walk back into if I want to. You and me, in my bed, eating breakfast. The stasis ends abruptly, however, when Mrs Hudson calls from downstairs. She calls up to us: “Boys! You’ve got another one!”

I can rewind it, though. Go back before, linger there instead. Sit in stasis for as long as I want. You, and breakfast. For as long as I want.