The Quiet Man

Come Away

Phones. Bloody phones, everywhere. Why? Who needs more than one phone? Who needs twelve of them?

You. You apparently. Why?

“Sherlock.”

You look over at me. Good; that’s good. I like to see your face. You look at me, sitting here, watching you. I’m the one here with you. Not anyone else, just me. You’re still mine, aren’t you. You were always mine. I hope so. I hope you were. I think you were.

What’re you doing? You’ve been quiet for a while. You’re working, that’s all, you’re always working. If you weren’t working I’d be wrestling needles and cigarettes out of your hands. That, or my gun.

Where’s my gun?

Right. On the table, it’s here. Don’t touch it, it’s loaded. That could go wrong. I’m a bit drunk. Just a bit. Yeah, all right. I am. So what?

“Sherlock.”

I already said that. You looked up the first time. You’re still looking at me. Your fingers are hovering over your keyboard, poised, waiting.

You’ve been typing away at one of your computers for ages now, complaining about Moran, complaining about being locked in, complaining about your brother. I like to hear you talk; it’s soothing. I never told you that. Why would I? That’s not how things work between us. I couldn’t have said that: Sherlock, I love it when you talk to me for hours. No. But I did. I loved it. You loved it too, didn’t you? I think so. Yes.

You can talk for hours and I’ll let you. How long has it been? How long have I been sitting here? How much have I had to drink?

Shit.

Well, don’t think about that, who cares. Who cares? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what I do, I’m just supposed to sit here. And not go outside. Stay here, wash the dishes. Make the beds. Put things away, watch you work. Listen. That’s all. That’s what I’m here to do. And here you are. It’s unbelievable, really. Your long fingers: your fingernails are perfect ovals. Always. Beautiful fingers. Beautiful hands. I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten to fantasize about your hands. Christ. Christ, Sherlock. What am I going to do about this?

I don’t know.

“Yes, John.” He sounds a bit...something, what is it? Annoyed? Is he put out? Why? Am I interrupting a train of thought? Am I too loud? I could be shouting. I could be whispering, I’m not sure. He’s trying to work, isn’t he. Important business, a case. Moran. Moriarty’s people. Assassins and murderers and all kinds. Criminals. Moran is trying to kill him. I know that. He’s busy, he’s thinking. He’s typing. Oh well.

Maybe he’s not annoyed, maybe he’s amused. Or tired. Sore because I hit him. God, why did I do that? Why do you try to break the things you love? Anger. Pain, I don’t know. It’s horrifying.

My head is spinning. Just a little. This stuff must be stronger than I thought it was.

I can’t imagine wanting to hit him just now. It seems like another lifetime. I’d rather kiss him. Yes. Much rather.

What does that look mean? He’s looking at me, some expression on his face, what? I don’t know. I can’t tell. I can’t invent a feeling and pin it on him, not anymore. He’s a living, breathing person now. He’s got his own motives again. He’s not just here for my amusement, my torture. My lustful imagination, no. Too many clothes, and he’s too far away from me. In the fantasy he would be sitting with me, or leaning over me. I’d feel his breath on my face. I’d have my hand on his thigh, or in his hair, or on his neck, pulling him down to me. That’s how it would go. That’s not what’s happening here. What’s he thinking now? It’s something. On his face, in the tone of his voice. A bit...something.