The Quiet Man

Sleepwalking

The machinery is very intricate and probably more expensive than I can fathom: it’s tiny. The ear piece is so small you have to glue it in with tweezers. What powers it? It’s a speaker, isn’t it? A tiny speaker glued to the inside of my ear? It’s too small, it won’t work. I won’t be able to hear anything, and then you’ll have to try and dig it back out again, I’m sure. It itches a little when you adjust it.

Fancy technology like this must be the advantage of working with MI5. It’s like James Bond. Have you got a shiny little gun that looks like a pen? Some poisoned darts in a pair of sunglasses? A car that turns into a boat with the touch of a button? Ouch, what are you doing in there?

“Careful!” Having you insert a pointed metal object into my ear doesn’t strike me as anyone’s best idea.

“Yes, I am.”

You say it in the affirmative, as if I’ve just complimented you. I want to laugh, but any movement might plunge those tweezers through my ear drum. So I just smile instead. Very funny, Sherlock. Very funny.

You haven’t actually changed at all, have you. You haven’t. Neither have I, really. Did you think it would be this easy, waltzing back into my life again? You’ve got your hand resting against my neck, just lightly. Not holding me still, just reminding me not to move. I suppose you are careful, really. When you want to be. I missed you, Sherlock.

It’s baffling to me, really. You pretended to be dead; we had a funeral for you. I mourned you for so long. And you watched me all that time, you knew everything, didn’t you. You watched me leave Baker Street, you read my stories in The Strand, you saw my terrible grey flat. You saw me move in with Mary, didn’t you. Maybe you saw us the day we met. We were happy, at first. In spite of all of this, in spite of the lies and all the things I didn’t tell her. Mycroft knew I bought the ring. You must have known as well; you must have. He would have told you. Maybe he tried to warn you. You knew where I bought coffee, where I got the paper too, I’d imagine. You knew I didn’t love her anymore, didn’t you. You knew we’d broken up when I arrived here; how did you know that? You knew almost everything, didn’t you. It’s as if you watched me leave you, but you never left me. Did it hurt you, watching me? It must have. It must have done. You didn’t want that, I know you didn’t. I know that now.

“You put ads for me in the classifieds.” We haven’t really talked about that. But you did it, you put ads in the classifieds for me to find, obviously. At least thirteen of them. That I found, anyway. There might have been more.

“I did.”

“It was the smugglers’ code. I recognised it.” You knew I would. Or you hoped I would. That’s why you left them for me. You wanted me to know. You wanted me at those arrests, working with you, standing at your side and admiring your work, like I always used to. But you weren’t there yourself. Why? That would have been too dangerous, I suppose. Were you watching? Did you see me? What was I meant to do there? Just watch? Was it a warning of some kind? What was I meant to deduce from it? What did I see but fail to observe, Sherlock?

“Mmm.” I can see you squinting at me out of the corner of my eye. You shift something inside my ear and it burns momentarily.

“Ouch!” The glue must be drying. “Why did you do it?”

“A bit of metal was visible from that angle, I had to shift it.”

“I mean the ads. Why the classified ads?”

You sigh, and I can feel it against my cheek. That’s familiar now in a very good way. Will it be the same tonight? Will you climb the stairs again and curl yourself around me? It wasn’t just a one time thing, was it? I’ll cope if it was. I’ll cope. But I hope it wasn’t. Come to me again tonight, Sherlock, if I make it through this. If I come home. I’ll peel you out of your clothes if I come home, Sherlock. I’ll memorise your skin with my hands and my lips.