The Quiet Man

The Perimeter

The world should be colour-coded; the parts that are under the strict watch of Mycroft Holmes and his MI5, the safe zone where no one can be hurt, and the world outside it, where anything can and will go wrong. I’m approaching the boundary, I know I am. You keep telling me so.

“Straight on here, John.” Your voice is gentle in my ear. It’s like you’re just next to me, curled around me, whispering to me. I can almost feel your fingers moving against my ribs. If I close my eyes it’s still night. “You’re not far now. Left at the corner, and then you’re out.”

There are three men just down the street, looking this way. Looking at me. Why? Is one of them Moran? No. No, they’re not looking at me, they’re just looking. Just bored, waiting for something. Not me. It’s nothing to do with me. My gun has grown warm against my back. Who brings a gun out to meet an old mate? That’s me, I’m the one. You never know when you’re going to need it. All right. Breathe. I’m still in the safe zone. Still safe.

You say I won’t need a gun. I’ll be protected. I’m being watched. There will be men from MI5 there in their civvies. They’ll have guns hidden under their waistbands as well, probably better ones than mine. But still. You never know. I’d rather be prepared.

There’s a sharp clapping sound behind me: a woman’s shoes against the pavement. It’s a normal sound, an everyday sound, but something’s different. She’s determined, she’s walking quickly toward me. The pounding sound of hard-soled shoes on the pavement, too fast, too certain. Don’t put it past him to use a woman, Sherlock, you know he would. He used Amber.

Would she have killed me that night, if I’d kissed her, if I’d gone up to her flat? Cable ties on my wrists and a gun pressed against my temple, maybe that’s how it would have ended. That could have been the end of me. And I would never have understood why, or what I had been embroiled in. There was no doubt in my mind then that you were dead. The pain was still at its sharpest then. It would have been a shame to die before I knew the truth.

She wouldn’t have killed me; I didn’t know anything. I couldn’t have confirmed any of her suspicions, if she had any. Your deception was too perfect, it was unshakable. I was safe. I didn’t kiss her. I was thinking of you.

Those shoes: she’s right behind me. Sherlock, can you see her? Talk to me. Is she one of Moran’s? Is she part of the network? I can reach my gun with my right hand, I can have it at her head before she can incapacitate me; my muscles know how. It’s easy. Easier than anything else. It’s natural: I’m ready. I can hear her coming. Her shoulder is against my–

Oh. She’s no one.

She brushes past me, she doesn’t even look at me. She’s in a rush, she’s going somewhere. A meeting, she’s got a date, she needs to pick up her children, I don’t know. She’s got nothing to do with me. Or Moran. I’m just an obstacle on the pavement, someone to move past. Of course I am. I’m inside the perimeter. You didn’t warn me. She doesn’t know we’re walking through a battlefield. I’m still safe.

Breathe in, breathe out. It’s a normal day, just like any other day.

It’s a healthy paranoia, I think. It will keep me alive. My paranoia and you, peering through every CCTV camera at me.

It’s going to be a long walk to the Criterion, isn’t it.

I can hear you, even though you’re not speaking. You’re only breathing into the microphone, flicking switches, moving objects around on the table. Phones, probably. I can hear the rapid tapping of your fingers on a keyboard. You’re watching me, I know you are. CCTV cameras. You’re watching my every move. I know that: you’re looking three streets ahead to see what I’ll find there, aren’t you. As if you’re my guardian angel, watching over me from above.