The Quiet Man

Return of the Hero

Your hair is wet and combed. Each of your usually wayward curls is in place, for once. You look like some kind of heartthrob from the fifties with a tube of Brylcreem. You look good. Tidy. Deliberate. You look a bit like a teenager trying to make an impression on someone you like, which is sort of sweet, but isn’t exactly accurate. You’re not trying to look good for them, you just needed a shower.

My hair is wet as well, that should be a clue. Our flat just blew open, there’s plaster dust everywhere. People take showers in the morning before they face the day, that’s just what happens. It doesn’t mean you’re nervous, though I suspect you might be, a little. It’s early, the flat is a disaster, but we at least had time to clean ourselves off and get into decent clothes. There are cameras out there, there will be footage. Sherlock Holmes, tarted up for his return. Well, why not?

The door looks a little worse for wear from the inside. The doorframe has clearly taken some abuse, but the door is still fitted there, the hinges are working, by all accounts. The numbers were torn off, as was the knocker. Poor Mrs Hudson regrets the loss of them, but they can be replaced. It will all look as it did soon enough. Mycroft will have established a very nice budget for it, I’m sure. Polished brass 221b, and a knocker with a small camera fitted into it, I’m sure.

Best to be safe, he’d say. We’ll poke out the camera with a pen and laugh at him.

All the glass from the window above blew out too, of course. There’s glass everywhere. At least we’re both wearing shoes this time; it crunches and cracks under my heels. I’m surprised Mrs Hudson hasn’t come out to sweep it up yet. Soon, I suppose. Once the police have finished their inspections, after a bit of breakfast. All in good time.

You look thoughtful, pulling on your coat. It’s the same old coat, long and sweeping, with the collar that makes you look cool. Of all the things that change, some things just don’t.

Greg is out there with his team, I saw them from the window. He’s brought Sally along, surprisingly. I don’t know why she’d want to be here in the first place: I don’t know that she even believes that you were ever innocent, in spite of all the evidence. She never trusted you, she couldn’t, and wouldn’t. She thought you were a psychopath. She thought you were better off dead, she told me as much. What’s she going to say when she sees you, I wonder? You’re an honest-to-god hero now, Sherlock, a bona fide one, there’s no denying it. You’ve rid the world of a major criminal ring. That’s just the truth of it: you gave up three years of your life to make London that much safer.

It was a puzzle, I know. A good puzzle you could sink your teeth into, but that wasn’t why you did it. You did it for yourself, and for me, and for this place. For 221b, for this life we carved out here. You don’t have to say it; I know. It’s not for London, not really. But London benefits. And so do I. That’s good enough for hero status in my book.

“Sally Donovan is out there.” There’s bits of glass on my coat; better shake it off before I put it on.

“Is she.” You’re trying to be polite, aren’t you. I wonder how long it will be before you stop doing that. You’ll get used to me again, Sherlock. Just like I’ll get used to having you back. Eventually, all this will feel normal again. That will be nice. Yeah. That will be good.

“She said some terrible things after you died.” Truly terrible. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive her. “She said some terrible things before you died too, now that I think of it.”

You just smile at that. It really doesn’t matter to you, does it, what she thinks or what she says. Well, it matters to me. I’m going to end up in fistfights over you, aren’t I. Over your name and your honour. Well, it won’t be the first time.

They’ve diverted traffic and put police tape in a square all around us. A mysterious explosion, an unknown motive, a mysterious assailant: they’re not sure yet what they’re up against. Sebastian Moran isn’t the name of a known criminal in their database, obviously: he has no connection to drugs or gangs, no petty theft, he’s never been arrested. There isn’t even a noise complaint from a neighbour against him. It turns out he was a Colonel prior to his life of crime, did you know that? You probably did. Your brother says he managed to keep his nose so clean it’s as if he didn’t entirely exist. Well: how the mighty have fallen. Over and over again, this public and dramatic fall from grace. His, and yours. Though, if you’re truly good the way you are, and you don’t care what other people think of you, and have the patience to wait long enough, grace can rise again.

“They’re going to be very surprised to see you, you know that.” If they have a reaction anything like mine, it’s probably a good thing there are already three ambulances parked in the street.

“Yes, I suppose they will be.”

You’re quite subdued. I thought you’d be a bit more excited; this is it. The moment. We can leave, we can walk out of here, return to our lives. Go back to cases and Barts, and to Scotland Yard. You can walk through the streets of London again without a disguise, without hiding. Are you nervous? I suppose you must be. That makes sense. It’s been a long time. There are cameras out there. You’ll be in every paper, on every telly. The world will be listening. You’ve come back from the dead.

“All right?” I want to take your hand, but I’m hesitating. It’s still so new. Is that something I can do, here, almost outside our flat? I don’t know. I shouldn’t hesitate; I should be a bit more confident. We’ll have to sort out the rules as we go.

You look at me, expectant. Curious, I think. Careful. I take your hand, and your fingers are slightly cool between mine. The autumn is coming, and the wind is growing cooler. There will be cold nights together with the window open a little, and your warm body pressed against me under a duvet. I’m looking forward to that. To winter. Christmas and New Year’s Eve. The cases that will inevitably send us running out on icy streets in the dead of night, in cold winter rain. And I’ll bring you home again, make you tea, rub your hands to warm them. Yes, I’m looking forward to all of it.

You smile at me. “I’m fine.”

Yes, well. Come here, let me kiss you. Just once: once, standing here in front of the door, with glass under our feet and Mrs Hudson making breakfast behind us. This is the last time I’ll have you all to myself, the last time before the world knows they can call on you again. And they will: the clients will line up for you, I’m sure of it. One kiss, Sherlock, and then we’ll go.

Your lips are warm, and you taste like toothpaste. You lean toward me, you pull me into you with your free hand. Your hair is cold and wet, and I think I’ve disturbed it a bit too much in the back. Well, who’s going to see the back, really? You squeeze my fingers a little and kiss me.

When I step back, your eyes are still shut, and your lips parted. You’re still there, somewhere inside that kiss. If only we didn’t have to go out today; one more day at home before all of this began would have been nice. I could sit with you for a while, kiss you, and tell you everything.

In time. We’ll get to that, eventually. You open your eyes again and smile at me.

I smile back. “Ready?”

You nod and squeeze my hand before I let you go.

All right, then. More of that later. Now: the press. Scotland Yard. They’ll want to know everything. The flashes will go moments after you step through the door, I know it. It will be a sensation. You’ve got something prepared, I know. A sort of speech. And I’ll stand next to you as the cameras click away and you explain. It’s time.

I twist the doorknob and take a deep breath. Here we go.

Prepare yourself, London. Sherlock Holmes is back.