"Sherlock?"
It turns my guts this time. The way he says it, the soft way that he says it. Shar-luk. He touched my wrist earlier, intimately. I respond to his call the way a dog responds to a whistle.
"Look at this." He walks over to where I am in the kitchen, studying the artifacts I found at the theatre. Presents to me his laptop, where he is researching all the men on the list of military names. "Sebastian Moran."
I read over the information on the screen. "Sniper."
"Expert."
"Find out everything you can about him. Is there contact information?"
"None here."
"Hm."
"I'll keep looking."
I go back to my artifacts and he walks off. Outside of the theatre I found more of the same cigarette filters. I collected them, and am about to begin the chemical process. See if I can strip fingerprints, saliva. The pressed center of the filter tells me the man holds his cigarettes between his thumb and forefinger. Doesn't care about the integrity of the cigarette; he could be a rogue. I had searched for footprints, but there was no telltale sign.
Yes, there was another note. This time it was tucked under a prop backstage, familiar scrawl set on a program. The show seems irrelevant—Cinderella, a fairy tale—but the note isn't. Dear Reichenbach Hero, We're getting closer to the final act. You will regret having shown your hand. XOXO
When did I show him my hand? I've read the note a hundred times now and I can't—
"Oh."
John calls from the other room. "What is it?"
It's you, I think. But I won't say it aloud. He hasn't seen the note, and now I will refuse to show him. Back in the pool room John and I both showed our hands. He tried to save me, and I tried to protect him. Jim knew it affected me—seeing John in a compromising position. Never again.
If only he had something I could threaten to take from him.
By nightfall John has accumulated several possible contact numbers as well as residential addresses. Feeling completely restless I grab the list, swing on my coat and leap down the stairs. As I am hailing a cab John appears beside me. I see him tucking something into his coat. His gun.
The cab ride is silent, the way I need it to be. We are both at the crossroads of ease and awareness. If he weren't at ease, he would talk, in which case I would have taken the first cab alone.
One after the other the addresses prove meaningless. Back in the cab I try several of the phone numbers. All of them disconnected. A few of the buildings we stop at are misleading—no ex-military man could ever afford to live in those buildings. I am beginning to feel assured that we have our man. Have him, I say. We won't have him until we have him, no, but now we're on his scent.
On the ride to the last flat on our list I mutter, "No innocent man would ensure that someone looking for him would be led this far astray. Most people would have stopped looking by the third false phone number, the third false address. Here we have a list of every place this man has lived—supposedly—for the past twenty years. And none of it is accurate. I'm not even convinced he is capable of setting this up himself."
"You think he had help?"
I am silent for a minute.
John adds, "Maybe Moriarty set it up so that he can't be found. Knew that you would try and try again until you found a true lead."
I nod and finally we are at the last flat.
Someone answers the door. I put on my kindest voice, softest face, and inquire about the man I claim to have grown up with.
The middle-aged woman smiles ruefully. "I'm sorry to say, but Moran… he hasn't lived here in quite some time. Since before he left for the war, I believe. Last I heard he'd come back a mess." Her voice drops to a whisper, as though guilty for sharing with us. "I heard that he was given the boot, came back and spent all his money on liquor and went homeless."
"Homeless."
"Yes. What a shame. Boy had a lot of talent before he left."
"He certainly did."
"And he was so handsome."
"Remind me again?"
"What?"
"Remind me again what he looked like then, I haven't seen him since grade school."
"Well, you probably knew him when he was just a scrawny, lanky thing. I've been told he grew into his size. But no one could forget the big green eyes, the light blonde hair. His smile. He had a lovely smile."
I chuckle, offer some agreement. Proof that I remember. We thank her for her time and get back into the cab.
"Did you see any photographs of the man she described?"
"Yes, I did. Just one. I've bookmarked the links on my computer, I'll show you when we get home."
A grunt is my only response.
John does not disappoint me. He shows me his proof and it helps. Now I have a real mental image. I search my mind. Have I seen the face before? During the games I've played with Moriarty, have I seen any such eyes, nose, hair, jawline? Nothing comes up. How long has this man been working for Moriarty? If he truly was homeless, then…
"Come on. It's late." I feel John at my side. I am standing in the kitchen, reading the results from the chemical test on the cigarette filters. "You haven't slept or eaten, you need rest."
"I will be the judge of that."
He frowns at me, furrows his brow. Sounds angry when he speaks. "While I'm gone tomorrow, you're going to go running about the city looking for this man, you're going to be meeting up with all your homeless network and you could be putting yourself into risky situations that I will have no control over."
The corner of my mouth curls in response. He knows me.
"If you're going to do all of that while I'm at the hospital, you'd better rest up first."
"You don't trust my body's capability of carrying me through whatever obstacles I meet."
"No, I—"
"Why?"
His brow unfurrows and he looks at me, afraid. I cock my head, I don't understand this sudden change.
"I don't like it when you go off without me." His eyes leave me.
"Yes, you've made that clear. But why? I survived years without you, just like this."
"You survived without me." He gives a weak laugh and then looks back, my eyes hold him. "You might think it selfish, and that's fine. But if anything happened to you while I wasn't there to—to do anything, I would never be able to forgive myself."
"I'm not your responsibility."
"No, you're my life."
My heart thuds against my ribs. I must seem stunned, because he pats me on the shoulder and says, "Please get some sleep tonight." Then he retreats to his bedroom.
Now I won't be able to sleep at all.