Sherlock
White and aqua green and blinding lights. Let him that hath understanding know it for what it is. I will make no more explanations. No more words. I'm tired of words. Lies are made out of words. Therefore, we'll ban words, and there'll be no more talk, and there will be no words, and no lies, because lies are made out of words. But then again, the lies are in the hearts as well. And in the looks, like when they look at you like they're terribly afraid something is going to happen to you. They aren't. When they look at you like that they are only ever afraid for themselves. You are the something that could happen. They're afraid of you, not for you. So we'll take out their eyes and their tongues and their hearts and then there won't be any more lies.
There's a face I don't know leaning over me, looking into my eyes. Looking at the size of my pupils and their reactions, yeah, probably, but maybe she's looking for answers in the dark down there. There are none, though. I'm not giving her anything. I don't know that I could if I wanted to. I don't want to. I don't think I'll ever want to answer again. Maybe she can see that, though, maybe somewhere in my eyes it's written, all the awful truth of these last late days (I could leave them behind) because I could swear, swear, (I could just close my eyes now and leave them behind) could swear she says, "Have you tried not caring?"
But that doesn't sound right. Even the voice that I hear, I recognize it, and I don't recognize this face, so it's probably not a match. It doesn't sound like something somebody in her position would say. She's too annoyed with me to have been so kind. Now, if I were sure of the question, the answer I might give her is that yes, I've tried very hard at not caring, I've gotten damn close to not caring, and then there was a fucking ambulance and it was all ruined forever, right before I could ruin it forever (there's still time, if they'll just let me shut my eyes I can still wreck it all). But I won't answer her. There's a sound that escapes me, but it's not an answer. I don't know what she takes it for, but she leans in even closer, "I called you a right nightmare, that's what."
"I beg your pardon?"
Not me. Not my voice. I will have no more words, and not words like that at the best of times. The voice is somewhere else in the room. It's in a door because the door closes. It's not that I hear this, more that I feel the room seal off, like the first sod being thrown on top of my coffin.
The woman isn't bothered. "You can't be in here," she says, dismissive so that you know she has the authority to mean it. It has an honesty to it. Bless her. I hope she and her loved ones will be well.
That other voice isn't used to being dismissed. It falters. "I'm family."
"And I'm a nurse. Now if you're asking me will he live, yes. But you still can't be in here."
Family. I can't see but I know. Hateful, hateful family, brutal, murderous family, family you can't cut out, a cancer of the blood. I reach for him. Maybe, yes, fine, there can be words. "Mycroft." It doesn't come out right, but that's what I'm saying and that's what matters. "Mycroft." I reach, swinging this arm I don't believe genuinely belongs to me, or at best it was sawn off and recently reattached. It moves from the wrist, like a marionette's, until he takes hold of it. I turn my head away because I don't want to see him, take my arm back, but now he knows to be here, to stay. "Mycroft."
He says, "I'm here," like I'm supposed to be grateful. Like I should care. Like he's supposed to mean anything to me.
There is one word with any meaning. There is one word that can still help me. One word which has truth in it and maybe, God, if I can only make him listen, can bring out the truth in him. Mycroft or God or whoever, I forget. I meant it when I said it. That has to count for something. That has to count. There's only one word I can still, very delicately, very carefully, with incredible concentration, form.
"Moriarty, Mycroft."
"Stop," he says.
"Moriarty," I say again.
A hand on my forehead, trying to turn me towards him. Flinching hurts but I need him to know. His presence sinks, sitting down next to the bed. "Hush," he says. The nurse is still in the room. That's all he's worried about. I'm not stupid. I'm dead, or trying very hard to be, but that doesn't make me stupid. I'd be deader if he'd just tell me, or if I didn't care anymore. I am being held in this world by a single word that still has meaning, because I'm supposed to know. Because if I can't get honesty out of this then no one ever will and no one will even know they were deceived. Somebody has to.
"Moriarty," I say. Again, "Moriarty," and again, "Moriarty." I say it and say it. Keep saying it. Even when there's no sound it's still in my head, whispered, constant, running into itself and over itself. Moriarty.
The nurse is sent out of the room. This time Mycroft speaks with authority and she's the one who isn't used to it, she's the one who falters, and just goes. I say again, to remind him there's only this one thing, "Moriarty, Mycroft."
"I don't know how much you can understand just now," he says. He takes my hand. I try to pull free again, but he keeps hold of it. Tight. Not a comfort. Too much like a threat. The lies are in everything they do. I understand everything right now. "But I'll tell you anyway, and hope something gets through. The so-called proof you're clinging to is a mere figment. It was the invention of a madman. Hedegaard had created an elaborate fantasy to justify his murders. In this dream world, he was sanctioned by one Mr Moriarty. It was found, in his apartment, a childish scrawl in journals and notebooks. It started as a story, triggered by some television programme, of all things. He was obsessed with it, apparently. You probably know more of the details than I do. That's all it is. All Moriarty is. The schizoid dream of a dead lunatic."
"You, then," I tell him. "You."
It's true or it's false.
The word, repeated in my head and from my lips so many times, is losing its shape, melting at the edges. The only word that still meant anything has had all its meaning worked away. Sanded off, and the letters themselves left smooth and beautiful and meaningless.
It's true or it's false. If he was lying to me I wouldn't even know. What's the point?
Success, then, to all of those who have counselled me not to care. I hope you're all so terribly proud of yourselves.
Jim
Hell is a hangover. I'm convinced. This is what I'm going to be stuck with for all eternity after I die. And I do mean, this, specifically. The hangover after a night of incredible happiness and with so much to celebrate, and the hangover where you know you've got things to do after putting them off as long as you possibly could. This is what Hell's going to be. But at least I'm preparing myself for it.
Moran, by the way, after all his big talk about featherweights, after standing up unaided and thinking he was the dog's cheesy Wotsits for it, passed out last night not four steps from his own threshold, on the living room rug. There he lies still, and except that he fell on his front and I can see him rise and fall with breathing, I'd be worried. Me, I did rather well. Made it all the way up the stairs and into a bed and everything. And look at me, all awake and all. Hell can come for me when it will, I am more than ready.
But I bet in Hell there won't be a filter jug of cold, cold water in the fridge, and a pint glass, and the laptop will be broken when I reach for it. Cross that bridge when I get to it, though. For now, for this morning, I'm perfectly alright, thank you. Well, getting there.
I can't stay at Moran's forever. Sad it may be, but that's how it is. Quite apart from his haphazard approach to cleaning (which I'm doing my level best not to mention but there have been up to three people living here on and off lately), I need a new office. Somewhere I can get back to work. Somewhere for me again.
I've been looking, of course, while it's all been going on, but there hasn't been time to do anything about it. All that preparation done, however, and this part becomes much easier. All I have to do now is clear enough of my throat to sound human and start booking viewings.
Then I type up a list of addresses and email it to Dani. A minute or so later, my phone rings. Naturally I forgot to put it on silent. There always has to be something forgotten, doesn't there…? I answer it fast to stop that noise. It gets in my head and bounces around inside like it's trying to break me open, like I'm going to explode. I answer.
"If you're asking me to move in with you, I'm going to have to say no."
That… that was a joke, wasn't it? She sounds alert, and slightly out of breath, and just made a joke. How? How when she was only two rounds behind the rest of us and drinking bloody cocktails? "That's not why I sent you that but… Sorry, are you out running?"
"Not really. Quick jog, just to clear my head. I'm on my way over; chat when I see you." A quick jog? A quick jog from Camden to fecking bloody near Hampstead? I'm going to kill her. With a knife. I'm in a hitman's kitchen, I bet you any man's money the knives are sharp. I bet the fecking spoons are sharp in Moran's kitchen. That's it. I'm going to end her with a spoon. Jogging to clear her head and poor Moran still unconscious in front of the fireplace. Never heard the like of it, the cheeky bitch.
Suppose, though, if I was really going to kill her, I'd be getting ready for it now. I'm not. I'm downing more ice water and ghosting round the house-hunting sites, in case I've missed any potential candidates. I think the list I have is good, though. There's one in particular, and just from the pictures I'm hoping it'll work out.
It's nice, you know, to be able to think about things like this again. All that excitement was well and good. Believe me, I've had a very good time indeed. A few dodgy moments, certainly, but the closer the shave the smoother the face. It all balances out in the end. This, though, this feeling now, when I can concentrate on everyday things again, I like this too. Can't lose. I know in a while it'll go off me and I'll want a bit of fun again, but for now? It's what Moran calls the afterglow. Thankfully, he's normally not talking about me when he says that. But I know what he means. Relaxed. Content. Easy like a Sunday fecking morning.
Dani lets herself in when she arrives. Calls hello to anyone who might hear. I'm about to answer her when we're both distracted by a noise, from somewhere in the vicinity of the fireplace. It's something between a groan and a sob. I've heard people being stabbed make that noise.
By the time I get there Moran is on all fours. Dani's trying to help him up, but it's really just moral support she's there for. He rolls over. She's pushing the sweat from his brow. This is the mistake. She should have tended to her own first. I saw his face when he turned over and he looked really quite lucid. But the sight of her in sportswear and flushed with fresh exertions, that's when he scrambles for the door, for the stairs; that's what makes him sick.
Still sat where he left her on the floor, Danielle looks up at me. "Not the effect I usually have on men the morning after."
"So will you or me go and hold his hair back?
From upstairs, as loud as he dares to groan, "Fucking heard that."
"I'll be honest, I was contemplating your utensil-based murder myself."
She shrugs. Remembers who I am and stops waiting for me to help her up, just climbs to her feet. "Couldn't sleep."
"Funny, everybody else was having trouble waking up."
"I can help with that. I brought in good coffee. Left it on the table in the hall."
"Why?"
"Well, I ran in here. Seb looked dead." Yeah, I could question all the running that's been done. But now that I'm thinking about it, it does smell like really good coffee she's brought, and pastry too in that paper bag if I'm not much mistaken. I retrieve these tributes gratefully and take them back to the kitchen with me. "About the list, then. I take it you want me to go there, break in, tell you how easy it is to break in?"
"And, if applicable, how easy it would be to make it less easy to break in. Also how easy it would be to break out unnoticed, should the need arise."
She's not so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed she doesn't have to think about that for a second. Sits down hard while it sinks in, eventually nods along. It's as quick and smart a reaction as I could reasonably expect this morning.
I've got a reaction of my own building up nicely. It's in the post. I'm not going to hurry it. Let it take it's time, grown, be proven and definite before I say anything. I don't want to give anything away, but it's something to do with people who can't sleep and over-exercise and eat indulgent, comforting things like chocolate muffins at breakfast time, and what usually causes people to act in that way.