october 8th, 2012
So I’ve done it, haven’t I? Made it three weeks. And before opening this book, I looked hard at the cover, and flipped back through all I’ve written to you, and somehow it felt like it’d been no time at all.
Yeah - it still hurts like it happened yesterday. But this — writing this? — it feels good, Sherlock. Feels better than I’ve felt in a long time.
Maybe the familiar is comforting even if it’s only a familiar agony.
In short, this trial separation from my journal? No. Hasn’t helped. I still just need you to come back, and since that’s impossible, what I need is someone, I think. Another human being.
I suppose I expected someone from back home would find me more than I wanted them to. But it feels the same, in the end. Lonely.
You’d think they’d have been able to find me.
Sod it, I should stop using all these vague words. I’m talking about Sebastian. Seb Moran and all his resources. I expected him to have found me by now. Unless Mycroft helped me along without me realizing it, helped me disappear a bit more convincingly than I intended.
Which is possible, of course. Probable. Wouldn’t he want all evidence of you to vanish? Seems very much something a Holmes would do. A thankless bit of subterfuge.
Well, I suppose it’s time for me to update you: I’m on a plane.
Here’s how it went:
I wondered every day after I arrived in America what Seb was doing. Because there’s no harm in wondering, right? Or theorizing. Or remembering. Or scrolling through the internet like I’d suddenly come across some bit of telltale information about him.
Damn the internet. It’ll give me a million things I don’t need or want or care about, but not the one thing I need.
A few days ago it seemed that the internet exploded. I … well, this is a bit embarrassing, but I check in daily on a few Sherlock Holmes blogs, all right? And the second they found out, the entire internet knew. And the next morning it was every headline. MURDERER MORAN ARRESTED: SHERLOCK HOLMES’ RIGHT-HAND MAN.
Which was hilarious for several reasons, but … well, moving right along.
Included were photos of a tall, muscular man slipping into a police car, the handcuffs looking like toys wrapped around his wrists. The look on his face: hard. Inscrutable. Familiar. And missing him hit like a slap to the face. You couldn’t see the green eyes from the photo but their color was splashed across the backs of my eyelids when I blinked. And of course there’s no way to feel the touch of two hands from looking at a photograph, but I swear to God I shivered.
I missed him. Of course I bloody well missed him, even if I didn’t want to admit it.
It was hard to justify, too. Because I want to say he’s not a bad man, but he murders people for money, and Christ, if that’s not a basis for a lack of morality, I’ve no bloody idea what is.
But he’s … I dunno. Thinking about Moriarty? That scared me. Moriarty was unhinged; he was insane and psychopathic and terrifying and brilliant. Sebastian is none of those things. He’s not a good person, but is he really bad? He’s always been a hired hand, a man who does what he needs to survive - because the only thing he’s bloody good at is killing and crime and more crime.
He’s a man with a first name I didn’t feel scared to use. He’s a man with a mind that I can understand.
Which is why my first feeling on seeing that photograph was guilt.
God, I thought, was it me? Was it my fault? Did the Yard trace footage of my unsubtle flight back to that house, did they drag Moran out in the middle of the night half-asleep?
I checked the photograph again, examined the surroundings, and thought, Thank God, it’s not Moran’s house. Not my fault.
For a second, that’s what I thought.
And then I realized he was standing outside 221B Baker Street.
Seb Moran was photographed being pushed into a police car just feet from my address of the last two years.
And that pretty much decided it, I suppose. That’s why I am on a plane going back to London after a month-long stint in the United States. That’s why tomorrow I will go to Sebastian Moran’s house and find his book of contacts and call the force of an army to my hand. That’s why I will try to remember how to command a group of other people, and shite, if I can manage it, how to command my own bloody emotions. And that’s why soon enough I’m going to be breaking a murderer out of prison.
God help me.