BBC SH - Early Morning Emails

In the dark hours of the early London morning, a man sat in a small flat in front of his laptop.

His long, slender fingers fluttered nervously above the keys before settling.

A deep breath and he began to type.

To: hamletholmes@hotmail.co.uk; johnwatson@lineone.net

And stop.

A line was typed.

My dear John and Ophelia.

Stop.

Delete.

Dear John and Ophelia

Stop.

Delete.

An office chair was kicked impatiently away from the cheap IKEA desk and tall legs got up and started to pace angrily.

Then he remembered the landlord's complaints from the lady downstairs about last time he had paced all night.

He forced himself to slow; he couldn't afford to move again. There was always a chance someone could still recognise him. So far he had been lucky, best not to push it.

Slowly, he returned his chair to the desk and his body to the chair.

A moment's thought and then he began to type.

It's 3:47 and I'm wide awake. The flat smells of mothballs and dirt and it curdles in my mouth when I try to sleep. I should probably dust.

Pause.

Added a few words.

I should probably learn how to dust.

A brief regretful thought for Mrs Hudson. She'd laid flowers at his grave again today.

He was not a flowers man, she'd known this and he knew she had spent hours agonising over which blossoms to pick the first time.

In the end she went for lilies, tradition winning out in the end. The next week was irises. Then roses.

That was many weeks ago now. And every Sunday would see a little figure chattering at the headstone for a few minutes before awkwardly laying the flowers on the ground before it.

This week it had been daffodils.

He glanced an eye sideways to where he had collected them, the flowers wilting against the sides of the soup can filled with water he had put them in.

He should really get a vase or something.

Remnants of previous offerings were slowly decomposing around the flat. He hadn't quite got the heart to throw them away.

His fingers balled into a fist, the knuckles turning white with memories before unfurling to clatter against the keys once more.

I can rarely sleep now anyway. Cases are impossible given the circumstances; my investigations into any loose ends from the fall have hit a series of infuriatingly long-lasting delays. By rights I should have been home weeks ago.

He paused and realised what he had just written.

Delete.

By rights I should have been back in 221B weeks ago.

His nimble fingers reached for a cigarette, his lips squeezing habitually around the slim cylinder as his hands fumbled with a box of matches. His lighter was out of fluid.

He didn't want to smoke.

He wanted John to yank the cigarette out of his mouth and throw it out the window, castigate him for wasting his brain by slowly killing himself with tobacco, just like he used to.

The taste of nicotine was a hollow comfort now.

Smoke tinted electric white in the light from his laptop screen, he squinted at nothing on the wall above his desk. Trying not to think for a few minutes.

Might as well ask the moon not to rise.

He huffed a bitter sigh and flicked ash onto the floor.

The man upstairs is snoring again. I can tell by the pitch and volume that he is an obese smoker with the beginnings of emphysema.

He slumped back in his chair, stubbing the cigarette out on a plate with the corpses of old smokes littered upon it.

He stared hopelessly out of the window, body angled away from his laptop as he tried to distance himself from the emotions his words provoked.

Unbidden, his left hand sought out the laptop keys.

Sometimes I close my eyes and try to pretend that I'm home and it's John. But the sound is wrong.

Trembling hesitation and then an admission.

And then I remember and it makes me sad.

Then he went back and corrected 'home' again.

Long minutes of nothing. The cold blue numbers of his alarm clock flickering round to 4:23.

I sit and watch people. See what I can see. It's a poor substitute for what I had but it's all I've got for now. I saw an interesting man today . . .

And then he was off. Heart lightening as he documented sailors and solicitors, prostitutes and protesters and priests, MPs and GPs and GPOs and CEOS, happy people, sad people, dishonest people, good people, bad people, great people, broken people. All from the tiniest of details, a ring from someone long dead, a file lost by MI5, a lost wallet returned, a passport stolen so the girl who had escaped her pimp could start a new life in the Philippines.

He could picture John and 'Phee sat by their laptops reading his offering. Ophelia would have her head supported on one hand, lively eyes scanning the words with an understanding smile. John as always would read with a half-frown of concentration on his face before he would smile and reach for his cup of tea with a chuckle. The word 'brilliant' falling unthinkingly from his mouth.

A long time and many hundreds of words later, his fingers clattered to an exhausted halt, eyes viewing the final line. Its four words contained a confession. A simple one, but an agonising one nevertheless.

I miss you both.

Then, a promise.

I'll be home soon.

He didn't bother to correct it now.

I Promise.

Always. Always these were the hardest words to write. A tight knot slowly enveloping his heart as his fingers slowly found the right keys. Drawing it out. As though by writing it slowly he could pour more feelings into the words.

All my love

SH.

He blinked and was surprised to find his cheekbones were smeared with water. Licking a salty drop that had curved down past his lips, he wiped his sleeve over his eyes to dry them, sniffing.

His finger skimmed over the laptop's touchpad.

Hovering the mouse over a word.

Send.

Why?

Why did he always do this to himself? Put himself through this agony?

His fingers placed a light pressure on the touch pad button, almost but not quite pressing down.

He could do it.

One little click and he could do it.

End this nightmare.

His finger trembled with the tension in the muscle that was locked in place, holding the key partially down.

One tiny little click, a few words and then Mrs Hudson wouldn't have to leave him flowers any more.

Hours passed.

All up his arm, muscles began to protest as every fibre of his body screamed at him to press that button and end this now.

Give John the miracle he had begged for.

The key was almost, almost pressed.

One tiny little movement . . .

And then he slowly removed the pressure, allowing the key to rise back up again.

A slow, shuddering breath which was not almost a sob and he was skimming the mouse away from the Send icon.

He couldn't. The loose ends were still out there. He would be recklessly endangering everyone if he contacted them.

But still, the wetness returned to his face.

The mouse, trembling along with his fingers, moved to Save to Drafts.

One email at least a day, sometimes two, every day since the fall. Saved in a long, neat list.

He would let them read them all, in time.

The laptop powered down and then the white-blue light from the screen was gone too. Bathing him in the early morning glow of sunrise from beyond the flimsy curtain.

It was going to be a nice day.

The man upstairs gave a particularly loud snore as he curled up in the musty blankets.

It would hurt when he remembered, it always did.

But he didn't care anymore. The few hours of deception were worth the sadness that followed.

So Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes, tugged his blankets up around his chin, and pretended.