Two men sit on a train.
Upon boarding, they appraise each other in a scowl of recognition as if to say, Well, I guess I’m stuck with you for the duration of this trip. The taller, lankier (and younger) of the two glides to claim the window seat. The other plops beside him, running a hand over his scruffy face and making sure to avoid any more eye contact than absolutely necessary. He holds a cane tightly in his hand as he leans forward to adjust his seat. He says nothing, because he has a policy concerning interacting with people (especially strangers), in that he tries to avoid it at all costs. The tall man seems to agree with these silent terms, for he turns his head to the window without a word as the cart begins to move.
What each doesn’t know about the other is that while he may not be talking, secretly, he’s watching.
About ten minutes into the trip, the man at the window takes a peek at the stranger beside him filling out some type of form concerning personal effects of a loved one. Observes the man signing his name. Curious.
Thirty-four minutes later finds the scruffy man peering peripherally at the other, who has a world map spread out on the tray in front of him as he pinpoints certain locations with a red pen. Interesting.
Questions race through each man’s mind, though they are not verbalized. Observations of each detail become scrawled mental notes. And by the time an hour has passed, intrigue is near killing them both, though the stoic expressions on both men’s faces reveal no such thing.
A few more dragging moments and then the older man pipes up in a gravelly drawl: “The Big Apple, huh?”
Ice blue eyes meet a cooler azure. “Yes.” English accent. Irritable. “We should arrive in approximately two hours.”
“And who’re you going to find there?”
The Englishman blinks once, but if he’s phased he doesn’t show it. “I’m sorry?”
There’s a slight spark in the older man’s eyes then; the Englishman’s question invites him in. He tilts back in his seat, folding his hands behind his head. His cane jostles between his and the Englishman’s knees as he says, seemingly in one swift breath, “You’ve marked that up that map all in red. If you were going on a nice little vacation you would be traveling to at least some major cities. These are mostly minor, secluded, pretty much insignificant to the average traveler. Each dot on that map marks the location of a person you want to find. The question is why. You need them for something. Dead? Alive? Oh.” He licks his lips. “You’ve marked when you want to hit these places in the margin. Just so you know . . . I don’t think anyone has actually gone around the world in eighty days. But good luck trying. Give yourself a star sticker. You deserve it.”
The Englishman’s nostrils flare. Two can play this game, he thinks. “Well, while we’re on the subject of motives, I should wonder why you’re here. You’ve recently lost someone you care about. You signed those release papers slowly, in an unsure, shaky manner, suggesting your signature is unfamiliar to you. It’s because it’s new. You’ve created a new identity for yourself recently. Furthermore the person you’ve lost is of upmost importance to you. Otherwise you wouldn’t risk going to so public a place and letting him—it was a ‘he’, judging by the list of effects including a set of cufflinks from his grandfather—place you in charge of the aftermath of his death. I say ‘public’ because you’re at great risk coming to New York when New Jersey is so close in proximity. You are from New Jersey, correct? The fine print on your walking stick credits a specific location which sells such items, and the address reads Princeton-Plainsboro, New Jersey. You wouldn’t send for something personalized to your needs like this when you could buy it locally.”
Silence.
Silence, as each man realizes there’s another like him in the world, an idea neither ever thought tangible. A combination of frustration and intense curiosity fills the air.
The Englishman says, finally, “Who are you?”
The man beside him replies, “I’m no one. Not anymore.”
“Nor am I.”
The man with the cane sniffs a little to break another bout of quiet. The Englishman stares at him with an almost uncomfortable intensity as he remarks, “You’re running from something.”
“Everyone’s always running from something,” is the reply, “What matters is what they’re running to, in the end.”
“Oh? And what are you running to?”
The scruffy man tilts his head back against the seat again. “Something new. A change.” He turns a little, cocks an eyebrow. “That deep and meaningful enough for you?”
“That doesn’t matter to me.” The Englishman’s eyes harden. “The truth is what matters. You’re clearly operating under a false name, whisking yourself away to New York.”
His companion smirks a little, whimsically, and retorts simply: “Everybody lies.”
The Englishman contemplates this for a sliver of a second. He shifts in his seat, curiosity all but pumping through his very veins now. Who was this elusive man who could scrounge through the details like he could, picking and prying at all the important bits? The tiny fractions that matter?
He says, “You’ve had problems with your leg for some time. Muscle infraction, I presume?” (He watches the other man’s expression flicker in surprise for a small moment.) “That cane is worn out but not enough that you’ve had it too long. You’ve had many. This has been an ongoing, gradual injury, not a healing bone or arthritis with age, so one can assume muscular. Leg injuries are easy to spot.”
The scruffy man blinks. “Are you waiting for me to say how impressed I am?” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small white bottle, popping a few white pills into his mouth with a throw of his head.
“Should you be, doctor?”
“Okay. Seriously? How did you--”
The Englishman looks away. “Steady hands. It was one of the first things I observed about John when I . . .” He suddenly stops, memories cutting into his speech.
Now it’s the other’s turn to observe: “Well. Seems like you’ve lost someone too. Join the club.”
“No.” The Englishman shakes his head. “He lost me.”
A new kind of quiet rains down on the pair, now. It is not the silence of a challenge, but of understanding. Two men almost too alike in nature, letting their analyses fall to a lull because this is no longer a competition. This is relating to someone when there’s no one else left.
The doctor says finally, “You were wrong before. I’m not running anywhere. I just spent the last five months of my best friend’s life with him, and now I’m starting my own. But you . . .” He leans in to those large blue eyes. “You are on the run. And you’re regretting it. But you don’t have a choice.”
It is an interesting thing: two men so alike in nature, yet one observes the facts within the details, while the other deduces the emotions behind them.
It is as if the invisible wall holding the Englishman together falters a bit, eyes shining with something like sadness. “Yes. I am running. Only to find the means to run back again.”
“Hmm.” There is another long pause as the train carries on chugging. Then, ringing in the pattern of enduring movement, are the doctor’s five words to end their conversation in hopes he can finally stump the man who’s known him so little and yet knows so much: “Faking your own death sucks.”
He cannot see the Englishman’s face turned toward the window, but he is smiling as he replies in a barely audible voice, “Doesn’t it just?”
Detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Gregory House sit on a train, each feeling just a bit less lonely than before.
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