You saved my life he says. I owe you everything. You don’t, I say, you don’t owe me squat, let’s just get going, let’s just get gone, but he’s relentless, keeps saying I owe you, says Your shoes are filling with your own damn blood, you must want something, just tell me, and it’s yours. But I can’t look at him, can hardly speak, I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons, I’d just as soon kill you myself, I say. You keep saying I owe you, I owe… but you say the same thing every time. Let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk. Not because I don’t believe it, not because I want it any different, but I’m always saving and you’re always owing and I’m tired of asking to settle the debt. Don’t bother. You never mean it anyway, not really, and it only makes me that much more ashamed. There’s only one thing I want, don’t make me say it, just get me bandages, I’m bleeding, I’m not just making conversation.
Apparently, the deceased had liked candles. And long baths. I’m not judging. There’s a possibility I might enjoy a long bath myself occasionally. When Sherlock was alive I did a lot of running and fighting and sometimes I needed to relax and recuperate. And a bath is good for that. That’s a medical fact. So it makes sense. And essential oils and candles help with the whole relaxing thing. People might laugh. People did laugh when Sherlock told them I enjoyed having baths but I was fine with it. I’m still fine with it. Baths are good.
Shylock goes up to the counter and orders a coffee black. He actually remembers to pick it up once the barista has finished making it, unlike Bassanio and Gratiano, whose coffees lie untouched on the countertop.