CHAPTER 16: HOUSTON, WE HAVE A THREE-PATCH PROBLEM

It has been a week since Giulia's release and everything is back to normal at Baker Street... as normal as it gets, anyway.

Nonetheless, Sherlock is often in a bad mood and he has become even more unmanageable than usual. It isn't utterly surprising, though, given the fact that he has just solved a crime, which basically means that he is eager to find another mystery. However, the latest case was surely an intricate, fascinating one and John hoped it would appease him for a while. On the contrary, it has had the opposite effect, apparently: the consulting detective is more restless than ever.

Surprisingly enough, at the moment, he is experiencing one of his rare quiet moments at the moment, lying peacefully on the couch while Giulia reads a book curled up on one of the armchairs. Suddenly, he presses the palm of his right hand on his left forearm and lets out a deep moan.

Giulia snaps her head up and frowns at him. She stares at his arms and nods at the strange sticking plasters, "What are those?"

"Nicotine patches."

"I thought you gave up smoking."

"I am not smoking, in fact."

She narrows her eyes at him, "When?"

He furrows his brows, "When what?"

"I have never seen those patches before, so it must be a recent habitude or maybe a relapse. Anyway, when did you resort to nicotine?" she inquires in a slightly concerned tone.

"When you had the brilliant idea of getting yourself arrested. I needed to find a way to let you out," he tries to justify himself.

"Don't even try to pin this on me!" she growls at him.

"I was simply recalling the facts: hadn't you got yourself locked up by Scotland Yard officers, I probably wouldn't have needed them. Nicotine just helps me think, and it came in handy in such a situation."

"I bet your lungs are so immensely grateful," she rebuts ironically.

"Lungs are not the organs for thinking. Do study a bit of anatomy."

She rolls her eyes. It is impossible to talk to him these days. He hardly ever addresses her and when he is forced to, his tone is harsh and angry. It looks like he hasn't forgiven her for something, though she hasn't the slightest idea what for.

At that moment, John comes downstairs from his bedroom and heads toward the kitchen to make some tea. He comes out a moment later, ordering peremptorily, "Sherlock, take your coat. We're going out."

"Really? Did you find a case?" he springs to his feet enthusiastically.

"Sure. An irresponsible madman who starved his two flatmates to death. It was your week to do the shopping."

"No, I can perfectly remember that it was two weeks ago."

John gives him a glacial look, "Yeah, that's right. But two weeks ago you didn't do it, and Giulia swapped places with you to help. Last week I asked you to go (more properly, begged), but you ignored me once again so I had to fill in for you. I won't allow it anymore. So today we're going shopping. Giulia, you can come too, of course, if you need anything."

"Or she could make us a list, and we simply buy what she desires. She doesn't have to come; she is not our shadow" Sherlock retorts with an unmistakable trace of bitterness.

"I asked her to come. What's the matter with you, Sherlock?" John squints his eyes at him, vexed.

"I actually need some items and I'd like to come if it's not too much trouble," she dithers. They do realise that they are talking about her when she is standing in the middle of the room, don't they?

"No problem at all. Let's go!" John kindly smiles at her.

They get out in the icy air of December. Giulia and John walk side by side on the pavement, while Sherlock is a few steps behind.

"John, why is he mad at me? Did I do something wrong?" she drops her voice to a whisper turning her coat collar up against the wind.

"Don't worry and don't take it personally. Sherlock Holmes is simply mad at the whole world," he sighs.

She chuckles and looks at him, "I don't think I've ever asked you; have you got a girlfriend?"

"Any interest?" Sherlock jumps abruptly in their conversation.

"It's just a question: human curiosity," she smiles innocently making him roll up his eyes.

"No, I haven't. Not at the moment," John clears his throat awkwardly.

"Oh, sorry!" she lifts a hand to her mouth, "When happened?"

The doctor frowns, "What?"

"The breakup. You said 'not at the moment' so it is probably a recent thing and you may have been suffering because of it."

"You have to excuse him, but giving the fact that he lives with a man and that he isn't currently in a relationship, he felt the need to let you know that there has been a girlfriend sometime in the past," Sherlock scoffs at his friend.

"No problem. I wouldn't have implied anything, by the way."

"Or perhaps I just suffered because of it," John tries to regain control of the conversation.

"No, you didn't," Sherlock retorts. He doesn't have to ask John about his emotional state, he is confident he can perfectly deduce it by simply observing him. Emotions and feelings might not be his department, but he has always had the presumption of being able to rationally analyse the effects they have on people. After all, the head can always rule over the heart, can't it?

John shakes his head, "By the way, no, I'm not in a relationship. What about you? You've been in London for a few months now. Did you find someone special among your university friends?"

"No, she hasn't," Sherlock quickly replies.

John glowers at him, "I asked her."

"No, I haven't," she confirms smiling at the two fighting boys.

"But she's met a nice guy who fancies her, yesterday at the university cafeteria. He plays football," the detective adds casually.

"How do you know that?" Giulia stares at him with eyes wide open.

"Oh, please, it's fairly obvious. First clue: there's a napkin with a name and a phone number on it peeping out your coat pocket. It's not from a tissue box; it is made in the rough paper typical of food shops or similar. How do I know it was the university cafeteria? Easy: yesterday, you didn't come home for lunch, and you only do that when you have too little time. You're a practical girl and food is hardly ever at the top of your priority list - which I frankly approve. So I assume you decided to avoid the canteen and go for a quick snack or a sandwich at the café. And that's where a boy approached you."

"Thanks, Sherlock, we can imagine the rest: he sat at her table and they had a little chat, probably," John shrugs trying to save her from the embarrassment of that conversation.

"No, my dear Watson, things went a bit differently. He didn't sit: from the pressure that he applied to the pen when he wrote down his number, and the angle of his wrist pressed against the paper, we can infer that he was clearly standing," Sherlock describe gesturing with his hands, and John snickers commenting, "He saw a pretty girl sitting alone in a cafè and went to talk to her, but didn't sit to look her in the eyes... He is not very smart, then."

Giulia smiles at him blushing slightly while Sherlock just keeps the deductions going, "And yet he was interested since he quickly wrote his contact on a napkin. What does it say about him?"

"He was in a hurry, perhaps?" John concludes.

"Precisely. And where was he rushing to, in the early afternoon? Something he couldn't miss, obviously. Given the moment of the day, the unlikely possibility of a lecture — we can assume that he would have no trouble skipping it for a nice little chat — his rush was probably related to some sports activity. As far as I know, the university football team is not bad, so we can deduce he is a player."

The three of them walk into the supermarket and Giulia looks dazed at Sherlock, "You never cease to amaze me."

"Yeah, he always does that, but this time his explanation is meagre and vague. It's like a shot in the dark, really," John protests.

"It isn't. I am 100% certain of the accuracy of my information."

The doctor raises a brow, "How so?"

"I simply read the texts they exchanged," he confesses in the most natural tone possible.

"What? You mean you've just invented your deductions to justify the fact that you knew every detail perfectly well?" Giulia almost cries out, irritated by the outrageous invasion of privacy but somehow slightly amused as well.

"I can deduce, but I can read as well. You do remember I know the password of your phone, don't you? You messaged him to say hi and he texted back: Hi! I'm sorry I couldn't stay and sit today at the cafè, I had to go to practice. Big game tomorrow. Hope to see you again at uni. It was nice meeting you," Sherlock recalls nonchalantly trying to hide a hint of contempt.

Is something bothering him? Absurd, why should he even care? The appearance of an inconsequential boy in one of Giulia's days is devoid of importance.

"No way!" she jokingly punches him on the arm, "You cheated. I should definitely change the password."

"You should definitely move," Sherlock shoots back, a deep, strange tone in his voice.

She freezes and her confused eyes are fixed on his back as he roams around the display racks. He was just joking, wasn't he?

"I'll take care of fruit and vegetables. You two just try to find some non-perishable food. And please, behave," John gives them a stern, fatherly look and disappears along one of the corridors of the supermarket.

Giulia and Sherlock begin to rummage through the shelves silently.

"Sherlock, would you mind helping me?" Giulia groans standing on her tiptoes and stretching her arms up towards the top shelf. He comes to her rescue and easily reaches up grabbing what she needs. When he lifts his arms, his sleeves slide down with the movement, letting her catch a glimpse of his bare forearms.

"What's on your arm?" she immediately asks staring at him.

He frowns, "You have a very bad memory. I already told you: nicotine patches."

"No, I mean the red punctures right on your veins," she clarifies grabbing his arm and pushing up his sleeve to get a closer look.

He instantly breaks free from her grip and quickly covers his exposed skin pulling down his sleeve, "Erm, I donated blood."

"All those needles? How much did you give, three litres?" she retorts sarcastically. "You'd be dead by now."

He huffs and looks away, "If Death wanted me, it would have taken me ages ago."

"I don't feel like joking, Sherlock. And look me in the eye when I am speaking to you. What are those?"

He fixes his eyes in hers and hisses, "None of your business."

"Of course, it is. I am your friend," she protests.

"You are my flatmate. Just do me a favour: don't pry into things that do not strictly concern you."

She should feel hurt by his hateful correction, but the only sensation that takes hold of her mind is a deep, disheartening disappointment. "I can't believe it. Drugs, really? You?"

"A superior mind needs a superior stimulus," he affirms as if that was a valid justification.

"It's nonsense. Does John know about it?"

"He knows I used to do drugs, but he thinks I'm clean now. Are you going to tell him?" he asks suspiciously.

"Do you honestly think I am a five-year-old who'll run to daddy? Come on, Sherlock, wise up! I won't talk to John about it. I don't want him to be alarmed, not now that he is having problems at work. A spoiled child really is the last thing he needs to worry about," she glares at him with sadness and annoyance in her broken voice.

He furrows a brow, "Does he have problems at the clinic?"

"Gosh, you're the most observant man in London and you didn't notice how stressed your friend is? You must be really high," she grimaces at him.

He quickly averts his eyes and looks into the distance. She shakes her head and snorts, "I would have never expected that. You must put an end to it, or I swear I will tell John and your brother everything. Promise me that it will not happen again," she begs with teary eyes.

"I don't make vows," he spits out.

"That's because you are too weak to keep even the smallest promise. Or maybe you're just a junkie."

"I'm not addicted."

"It's hard to say. What is it, by the way? Morphine or cocaine?" she says in a singsong tone.

"Keep your voice down, for God's sake! You're making a scene in a public place."

At that moment, John comes near them, "What are you fighting about?"

They spin around with guilty looks on their faces, and Giulia steals a glance at her surroundings. "I was blackmailing Sherlock, actually," she confesses.

John frowns at her, "I bet he deserved it, but what is it about?"

Her gaze lingers on the frozen food section and she clears her throat, "Because I was arguing that a mini-fridge is absolutely necessary."

Sherlock turns towards her with confusion in his eyes as John looks quite disoriented, as well. "Mini-fridge?"

"Sure. I was threatening to throw away all the thumbs and other body parts I find in the fridge if he doesn't accept to put them away from our food, in a more appropriate and separate place," she pretends to whine.

"Not to mention that bloody head!" John joins her in those complaints winking at her.

Meanwhile, Sherlock hasn't been able to take his eyes off of the girl. How could she make that story up in such a short time? Only an expert liar could misdirect and distort the whole meaning of a conversation with such natural air of spontaneity. That is not very reassuring.

"It's an experiment. I really don't see the need for an extra, useless mini-fridge," he protests playing along.

"If you don't buy it, I can assure you that the next severed head will be yours," she glares at him and he stares back, their eyes locked, a glacial tension between them.

They don't say a word as John shifts his perplexed look from one to the other: it looks like they are slightly overreacting now.

"Alright," he awkwardly breaks the ice, "She convinced me. We'll take it."

While they are stepping out the supermarket passing exactly where they had walked just half an hour before, Giulia looks at Sherlock and mumbles the same words she had told him previously, "You never cease to amaze me."

This time, though, it is a completely different kind of amazement.