CHAPTER 24: IDENTITY CRISIS
When his brother leaves the bank, Sherlock approaches Giulia and gives her a faint smile, "I think it's time to go. We've been in here for far too long."
She nods silently and they hop on a cab while John stays at the thwarted-crime scene to describe to the police officers both the shooting and scuffle in which the three of them almost lost their lives.
The girl and the detective keep quiet during the first part of the ride, both of them immersed in their own worlds, lost in thought.
Giulia stares absent-mindedly out the car window and mutters, "I don't understand the very beginning of all of this: was the ex-CIA agent also the murderer of the Alpes?"
"Yes," is Sherlock's laconic answer.
"But how are today's events connected to that homicide?"
"They aren't, not directly, at least. I was the only connection."
"Why did he kill that man, then?" she insists.
"To let me know that he was a dangerous murderer, a psychopath that was out for blood. It was like a threatening letter to me. He wanted me to know that I got a target on my back, and so did all the people around me. It was not about killing someone, he couldn't care less: he wanted to get a reaction. He chose an unattached man, quite difficult to identify without documents, just to challenge me and lure me into his crazy game."
"And why the Alpes?"
Sherlock raises a brow at her: less than an hour before, that girl was kidnapped, held hostage and had a gun pointed at her head. Necessary addition: her hideous flatmate who had kicked her out that very afternoon was the one holding the gun, on the verge of taking her life. And now, all she has to say to him is inquiring about a poor devil's death that was merely a distraction. Maybe that's the profound difference between the two of them: to him, that death was the insignificant collateral damage of a story that could have reaped many more victims. But to her, every life counts.
He stares at her: perhaps, that's why she embodies a mystery he seems unable to unravel. He cannot figure her out: she is not like him, neither does she behave like other people. He has always thought that she was ordinary and, in a way, she really is. Ordinary people worry about death, about murdered innocents; they would be concerned about that loss, just like she is now. But not after what has just happened. Normal people would be in shock; an ordinary girl would hate him for what he put her through. Why doesn't she?
He realises several seconds have passed, and she is probably waiting for an answer. "I told you when Lestrade initially phoned us about the case: pay attention to my words! That criminal wanted to prove that he knew who my friends were. He managed to catch Lestrade's attention even when he was on holiday miles away from home. He aimed to instil the fear that nobody was safe, anywhere," he specifies reluctantly.
Fear. Was he actually scared in the bank? That's ridiculous! In the end, he wouldn't even care if he was framed for murder: he would find a way to help himself out, he always does. Then why had he experienced some blurry moments of... trepidation (to put it kindly)?
"You aren't really suggesting that the Great Sherlock Holmes got scared, are you?" she jibes him.
Sherlock turns towards her and sighs, "Sometimes my body betrays me. I wish I could always control everything, but every once in a while I'm forced to deal with this inefficient human nature. Which brings me to another point. I think I owe you an explanation for what happened: what Kevin Rummer did was playing with my mind, with my false sense of security. I suppose you should know that I do not hate you, I do not find you annoying - well, not too much. And I definitely didn't want you to leave the flat. I was just trying to protect you. I pushed you away hoping that you'd be safer away from me; I wanted to move you out of the target pinned on my back. But I couldn't tell you the truth because I know how stubborn you are, and I knew you would never comply and walk away of your own free will. So I started acting like a jerk to get on your nerves. The point is, I thought it would be easier; I was convinced that a couple of rude words would make you run away. But that wasn't the case, obviously, and you didn't give up. So eventually, I came to the conclusion that the only way of getting rid of you was to break you. That's why I faked some unjustified outbursts during which I said things I didn't think..."
He takes a deep breath. Regret is such a useless feeling, he mentally grumbles. "I said things that I am not proud of. My apologies."
He exhales. Gosh, that was hard. Do people do that all the time, admit their mistakes and apologise? Ghastly.
She is gaping at him. Is he serious? None of it was real? What... What? All those horrible things, all those subtle and explicit insults... Did he fake it all?
"So, it was all an act, then? You weren't really that mad about your drugs, about me touching your possessions or simply living with you?" she gawks at him.
"I admit I was slightly bothered about the drugs, but I might have exaggerated it a bit, for the sake of my little scene. And for your own sake, of course."
She draws a deep breath. It takes her an entire minute to soak in the truth about Sherlock's rude behaviour towards her. Then she exclaims, "Stupid. Oh, so stupid!"
He looks down and nods slightly, "Yeah, I know: not the wisest idea in the world, apparently."
She shifts in her seat to face him and shakes her head, "No, I wasn't talking about you. I was blaming me, actually. I should have seen it coming, I should have immediately understood. I used to think I knew you better than that."
This man is the most fascinating mystery she has ever encountered. An enigma, a coded message with no cypher to interpret it. She'll just have to grope her way along.
He looks intently at her for a few seconds, then averts his gaze, "I could say the same about you. What the killer said..."
"He was wrong about me," she interrupts him, "I do trust you." Her voice is clear: no hesitation, no wavering. She means it, which make it all the more unsettling for Sherlock. Because he knows that the truth is the other way round: he is the one who doesn't trust her.
He raises a brow, unconvinced, "Then why haven't you told me your story?"
Her eyes travel all over his face before landing on his, "Because letting you into my world would mean exposing you to grave danger, and I just wanted to protect you."
"I don't need protection," he spits out as if the mere idea was absurd.
"Maybe you don't, but I've already lost enough people in my life. I don't like to put my friends in harm's way because of me."
He is about to reply but stops dead and gapes at her, an unreadable look in his eyes. She cocks a brow at his sudden loss for words.
"Am I your... friend?" he stumbles on the last word.
Her fond smile lights up her features, "Yes, you are. You were there for me in my time of need - namely my arrest on suspicion of murder, then my abduction and attempted homicide. You make fun of me all the time, you share your cases, your insane, disturbing world with me. That definitely conforms to my definition of a friend. Do you have a problem with that?"
He shakes his head slowly, "No. I guess I simply thought that you'd distanced yourself, that you had started to consider me just like your rude junkie flatmate."
She hints at a smile and looks away while her mind almost screams, That be so much easier. Oh, Sherlock, you have no idea how much I'd want to.
"Giulia, if I am really your friend, don't ever lie to me again," he demands resolutely. She tilts her head and frowns: his voice was deep, low. Is he hurt or only disappointed?
"Technically, I never lied to you. I omitted some things..."
"Like the secret meetings with my brother, for instance," he cuts her short glowering at her. She cannot hide the guilty look on her face and bites down her lower lip.
"Why Mycroft?" he inquires squinting at her.
She sighs, "Can't you deduce why?"
"Yes, but I'm done guessing. I want to hear the truth from your mouth."
"Because he is at the head of a very delicate operation of the British Secret Service. He is my contact in the intelligence," she explains, her words barely more than a whisper.
He snorts, "That was plainly obvious. Don't try to trick me: I'm quite observant. I've been watching your little dance all along, I noticed all the details; for example, the fact that on our second case together, Mr British Government immediately responded to your distress call by providing all the documents that would let you off the murder charges. In addition, he ensured that Scotland Yard kept no records at all of your temporary custody; your name, picture, any reference had to disappear completely from the police archives. I saw him personally handing a note to Detective Inspector Lestrade: I don't doubt it was a formal request of silence and oblivion signed by the Secret Service," Sherlock comments sarcastically before going on, "I know my brother's role in the M.I.6. What I'm asking, though, is for you to tell me what's your role in it. Why are you involved with the intelligence, why do you have a new identity? Did you testify against a drug lord? Were you in a criminal organisation that you are now helping to bring down?"
"Do you really think I would be capable of those things?"
He shrugs and hisses, "I don't know what to think anymore. And I don't like it."
She takes a deep breath, "Not so long ago, I had a perfect life, but perfection is not a thing of this world, and one day it all ended. To be more accurate, someone ended it."
He narrows his eyes, "Who?"
"That's the million-dollar question. I don't know...yet. All I know is that it wasn't just one person, and I'm definitely not the only one on their tracks. When my life was falling to pieces, I stumbled upon an investigation of the British Secret Service: they were tracking down a nebulous criminal web that seemed to be responsible for the end of my world, too. When it was clear that my case and theirs were connected, I became a source of information and a sensible asset: I had to be protected, to be consulted about my life and what could have pushed that organisation to cause all that trouble. The more links we could unearth, the easier it would be to identify the person behind it all, the very source. Consequently, I demanded to be kept updated about all the developments in the investigation: trust me, I have every intention to find out who destroyed my life. So, to answer your question, by some twist of fate, I found myself in your brother's path: he was at the head of the operation and he brought me in. He granted me protection and hid me by transferring me from city to city. In the end, he let me settle in London. I asked to have my freedom back and he gave it to me with a note left in my hotel room: I was on my own, no more security details, no more secret facilities in which I felt like a jailbird. No more anonymity. He provided me with a new identity and the chance at a new life: I could start over. The investigation is still ongoing, though..."
"And that's why you two secretly meet: he is keeping you in the loop."
She nods quietly.
"Now that you've finally painted the whole picture, I would very much like to know why the two of you pretended not to know each other when Mycroft came to the flat a few days after you had moved in," Sherlock glares at her, but she smiles in reply.
"Believe it or not, that was indeed the first time we met. I knew he was the man calling the shots on the investigation, but I had never had the opportunity to meet with him face to face. He was just a voice on the other end of the line. A voice without a name, but just a letter: M. When he introduced himself in Baker Street, I found the answers to my suspicions. I had heard whispers about him: I spent months in the company of agents that let slip some comments on the 'all-powerful' Mycroft Holmes - a legendary figure at the top of the MI6. Those hints, coupled with your complaints about your sibling and his shady business aside from the government drew quite the picture. When he walked into the flat and scrutinised me as if he knew exactly who I was, it wasn't too difficult for me to connect the dots. His reputation preceded him, and his attire was unmistakable: not a field agent, but..."
"The puppetmaster," Sherlock talks over her with a grimace. He is annoyed: he should have seen it coming, somehow.
"I've been honest with you, now I want the truth, too. If John..." she stops mid-sentence overwhelmed, but she strives to go on, "If John hadn't shown up, would you have..."
"Shot you?" he finishes her sentence. She silently nods looking straight into his eyes.
He furrows his brow and his gaze glides to the window, "I was thinking about a way out of that awful situation. I couldn't let him torture you, to begin with. And I knew that John was on his way," he starts jabbering.
"No, you didn't."
He sighs, "Okay, maybe I didn't, but you know him: he can be very resourceful sometimes..." he wanders off, and she gives him a stern look. "Sherlock..."
"Fine, I did think about shooting at you, but I would have never killed you. I was pondering the idea of causing minimal damage with a surgical wound and use that act as a diversion to gain the upper hand."
She reflects on his words and closes her eyes. For a second, she feels as if she was in the bank again. Her mind re-enacts the scene and she relives it all over again: Sherlock raising the gun and pointing it at her with a conflicted look on his face. Not just a torn expression, but with guilt in his eyes. The difference is that this time he does pull the trigger.
She flinches terrified at the scenario playing in her head and doubles over, quivering. Sherlock studies her startled reaction and stares at her, hesitant. What should he do? He is her friend, apparently. How do friends help cope with fear and trauma of kidnapping and attempted murder?
She clenches her fists trying to hide the tremor in her hands, but he has already noticed it. Should he take her hand in his to steady it? But that would be too personal, wouldn't it? That kind of human touch... it's something he is definitely not familiar with. Maybe he could reassure her with words, then? But what could he ever say to her?
Then he has a sudden epiphany. "17...34...51...68..." he starts reciting, and her shivers immediately stop replaced by utter astonishment.
He smirks proudly. It didn't take him long to realise what she was doing inside the bank.
"How do you...?"
"I heard you. When the lights went off and you were all alone tied to that chair, you were always adding up the number 17. Why?" he inquires with genuine curiosity.
When she starts speaking, an instinctive smile bends the corner of her mouth upwards, "My father taught me that method: it helps me deal with panic in stressful situations and prevents me from spiralling out of control. One time, when I was little, he and I got stuck in an elevator. I'm not very claustrophobic but I was just a kid and got so scared. My father noticed and asked me to do simple additions. He gave me numbers and asked for the sum: he was just trying to distract me by keeping my mind focused on maths. It worked: panic didn't take over, and I managed to keep a cool head. It became our little 'panic button' system. I've been using it ever since."
"And since your father was not with you at the bank, you had to come up with the numbers to add. Why 17?"
"It's my birthday and my dad's favourite number. It symbolizes self-discipline, compassion, independence and wisdom. It's for people who are soft and strong at the same time, those who are leaders and want to change the world: it reminds me of my father."
He spots a veil of sadness in her eyes and asks tactfully, "Do you miss him?"
"Immensely."
A sudden thought dawns on him: if she went through all that on her own with the complicity of the Secret Service, what about her family? Are they somewhere safe, too?
"Where is he now?"
She gets choked up, and her eyes fill with tears, "Bloody good question."
He frowns for a second before grasping the full meaning behind her words. "Oh, my... I'm sorry, I had no idea."
"It's okay," she gives him a tightlipped smile. "Wherever Heaven is, I know he's looking after me."
The cab pulls over next to the curb and they hop off. Standing on the pavement, Sherlock suddenly realises that they are at Baker Street, and he looks around almost disoriented, "Sorry, I instinctively gave the cabbie this address, but maybe you had already planned to spend the night elsewhere before you were abducted. I can hail another one for you if you want," he stops talking because she has walked away, moving closer to the dark door with the shiny 221 plaque on it.
"It's already been several months since I came here for the first time," she whispers recalling that early-autumn evening. On the outside of that house, it looks as if nothing has changed, but inside everything has.
"And for some reason, you decided to walk through that door and be besieged by my deductions," the detective points out.
She raises a brow at those memories, "You gave me quite an impression."
"I should have known by our first meeting that you weren't that easy to get rid of. I wanted you to run away outraged and you ended up mesmerised, instead. Still, you must have thought I was mad, at least for one second."
"Maybe two or three, yeah," she smirks teasing him.
"And yet you stayed," he states as if it was almost impossible to conceive.
"Yes."
"Do you still think I am mad?" he cautiously asks. His tone is serious: he is not joking now.
"You've just pointed a gun at me, so yes." She pushes the door open and turns around to look at him with a soft smile on her lips, "So, what can you deduce about my future behaviour?"