CHAPTER 25: UNDER FALSE PRETENCES
Two weeks later. 24 December.
Back to... no, not really back to how things were before. That would be impossible. And not even back to normal, because there is no such thing at 221 Baker Street.
"Sherlock, where are you?" Giulia's words are barely audible over the joyful racket coming from the living room. The girl walks along the narrow corridor and knocks on the door of Sherlock's bedroom. No answer at all. She sighs and bursts the door open to reveal the detective sitting in a corner of his bed, his back turned to the threshold.
"Here you are. What are you doing holed up in your room on Christmas Eve? Come on, join us! We're playing a board game with the help of some glasses of wine," she giggles at his back; he hasn't even turned around to face her. "It's fun. Come with me," she cheerfully adds while stretching out a hand towards him.
He turns slightly and looks at her over his shoulder, mumbling, "No, thank you. I'd rather stay here."
"Okay, I got it. You don't like celebrations with happy and slightly drunk people," she pronounces flopping down onto the mattress, next to him.
He doesn't even lift his gaze on her when he talks back, "Let's just say that social interactions aren't my cup of tea. And alcohol only numbs my capabilities and slows down my mental process: why would I even want to drink it?"
She sighs heavily: she doesn't have a comeback for that and she is quite tipsy herself, which doesn't really help to come up with a witty reply. After all, she knew all along that he would never follow her. "I understand. And since we exchanged gifts while you were busy wallowing in isolation, I thought I could just bring mine here to you. I bought you a present," she says softly handing him a package draped in a crooked ribbon: she is not good at wrapping, that's quite evident.
Sherlock seems taken aback for a moment and frowns at the object in his hands, "A present? It really wasn't necessary." He finally raises his eyes on her and furrows his brow, ill at ease, "I didn't buy you anything."
"Don't worry: I didn't expect you to," she shrugs nonchalantly.
"And I didn't expect you to spend the Christmas holidays here and not with your family..." he retorts, but his words fade in his mouth as he suddenly realises: What a colossal, disrespectful, obnoxious imbecile! Only two weeks before she told him about the sorrowful passing of her father, and now he rubs salt in the wounds. His mouth definitely works too fast - faster than his conscience, at least.
He starts apologising clumsily, "Sorry, I wasn't thinking..."
"That'd be a first," she replies ironically. She gives him a hard look and stares down fidgeting with her hands while the room sinks into silence. Then she stands up, and her expression changes dramatically, "I don't want to be sad on Christmas Eve. So now, please, open the packet!" she urges him like an excited toddler.
The detective peers at her smiling face trying to spot the crack in the facade but she doesn't flinch: she is insanely strong. How can she pull herself together so gracefully?
He unwraps the package and grimaces, "Oh, it's a book: how original!"
She glares at his feigned reaction, "It's Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. It's a pirate story."
"I know what it is about."
She swallows hard: she knew Sherlock wasn't the most exuberant person in the world, but she was hoping for a slightly more enthusiastic reaction. Whenever she makes a step in his direction, he seems to recoil.
"Yes, well, I just thought you might like it," her whisper is tinted in disappointment as she shuffles towards the door to go rejoin the party in the living room.
Sherlock's words stop her. "I do, I really do. Thank you, Giulia," he finally cracks a smile to her causing the girl to lift her head and smile in reply. "You're very welcome."
After a few seconds of awkward silence, Sherlock clears his throat and inquires, "Did John buy you anything?"
"He did. Here it is: do you like it?" she shows him her right hand and twists her fingers.
Sherlock stares at her middle finger and stutters, "A ring... it's a ring."
The girl nods and casually leans against the doorjamb, "Yes, as you can see. Something's wrong with it?" she tries to read his indecipherable mood change.
He quickly shakes his head, "No, I suppose not. It's just that a ring means some sort of commitment."
She bursts into laughter. "Sure! And I am certain that a painted-wooden ring bought at a stand in a charity market unequivocally indicates that we are going to be bound forever," she replies sarcastically.
"I was just stating that..."
"You were implying," she cuts him short. "The truth is, he simply noticed that I usually wear jewellery, and more specifically rings, so he gave me one as a Christmas present. I really like it: it's thoughtful. Why do you think it is wrong?"
He wonders the same. What was he questioning? What was he reacting to and why that harshly?
"I don't. It was nice of him, actually," he gives her a tight-lipped smile, then tries to bring the conversation back on track adding boastfully, "For the record, I've known you were a ring girl since day one. I also made a deduction about one of your jewellery."
"A wrong one, if my memory serves me well," she snaps back with a smirk.
All of a sudden, he springs to his feet and quickly walks past her murmuring, "I gotta dash."
He grabs his coat and scarf from the coat rack and steps out the flat under the confused gaze of every person standing in the living room: Molly, Lestrade, John and Mrs Hudson.
Giulia chases after him, "Sherlock, wait. Where are you going?"
"Out!" he laconically shouts from the stairs, then a loud thud echoes in the room when he slams the front door.
After several hours, Sherlock finally comes back home. He steps into his silent flat; the guests have left and the living room is empty again. The Christmassy music has been turned down, and Molly's embarrassed high-pitched voice doesn't resound in the room anymore. All lamps have been turned off and now just the sequence of twinkle lights framing the windows shed some light in the darkened room. Giulia is sitting in Sherlock's armchair sipping a cup of tea.
"Is the party over yet?" Sherlock asks her.
She arches her brow, "Do not pretend to be sad: it really isn't necessary."
"I would never do that. I'm rather glad everyone left," he candidly replies, and she shakes her head. This man has no clue about human nature.
He walks to the centre of the room and hands her a package, "Here. This is for you."
Giulia shoots an intrigued look at the man towering over her and cautiously unwraps the present. She silently stares at the open box in her hands for a few seconds, then lifts it up to observe it in the pale light.
"It's a gun," she states confused.
"Yes, it is. That's my Christmas present for you," Sherlock specifies. Wow, she is slow, sometimes. That was fairly obvious, wasn't it?
"Is that why you went out under snowfall on Christmas Eve? To get me a present?" she stares at him with wide eyes.
"Yeah. Gun stores were closed, obviously, but I have my connections and my homeless network. This is the best I could find," he shrugs.
"You gave me a gun for Christmas," she repeats as if it was too absurd a concept to process.
Sherlock studies her reaction, perplexed, "You don't like it?"
"No, it's actually great. It's just that weapons are not a very common gift."
"Personally, I hate futile gifts and abhor bric-a-brac. I just thought that a useful present could be a fair compromise."
"I do hope I will never find it useful, though. Moreover, technically, I don't need it," she mutters staring at the foreign object in her hands.
"Oh, right, your bodyguard outside," he pronounces nodding to the window. On the other side of the street, a man wearing a black coat and a coordinated hat is leaning against a lamppost, his eyes fixed on the door with the number 221.
"How do you know about him?"
"Please, that man out there has been keeping an eye on us for days, taking turns with a fellow guard who does the night shift. There is always someone monitoring the house and every suspicious movement around it. If you pay attention, you'd be able to see that both of them have a small bulge just below the armpit: they carry weapons, clearly."
"And how do you know he is my bodyguard?" she asks.
"Easy deduction. Mycroft clearly tends to be very protective towards you, and after the accident at the bank I was sure he would take stricter measures."
She nods then gives him a side glance, "Does it mean your gift is your version of 'stricter measures' towards me?"
"I'd rather say that it is less intrusive than a guard."
"Fair enough. I guess I'm going to keep the gun, then. Since this is more of a toy to me than a lethal weapon, may I try it?" she flashes him her puppy eyes as if she were a little girl who had just unwrapped a new doll.
"Be my guest," Sherlock gestures theatrically pointing at the smiley face painted on the wall.
Giulia straightens up, takes the safety off, and relaxes her shoulders; she aims at the yellow drawing and shoots twice. Sherlock looks at her movements with rapt attention: the steadiness of her arm, the confident touch of her finger on the trigger, her eyes narrowed at her target. This is not the first time she fires a weapon, his deduction comes unexpectedly.
He tries to shrug off that thought: he still doesn't blindly trust her. Maybe it's because she never really told him what happened to her, what shattered her life. For him, the hardest part is to come to terms with the harsh reality: he cannot always know everything. She will keep her secrets for as long as she deems necessary.
"What do you think of my present, after all? Do you like it?" he inquires faking a disinterested tone.
She grins at him, "I sure do."
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other starting to feel uncomfortable. He doesn't know what to say. What do people normally chat about when exchanging gifts? Whatever. He clearly isn't like them, he doesn't do the small talk.
He sinks into the couch; he still hasn't taken off his coat. Giulia puts the safety back on, delicately places the gun on the table, then walks to the window. She stares outside looking at the snow falling down. Nobody would have expected a White Christmas yet there it was.
"Look at the lights, at those snowy roads filled with joyful carols..." she murmurs feeling at peace.
"I hate it all," Sherlock snaps back.
She turns to him with an amused smile. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."
The next day
Sherlock walks into the quiet living room; Giulia is curled up in front of the fire immersed in the reading of an adventure book. He gazes at her devouring every page with an insatiable curiosity and almost smiles at the scene: she is so absorbed that she doesn't hear him coming.
"Good morning," he greets rousing her from her entrancement and causing her to jump in her seat, startled. She looks up at him, and the vermilion shadows of the flames crackling in the fireplace dance on her cheeks painting colourful patterns.
"Where is John?" he asks looking around the place.
"Off to his sister Harry. He said he'd spend Christmas day there trying to keep her off the ponce."
He nods. Good: at least he won't have to explain to him what he is about to do next.
He clears his throat, slightly uncomfortable. Is he nervous? Preposterous!
"Giulia, would you be my girlfriend?"
She gapes at him unable to even blink. After a few seconds of bewilderment, she manages to stammer out, "Are you high or drunk, Sherlock?"
He frowns, "No. Why do you ask?"
She stares at him wide-eyed and starts babbling, "Because I wasn't expecting that. I mean you are... what you asked... I am flattered..."
He rolls his eyes and hastens to specify, "For a case."
Now, she is absolutely puzzled. "Oh, and what case do you need a girlfriend for?"
"A very important one, a bit dangerous, too. I'd understand if you didn't want to be involved," he affirms pacing the flat.
She narrows her eyes at him, "And what's in it for me if I accept?"
He looks out the window in anticipation of what would come later that day, "You would prevent a triple homicide."
"Are you serious?" she blurts out.
"Possibly."
She ponders the idea for a second as her sense of duty, justice and compassion prevail, "Well, it's three human lives we're talking about. I'm in."
"Excellent!" he claps his hands, "Those little lives thank you. Now, go dress nicely: I'm taking you out."
She throws him a confused look but doesn't protest and goes downstairs to her flat.
One hour and a half later
Sherlock and Giulia are driving silently in a car. No one has spoken since they left Baker Street; it isn't an awkward or embarrassed silence, though: it's a tranquil stillness. The girl knows that her quiet driver is probably lost in his labyrinthic mind palace, even though she cannot help but wonder how he manages not to kill them both in a head-on crash. She is starting to relax in her seat when she notices that the landscape is quickly changing: they are getting out of the metropolitan area of London and are approaching the countryside.
"What is our backstory?" she asks after a while.
Sherlock takes his eyes off the road for an instant and furrows a brow, "What do you mean?"
"If we are a couple, we need a story. How did we meet, how did we end up together?"
"We'll stick to the truth: you are my flatmate, that's our story. We won't need any more details: that would make the lie patently obvious. There will also be one person who already knows the truth, so we will keep it simple. You'd better keep quiet and let me handle the talk, alright?"
She raises a brow at him: this is getting more odd and intriguing each passing second.
After fifteen more minutes, Sherlock takes a turn in a cobbled driveway that leads up to a lovely manor house.
Giulia's eyes widen at that view, "I thought we were going to a restaurant," she murmurs perplexed.
"I said I would take you out, but never mentioned where," he shrugs turning off the engine and hurrying to her side of the car to chivalrously open her door.
"Is it a crime scene?" she inquires appreciating his unusually gallant manners.
He raises his gaze on the mansion with a displeased expression on his face. As the front door opens, he whispers, "Not yet, and let's hope it stays that way."
A cheerful woman appears on the threshold and she welcomes the detective with open arms, "Sherlock! You finally made it."
He reluctantly plunges in her embrace, "Sorry, mother. Traffic jam."
Giulia listens to his answer in horror. Mother? Wait... is she...? Oh, bloody manipulator!
"You're lying. I checked the road on the Internet: it was clear. It simply took you forever to even decide to come to your poor parents, isn't it?" she scolds him lovingly. Then she turns to the girl standing next to the car, "And who is this gorgeous young lady?"
Giulia blushes and timidly smiles at her as Sherlock hastily introduces the two of them, "Mum, this is Giulia. Giulia, this is my mother." After a firm handshake and some small talk, they enter the house and walk into the living room where Sherlock's father and Mycroft are waiting for them.
"Sherlock, what's that about?" Giulia hisses at him keeping her voice down, barely audible.
"That's my family home and we are here to attend Christmas dinner, I thought it was evident," he whispers back.
She stares at him, "So, in fact, the three people whose lives were at stake are..."
"My family!" he exclaims completing her unheard question and gesturing at the people now gathered in the room.
Mycroft does a double-take when he sees Giulia, then a permanent smirk rests upon his face. This is going to be unexpectedly amusing, he thinks.
During dinner
"So, Giulia," Mr Holmes addresses the girl who is trying to keep as quiet as possible following her fake boyfriend's instructions, "how's living with Sherlock?"
She instinctively smiles at the kind man. Where does she start? From her kidnapping and attempted murder or should she just stick to the gory body parts in the fridge?
"Quite the adventurous challenge. No day is like another," she politely replies and Mycroft raises his brow. That's the understatement of the century.
"He doesn't involve you in his cases, does he?" Mrs Holmes questions, her voice edged with concern.
"I guess I just get caught up in them, willingly or unwillingly," she shrugs shooting an ironic look at Sherlock.
Mycroft follows the exchange of glances and decides to have his fun. "Let's play a game of 'what-if', shall we?"
"No," his brother quickly replies, but the elder ignores him and proceeds to ask the girl, "Giulia, what if Sherlock was to commit a murder? Would you lie to cover up for him?" his icy glare ties her down to the chair.
"Mycroft!" his mother reprimands him but to no avail.
The girl doesn't allow herself to be intimidated and stares back, "Would you?"
Even though Mycroft is taken aback when confronted with that question - or rather, with his own (obvious) answer, his unintelligible facade doesn't break, and he shoots back, "Family doesn't count. It is a different matter entirely. But I'm curious to know how you would behave. Are you really a good friend, or - if you prefer girlfriend?" he corrects himself smiling smugly as Sherlock rolls up his eyes.
"You are assuming that good friends would do that," she plays with his words.
"I assume that close, affectionate people would go to great lengths to protect their friends."
She furrows a brow, "Would they? But that's totally counterintuitive. If I did lie for him, I'd be the worst friend... girlfriend ever," she objects catching the detective's attention.
"You mean that you wouldn't cover up for me?" he inquires in a seemingly hurt tone.
"Of course not. I would never lie to protect you, no matter the crime. That's not friendship, that's not even protection. That's overindulgence and it's unacceptable. If I was really a good friend, I'd want you to face the consequences of your actions, even if it'd break me to see you spend your days in a cell, even if neither of us would want it. But I would still do what is right. Friendship is not a synonym for unfairness and it should never be."
The Holmes parents look impressed by her answer, and so do the brothers.
"It would look like you have quite the moral compass, Miss," Mr Holmes politely compliments her.
"I can't stand injustice. I guess this is the reason why I've been sticking with Sherlock for so long. He sees his cases as puzzles to be solved, enigmas to be deciphered, mysteries to be unveiled. For him, it's the thrill of the search, the excitement of the hunt that makes it all worthwhile. But for me, it's all about taking dangerous criminals off the streets, letting everyone get their due. So, no, I wouldn't help Sherlock getting away with murder. It'd be inflexible with him. But that comes hardly as a surprise considering that he did the same with me when I was accused of murder. That's just fair play, isn't' it, honey?" she teases him as four pairs of eyes simultaneously fix on her.
"You were what?" Mrs Holmes gapes at her, and Mycroft sits back on his chair chuckling. Amusing, indeed.
Sherlock elbows her under the table and whispers, "You really thought it'd be a good idea to bring up the topic of your arrest in front of my parents?"
At the end of the dinner, Mrs Holmes invites Giulia to the kitchen asking for her help. While she is cleaning up, she addresses the girl, "I was quite surprised that Sherlock brought you here, today."
So was I, the girl mentally comments.
"But now that I've met you, I can officially say that I'm glad he has someone like you in his life. Having you around the flat could only be a good influence on him. I'm happy that he has such good friends."
Giulia is dumbfounded: did she just say 'friends'?
She rushes her answer, "Actually, I am his..."
Mrs Holmes stops her by placing gently a hand on her arm and giving her an eloquent smirk, "It's alright, dear. You don't have to keep pretending with me."
Giulia looks into her eyes, and she immediately understands: Oh, she is just like her sons; it probably makes sense. She can read through people.
Before the girl could apologise for the farce, the kind lady goes on, "I've been looking at you throughout dinner and there is one thing I can't understand. Most people always want something from Sherlock, but you are not like them. You don't have a case for him to solve, you don't expect him to give you answers, you don't ask for anything. But we all need something out of life, and we usually think we can find it in the people around us. So, I'm asking you: what do you want from my son? Why are you here?"
Her gaze travels all over her, but it isn't an inquisitive look; she is just dead curious.
Giulia shrugs and jokes around, "Because Sherlock tricked me. But I guess I let him fool me because I was just in the mood for favours: it's Christmas after all."
Mrs Holmes stares at the girl while her eyelids slowly roll down and her eyes become slits. "Does this trick work with my sons?"
Giulia cocks a brow, "What trick?"
"When you say a half-truth and you expect others to take your word."
The girl sighs and sits on a stool trying to justify herself, "He did bring me here under false pretences, but I guess that's not what you truly asked. Your question was different: you want to know why I am still by Sherlock's side, don't you, Mrs Holmes?"
The woman nods slightly: this girl is very perceptive.
"The first time I met Sherlock when I walked into his flat, I saw something in him: a sparkle, a flame that burned inside him, that was consuming him. The fire of the devotion to his work, a passion for life and a disregard for death that I had never seen in anyone."
"People call it madness," Mrs Holmes comments flatly.
"It is an easy mistake. This society detests people who are passionate about something. The moment you declare out loud that you adore something, that you are keen on an inner force that drives you, you are immediately branded a 'fanatic'. I'll never understand why the world hates enthusiasm to the extent of wishing that everyone would just have an aloof attitude toward life. I strongly believe that there is nothing purer than listening to someone talking frantically about what they love, watching them caught in the frenzy of their fondness with a glimmer in their eyes. You are right: people usually condemn it as insanity; it's what drives them away. But seeing your son getting excited whenever he has a case, dashing around crime scenes, deducing every breathing being from head to toe just for fun... that is precisely what convinced me to stay."
Mrs Holmes gazes at her with an inscrutable face and Giulia stands still, overthinking, Is she satisfied with this answer? Was her too blunt and outspoken? But that's what she wanted, wasn't it? Does she hate her now, think she is a mad stalker of her precious boy?
Then the woman slowly nods at her and a little smile lights up her lips.
Later that night, Sherlock and Giulia say goodbye to the quirky Holmes family and get into the car.
When the detective takes the motorway, he turns to Giulia, "Whatever story my mother might have told you in the kitchen about my childhood, I'll deny everything."
She simply giggles in response, then he adds, "But whatever you may have said, you made quite an impression. She told me that while we Holmes are the ones who observe, you are the girl who sees people for what they truly are. Whatever it means," he snorts and drives into the night.