CHAPTER 26: ANGELS AND DEMONS
One week later
3:30 a.m.
Giulia suddenly jolts awake with palpitation.
She had another nightmare, another lucid dream that she knew was not real. It couldn't be: everything had already happened in real life but with a different ending. Initially, it was that woeful sense of déjà vu that forewarned her. She could sense that something was off with that dream the minute she saw a familiar gun pointed at her heart. She should have screamed just like she did when she had a nightmare on her first night in London: crying so loud that she eventually managed to wake her body up. But this time she didn't: she stayed quiet, unable to speak, incapable of protesting. She remained speechless staring into the eyes of her shooter: a pair of unmistakable green-blue eyes.
Sherlock.
She awakens with his name on her lips, terrified by that nightmare. She tosses and turns in the bed striving to find an explanation for what she has just seen. She analyses her dream: it wasn't the same scene at the bank: back then, Sherlock had aimed at her head; in this darker version, though, he went straight for her heart... Incoherent.
Yet that wasn't the only inconsistent detail: why didn't she scream? Why did she stand by and let that happen, why did she let him do that to her? Would she ever give him such a power over her?
Finally, she recalls one last, disturbing element: his eyes were... dead, inexpressive. The fire she described to his mother a few days before wasn't there. It was nothing like him: in reality, his eyes host universes while the nightmare version of him only showed a blank look, a mask of utter detachment. What does it mean? What was really killing her, Sherlock or his indifference?
She stares at the ceiling of her bedroom, unable to go back to sleep. She takes a deep breath. Inhale, exhale, it shouldn't be too difficult, right?
She can feel her muscles relax, but her mind is restless, questions incessantly swirling inside her brain. She groans, Why can't everything stop just for one night?
She closes her eyes desperately trying to get a few hours of sleep, but the moment her eyelids shut over her pupils, a sudden streak of images crash down on her mind threatening to drive her crazy. Her fantasy reproduces the swift movement of a hand holding a gun, the muzzle facing her just like she saw it happen inside the bank, and the deafening sound of a gunshot seems to resonate inside her skull. That detonation brings back another scenario in her brain: the explosion of the underground station during her first case with Sherlock and John. It looks as if she was witnessing the building collapsing again among tongues of flame, helplessly staring once more at the smoking ruins.
But there's more. The lines of the station get blurred and distorted as they shapeshift enough to replicate a different building, something very familiar to her. She can feel the tears in her eyes when that lost place resurfaces from the deepest recesses of her mind; she instinctively raises an arm toward that vision as if she was trying to touch it, hold it for as long as possible. Oh, how she misses it!
All of a sudden, that building blows up in a massive explosion making her jump in her bed convulsively.
Haunting memories: that's all she got left. And yet the images in her head looked so vivid and real that she would swear that her nostrils could smell smoke. She turns around in a puddle of sweat. It felt as if there were flames everywhere, outside and inside her scorched soul. It looked like the very Hell, but she remembers that what truly happened was far worse: it was the end of her whole world.
Her eyes snap open, and she realises that she is hyperventilating. She yanks off the blanket and stands up weak on her legs trying to calm down. She needs something to drink: a glass of ice water to extinguish her fiery demons.
She stumbles across the small entrance of her flat and trudges up the stairs; while standing on the last steps, she overhears Sherlock talking in the living room. A little smile appears on her still quivering lips. Good, this means that the boys are still up. At least she won't be alone with her painful thoughts.
She walks into the room stating, "John, you were wrong..." but she stops mid-sentence and looks around; the doctor is not there.
"Wait, where is he?" she asks Sherlock giving him a confused look.
The detective lifts his head and inquires obliviously, "Who?"
"John."
He shrugs, "Don't know. He probably went to bed some hours ago."
She frowns, "I heard you speaking. I thought you were talking to him."
"I was talking to him," he clarifies, then sighs at her vacant look, "Since I can't possibly interrupt the flow of my thoughts, I simply carry on my conversations with him even when he leaves."
"They are not conversations anymore; those are monologues," she corrects him, and he waves a hand in the air, "Whatever."
"Sorry then, I didn't mean to interrupt you."
"Never mind. I was probably saying something that would save the Western world, but in the end, why should it be important?" he overdramatises making her roll her eyes.
She stares at him for a few seconds, mad at him for no apparent reason. It's the after-effect of her nightmare: she blames him for shooting at her heart in her visions. It happens sometimes: we dream about someone we know, and upon seeing them again in real life, we suffer from the consequences of their actions inside our dreams. Dreadful how the mind works...
Sherlock notices her hostile stare and frowns at her, changing the subject, "While we are at it, what was John wrong about?"
She comes back to reality, "Remedies for insomnia. He recommended a few relaxation techniques and breathing exercises to facilitate sleep, but they clearly don't work on me."
"And what does he know of breathing exercises?" Sherlock grimaces.
"He has read up on that subject since he came home from the war. We've been talking a lot recently, and he told me everything about his days in the army," she reveals pouring herself a glass of ice-cold water.
He studies her movements: her grip on the glass is so tight that her knuckles are turning white. She is upset, but her darting eyes tell something more: she is not purely scared; he saw how she deals with terror. No, she is inconsolably sad. What is she doing here? What was she dreaming about?
"He never speaks about that period of his life," he points out without taking his eyes off her.
"He did with me. He doesn't see his therapist anymore, and he only writes about your cases on his blog; I suppose he just needed someone to talk to, and I was willing to listen."
"I perceive a subtle pop at me," Sherlock grunts.
"Admit it: I am definitely better than you at listening. But don't be jealous; they were just small stories about the battlefield, you wouldn't be interested. Anyhow, I thought you knew that sometimes he has troubles sleeping."
"I do know that. The frequent bags under his eyes give it away. However, the problem that afflicts you both has nothing to do with muscle relaxation and breathing control. You don't suffer from insomnia, you idiots. You're just haunted by nightmares - which is fairly natural, by the way. Post-traumatic stress disorder for both of you; he went to war and got shot on the field, whereas you were kidnapped and held hostage at gunpoint. It would be more than enough to prevent a normal person from sleeping for weeks," he stares intently at her. "Although, in your case, all these events must have triggered some bad memories of your past - a bunch of them, apparently. Nightmares are the way you deal with it. You can blame your subconscious for your sleepless nights. Taking a deep breath before going to bed won't fix it."
"Thank you very much, Dr Freud. Do you have better advice, then? Your own remedy?"
"You really think I would be up at such ungodly hour if I had it? My demons keep me awake as much as yours do," he talks under his breath looking away.
She steals a glance at his unreadable face, then murmurs, "I love this hour. You can never really say if it's too soon or too late."
He looks out the window into the black night: is it too soon for her to let a stranger like him into her own little world? And is it too late for him to bring himself to care about another human being? In a way, he believes it was always too late for him. That's what he has always thought, all his life, ever since he was a child... Too late for caring, too late for him.
They remain silent for a few minutes, then Sherlock asks out of the blue, "What do you think of John?"
"He is a decent man; he's brave and..."
"I haven't asked for the praise of his character. Do you like him?" he abruptly inquires.
"Yes, I do. I am completely readable - as you so politely pointed out at our first meeting. I bet you would have noticed if I hated him."
He rolls his eyes, "Of course you don't hate him. But I am not sure I can always read your emotions, and when you talk about him, it doesn't seem that you have feelings for him, so..."
"Wait, slow down! Who said anything about feelings? I didn't say that I love him."
"But you like him," he underlines confused wrinkling his nose: why aren't human emotions straightforward? Everything about humans should be logical and linear. Irrationality should be banished from the face of the earth.
"Yes... As I like you," she adds with a smile trying to clarify the situation.
He is taken aback for a second, "Oh..."
"You don't wonder if I love you, though," she notices.
He averts his gaze, "Because I don't expect people to love me."
"They could if you gave them a chance."
He arches a brow, "Despite who I am?"
"For who you are," she softly specifies.
Sherlock stares at her, surprisingly incapable of reading her face, her words, "I'm sorry, you are saying that... I mean, do you?"
It's dark in the room but she is quite sure that he is blushing. "You can stop panicking now. If I say that I appreciate your company, are you going to burst into flames?" she teases him.
"Using irony, skirting the question: the conversation has clearly gone off the rails, hasn't it? Apologies, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," he stutters.
"How did we end up talking about this, anyway?"
"I was just trying to be sociable. It won't happen again," he sighs at his lack of capabilities with personal interactions and grabs his violin. It's time for some music. He doesn't even care that it is almost 4 am. Music is the only trustworthy means he knows how to use to connect with others. Words are clearly misleading. Every form of conversation should only occur through music. It could never go wrong, it would never create embarrassment or misunderstandings.
She stands up heading for the door, "I'll leave you to your performance."
"You can stay... if you want to," he clears his throat, "I might go on for a bit, but if you'd like to listen..."
"I'd love to," she smiles at him and flops down on the couch.
Sherlock starts to play a lovely, delicate tune while Giulia listens to the music, her legs stretched on the sofa, her head leaned on a pillow, eyes closed. She relaxes her shoulders, and her lips bend in a hinted smile: she has the impression that his notes are caressing her softly.
He looks at her out of the corner of his eye and ironically comments, "I didn't know I could be so boring as to make you sleep."
She cracks her eyes open and grins peacefully, "You're not. It was bliss. Who is the composer?"
"Me."
She nods impressed and closes her eyes again.
He steals a glance at her: she doesn't look like the same girl who came to Baker Street some months before desperately looking for accommodation. He was able to deduce her in under ten seconds, at the time, but he wonders if he can still do that. She seems different, now; he is different with her now. Only another woman was as mysterious as her: The Woman. Almost automatically his fingers start to play Irene's theme.
When the last note slides along the chords of the violin and fades away, Sherlock looks down at Giulia; her eyes are still closed, her chest rises and falls rhythmically. A sudden thought dawns on him, We should always see the others sleeping. Everyone looks vulnerable.
He carefully takes the girl up off the couch and brings her downstairs bride-style. She wakes up halfway and rubs her eyes while mumbling, "What are you doing?"
"Taking you to your bed, obviously. You practically passed out on the sofa."
"Just for one second," she rebuts like a stubborn toddler.
He opens the door of her apartment, walks to her bedroom and gently places her on the mattress. When he is about to leave the room, he hears her whisper, "Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"You should go to sleep, too. Don't worry about your demons; after your last piece, I bet they fell asleep as well. It was so tender and soft... You had never played anything like the last melody."
"I thought you were sleeping," he comments in a slightly surprised tone.
"I told you: I fell asleep for just one second. I listened to you almost the whole time. That music... was it for a woman?"
He nods without a word.
"Has she ever heard it?"
"No."
She closes her eyes feeling that she is about to fall asleep, "Pity, it's wonderful. In that ethereal music, I could feel the real you. Thank you for this dance with the angels. Goodnight, Sherlock."