CHAPTER 27: BEYOND THE MIRROR
Two weeks later
A man bangs repeatedly on the front door of 221 Baker Street.
"Coming! For the love of God, just hold your horses!" Mrs Hudson shouts dashing down the stairs to answer the door. She unlocks it and begins to greet the man, "Good morning..." but the moment she lowers the handle, he abruptly pushes her aside and storms up the stairs.
"Where are your manners?" the poor lady complains shaking her head.
In the meantime, the man has reached the door of the flat marked 'B', and he bursts it open rushing inside and yelling, "Sherlock? I know you dislike me. That's a mutual sentiment, by the way. But I do need to talk to you..." he stops mid-sentence when he comes face to face with a girl coming out of the kitchen.
"Who are you?" he inquires immediately, shocked.
She smirks, "A burglar."
He raises his eyebrows, "Really?"
"Sure, and if I were a burglar, I would definitely tell that to a police officer," she ironically grimaces at him while pointing at the tag with the words 'New Scotland Yard' hanging around his neck.
"Technically, I'm a forensic officer," he specifies.
"And I'm actually not a burglar. I live here: I'm Sherlock's and John's flatmate. My name is Giulia. Pleased to meet you, Mr ...?" she asks extending her hand amiably, and he quickly shakes it while taking a look around the living room, "Philip Anderson. Where is Sherlock Holmes?"
"He's been out for hours now. But judging from the anxiety in your voice and your opening sentence, it seemed rather pressing. Do you want to wait for him here? I could make you some tea," she kindly suggests.
"No, thanks. When he comes back, just tell him to meet me at Scotland Yard, okay?" he nervously heads for the door.
Her words reach him when he is crossing the threshold. "Is he in trouble?"
Anderson sighs and turns around, "No, but I will if he doesn't show up." He is about to go down the stairs, but Giulia stops him in his tracks, "Mr Anderson?" she shoots him a little smile, "About what you said earlier, don't let it upset you: you're not the only one. Sherlock actually dislikes most of the human race."
He frowns annoyed, "Did he run a test to select you as his flatmate?"
She chuckles, "Sort of. Have a good day!"
He dismissively waves a hand in the air and leaves.
Upon hearing the thump of the front door closing, Sherlock steps out of his bedroom. "What if he had accepted?"
She turns towards him with an interrogative look, "What?"
"Your tea offer," he spits out almost nauseated.
She shakes her head, "I was just pretending to be polite, but I knew he would never stay. He was desperate and in a hurry; people in such a critical condition hate to sit on their hands. They feel so helpless."
He stares at her with narrowed eyes, "You are improving quickly."
She beams at him, "Thanks."
"And you can lie dangerously well," he squints his eyes even more and her smile trails off on her lips. "I'm not certain this is a compliment."
He shrugs, "It depends on the situation; this time it has come in handy. Thanks for dismissing him on my behalf."
"What did he want?" she inquires surprised by his determination to turn down a distress call coming from the police.
"To annoy me, of course," he replies lolling on his armchair.
"Sherlock, he needs your help. He looked very distressed; it might be important."
"It's Anderson; nothing concerning him is of any importance."
"You could drop by Scotland Yard, later, anyway," she encourages like a mother with a lazy son. "What's the point in lying for you if I can't even get rid of you for half an hour?" she whines sarcastically.
Sherlock stands up without a word and looks out the window, lost in thought. After a while, he breaks the silence, "You were wrong."
Giulia tilts her head, "About what?"
"Me. I don't dislike most of the humankind; sometimes I simply don't seem to understand it... As if I wasn't part of it."
He reflects on it for an instant. He is different from anyone else, always has been. 'Different': that's a peculiar word. It comes from the Latin term 'differre', literally meaning 'carrying away'. Maybe that's why he feels different: his humanity was taken away from him long ago, in a time he cannot remember.
"Fine. And what species do you think you belong to, then? What would you rather be if not a man?" she asks fascinated.
"A shark," he replies in a gloomy tone. "Sharks can never stop. Either they constantly move or they die." He walks to the coat rack and wears his coat: move or die.
"Where are you going?" she flashes him a bright smile.
He rolls up his eyes trying his scarf around his neck, "Scotland Yard. I'm not doing that for Anderson, by the way," he hastens to clarify. "I'm just bored, and I want to check if Lestrade has a new case for me."
"If he had one, he would have called you," she points out teasing him.
"Stop smiling or the next case the police will have to solve will be the mysterious disappearance of my flatmate," he smirks. He gives her one last look before running down the stairs. As if the mystery surrounding her story wasn't already complex enough.
New Scotland Yard
As soon as Sherlock steps through the glass doors of New Scotland Yard, Sergeant Donovan walks up to him inquiring, "Why are you here, Freak?"
He wrinkles his nose at that name and fakes a smile, "Oh, hello Sally! I am here because... hold on a second, this is none of your business, so back off!"
"This is a public building and you cannot be here without express consent. So give me one reason why I shouldn't call security now," she confronts him putting her hands on her hips
"Because I need to see a person who explicitly asked for my assistance."
"I don't remember doing such a thing, not this week, at least," Lestrade intervenes walking to the bickering couple.
"Indeed," Sherlock remarks nonchalantly.
"Who are you looking for, then?" the D.I. asks like a teacher in front of a stubborn student.
"Anderson."
"Anderson? Listen, Sherlock, you cannot just come in here and go after him."
The detective sneers, "After him? You got that wrong, inspector - not a surprise, might I add. As much as I would like to punch him every time he simply breathes in, I am not here to start a fight."
"What a relief! By the way, I didn't count on you to show up," Anderson's nasal voice echoes in the hall as he emerges from one of the corridors and approaches the small group.
"So this is true? Did you really ask for his help?" Sally questions bewildered.
He simply nods as Lestrade is shocked by that revelation, "Why?"
"I was on forensics on a case of murder..."
"Cut to chase, Anderson. Do you need me to track down the killer?" Sherlock starts to lose his temper.
"No. We already have him in custody."
"But?" the detective has spotted a crack in his tone.
"But he is not talking. He won't confess to the murder."
"It's not your job to get him to talk, Anderson," Greg intervenes.
"And I'm sure any police officer could do that in the interrogation room," Donovan adds haughtily.
"Not with this boy," Anderson contradicts her.
"Why? What's so special about him?" Sherlock's interest in the case begins to rise.
Anderson gives him an ironic smile, "He is just like you."
Five minutes later, the group of people is standing behind the one-way glass through which they can look into the adjacent interrogation room where a boy is sitting behind a metal table.
"Let me get this straight; you've just arrested this boy on charges of murder based on circumstantial evidence?" Sherlock bursts out, disconcerted.
"It's not circumstantial. The police found him bent over the victim's body: Elisa Therton," Anderson begins justifying, but Sherlock interrupts him, "According to what you've reported, Elisa was his mother: of course, he was on her body. Empathy might not be my strong point, but I think I can figure out how human emotions work, to a certain extent. What else would you expect him to do, being completely indifferent to her corpse?"
"Honestly, yes, but I'll explain why later. Anyway, we found the murder weapon in the house. The bullet inside the victim's chest matches the calibre of the gun. We don't even have to run ballistics on it; it's crystal clear."
"The killer might have used it to shoot the woman and left it behind not to arise suspicion," Sherlock hypothesises remaining unfazed.
"The gun is a property of the family, legally registered; it belonged to the father."
The detective's head jerks up, "Belonged?"
"The boy's father (and husband of the victim) died six years ago."
"So you took a wild guess and supposed that this teenage boy had the same flair for firearms as his old man and consequently used his father's gun to kill his mother? Anderson, every time you open your mouth, you inadvertently challenge Darwin's theory of evolution and the survival of the fittest."
Anderson flares his nostrils, livid, "Look, Holmes, I didn't come to you to collect feedback on my work. It's not a mere conjecture: the boy had gunpowder traces on him: we ran tests on his hands and clothes. Moreover, we found this towel soaked with blood hidden inside his wardrobe."
He hands to him a plastic bag containing a stained-red towel. Sherlock gives it a closer look, then asks, "Did you test it to verify that it is the victim's blood?"
"The lab is doing it as we speak. Whose else could it be?"
The detective sighs heavily and looks beyond the glass, staring at the boy; he must admit that the evidence is all against him. "Does he have an alibi?" he inquires after a few seconds.
"He said he was hunting in the woods," Anderson explains distrustfully.
Sherlock furrows his brow, "Woods? Hold on a second, where did this murder happen?"
Anderson barely whispers his answer, "In a small town in the countryside, not far from London."
"And why would you be on forensics on a case outside the city?" Sherlock widens his eyes at him, confused.
Philip keeps his eyes down and murmurs, "Because that's where I was born. I grew up in that town, and when I heard about the tragedy, I rushed there to see what happened. My family knew both Elisa and her deceased husband. I just want to find out the truth."
Sherlock gives him a sarcastic look, "Does it include making it up?"
"Enough!" Lestrade intervenes with an exhausted tone. "Sherlock, I'm sure that if Anderson came to you for consultation, he had a good reason to."
"His only reason is despair. He knows that he doesn't have a solid manslaughter case against that boy and according to the law, you can only hold a murder suspect in custody up to 96 hours, then you'll have to release him."
Lestrade gives him an exasperated look, "Will you help or not?"
"I will. But before I question him, I need to know: what did you mean when you said he is just like me?" he addresses Anderson who smirks and replies, "He is a sociopath."
Sherlock seems taken aback for a moment, then he raises a brow and comments ironically, "Let me guess; this is also his motive, isn't it? He is a sociopath, so he must have killed his mother, right? Is that why you wanted my help? You need me to make him talk because you think I am some sort of kindred spirit," he spits out through gritted teeth.
"Nobody got a single word out of him, except for his convenient alibi," he shrugs.
"Fine, but I want to talk to him alone."
"Sherlock, do I have to remind you that you're not actually a police officer?" Lestrade scowls at him.
"And do I have to remind you, Detective Inspector, that I am apparently your best chance to solve a case that you had no jurisdiction over and that your forensics officer claimed for himself?"
Lestrade sighs, then concedes, "You have five minutes."
Sherlock steps into the interrogation room and sits at the table across from the boy. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he announces, then looks at the personal report Anderson gave him and reads the boy's name out loud, "Isaac, care to share anything with me?"
The teenager doesn't raise his gaze on his interlocutor and bluntly replies, "I'm against new people."
A corner of Sherlock's mouth bends in a smirk and he nods, "I can relate. Let's make it quick, then. I heard you don't talk to cops".
"There's nothing relevant I have to tell them."
"Good, so you're talking to me now," he grins at the one-way mirror knowing that behind the glass, everyone is watching them.
"You said it: I don't talk to cops," Isaac snaps back.
Sherlock tilts his head, intrigued, "How did you know I wasn't one of them?"
"From the way you behave. Every officer that entered this room before you wanted something from me."
Oh, this is getting rather interesting, Sherlock thinks. "And what makes you think I don't?"
"Oh, I'm sure you do. The point is you are the first person who is not asking anything."
"I can gather information in a different way," he explains relaxing his back against the seatback.
"And I guess that's why you've been observing me since the moment you stepped in. What do you have so far?" the boy finally looks into his eyes. He doesn't look terrified; there's no fear on his features, just melancholic fatigue.
Sherlock stares at him and shrugs, "A clever boy and a rather interesting conversation."
"Why are you here?" Isaac asks.
"Because I'm bored. Why are you here?"
"Because my mum was murdered and your friends think I did it."
'Friends' is a strong word. "And they will most definitely send you to jail for a very long time unless you are proven innocent."
"Is that what you are trying to do?" the boy queries.
"As much as I would like to prove them wrong, I'm just interested in solving a case, that's it. So, where were you between 9 and 10, this morning?"
"I already told them: I was hunting."
"Yeah, in the woods. A nice little place not quite crowded with witnesses. Nobody can corroborate your story," Sherlock points out. Isaac remains silent.
"Is this towel yours?" he tries again placing the plastic bag on the table. The boy steals a glance at it and suppresses a shiver. "Yes."
"Why is it dripping blood?"
He doesn't reply; silence is his shield. Sherlock sighs at his obstinate mutism. "Isaac, if this is related to your mother's death..."
"It's not!" he interrupts the detective. "It is not her blood. You can test it if you want."
"We are. But you could help me save precious time."
Isaac makes eye contact with him only for an instant, then looks away without a word.
Sherlock shakes his head, disappointed, "Why the hard way?"
The boy glances at him once more, "Who says this is the hard way?"
The detective stares back and clenches a fist under the table; this boy is more challenging than he thought, but he has no intention to give up. He tries to regain control of the situation and says casually, "Let's change the subject, tell me about your father."
Isaac frowns in surprise, "What do you want to know?"
"I'll be honest: I'm completely in the dark about him. I've only been told that he died six years ago, so feel free to tell me whatever you want," he sits back on his chair and nonchalantly puts his feet on the metal table, waiting for a story.
"He was a decent man, or so I believe. I was just nine when he died," he replies evasively crossing his arms.
"Were you two close?" Sherlock's voice resonates slightly softer.
"I guess so. He used to tell me bedtime stories, mostly pirates' adventures. I've always had troubles sleeping."
Sherlock holds back a smile at that mention and for half a second his mind flies back in time, lost among his childhood memories full of cocked hats and imaginary vessels. Pirates stories were his favourites, too.
"Time's up, Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice crackles from the speakers, bringing him back to reality and causing him to sit back straight. The detective turns to the mirror and firmly states, "Just two more minutes." He suddenly whips around without giving Greg the time to protest, and he hunches over the table looking intently at the teenager, "Isaac, what happened to your father? How did he die?"
The boy sighs. A blank look in his eyes signals he is not even in the room anymore; his mind is distant, six years back in the past, miles away from Scotland Yard. He starts recounting, "One night he went out in the woods and never came back. It wasn't that unusual; sometimes he went for a solitary walk in the forest, alone at night: it was his happy place. But that time he completely disappeared. The police discovered a pool of his blood at the foot of a tree and signs of struggle all around the area, but nothing more: no traces on the ground, no indication of what had happened. His body was never found."
"This sounds like something you were told, a police report. I want to hear your side of the story: what do you remember of that night? You said you've always had troubles sleeping: were you awake when he got out of the house?"
"I - I don't know," he mumbles biting his lips scared, haunted by ghosts.
"Focus, focus!" Sherlock insists slamming a hand on the metal table and making him jump in his seat.
"Sherlock, enough!" Lestrade warns from the speakers.
"Isaac, if you remember something, anything at all, you have to tell me," the detective adds in a seemingly pleading tone.
The boy squints his eyes and buries his head in his hands, "I had a dream that night. I dreamed that I was looking out the window and I saw a man coming out of the forest. He was wearing a grey coverall."
Sherlock straightens up raising a brow at that answer, "Was it your father?"
"I didn't see his face in my dream. That's it. I don't even know what it means," he lifts his watery eyes on him and Sherlock is invaded by a weird sensation. Is it pity? Compassion?
He adjusts his coat collar up, "It was probably a figment of your imagination, but it was worth a try." He turns to speak in the direction of the one-way mirror, "I'm done here. Now I need to go to the crime scene, but I have to stop by my apartment, first."
221B Baker Street
When Sherlock enters the flat, Giulia is studying in the living room. She lifts her head from the books and inquires, "Was it a good idea, going to Scotland Yard?"
"A terrible idea, but a rather intriguing case. I'm going to the crime scene, would you be interested?" he asks almost without thought. Considering everything that happened to her ever since she started tagging along with the eccentric Baker Street duo, maybe that isn't the brightest idea. Still, for some unknown reason, he wouldn't mind her company.
"I would, but unfortunately, I can't. I got exams the day after tomorrow and I have 200 pages to..."
Sherlock raises a hand in the air to stop her rambling, "A simple 'no' would have sufficed. John? Are you coming?"
The doctor comes out of the kitchen sipping tea. "Where?"
"Countryside. Crime scene," he replies telegraphically.
"I had no better plans, anyway. It's a yes for me," the doctor puts down his mug and takes his jacket from the coat rack.
Giulia waves at them, "See you later. Happy hunting!"