CHAPTER 30: IT'S ALL ABOUT CHEMISTRY
TRIGGER ALERT: mention of self-harm. No graphic nor detailed description, just a mere mention of it, but I thought it'd be fair of me to warn you, dear reader.
Sending love to anybody who's struggling in their lives. If you want to talk, just PM me: I'm always available!
"Why didn't you answer my calls? Where were you? Why doesn't anybody reply when I yell in this flat?"
As soon as Giulia walks into the living room of 221B, she is greeted by the barrage of questions coming from a troubled Sherlock. She rolls her eyes sinking in John's armchair and steals a glance at her watch: it's 7 pm.
"I didn't think you'd be home so early from the crime scene in the countryside, have you already solved the case? Anyways, I came because I found 10 missed calls from you, eventually. What's wrong, then?"
"You'd have known it sooner if you'd answered your phone," the detective snarls.
"For God's sake, I wasn't ignoring you. I simply couldn't answer: I was in the middle my exams, Sherlock; the ones I have been talking about for the entire past week," she grumbles.
He waves a hand in the air dismissively, "I never listen to you when you are complaining."
She snorts, "I wonder why I do, instead. Why didn't you call John if it was so important?"
"Because he went straight to the clinic when we came back, and he never picks up when he is at work," he whines.
"What if something extremely serious happens, as if you were dying?" she asks.
He gives her a condescending look, "If I was dying, John wouldn't be my first call."
"Oh, right. You should call an ambulance first," she logically concludes.
"What? No, the ambulance isn't even on my list," he chortles amused at her simplistic way of thinking.
She tilts her head, puzzled, "Who would you call, then?"
"Scotland Yard, of course."
"The police? When you are on your last breath?" she asks surprised: Sherlock's low opinion of the cops isn't all that subtle.
"Sure. I would tell them exactly who is trying to kill me. With me gone, it would be too difficult for them to solve the case, and I really don't want my murderer to walk away free."
"What a shame! I really hoped I could get away with your murder," she jokes, but at that mention, she notices the nearly imperceptible change in his expression. His eyes dart across the room as if he felt the need to check that there are no dangers around. Does he believe that someone out there is indeed getting away with murder?
"Seriously, though, you are rarely so concerned and vexed. You are even bitter than usual against Lestrade and his men. What's going on?"
He avoids her gaze and replies in a low voice, "This case at hand... something keeps eluding me. I'm sure that the mysteries in that little town are connected, and I am positive that Fred Admiral is the link: he must have killed Adam Therton six years ago and for some reason, he decided that today Elisa deserved to die as well. But I have no hard evidence for the first murder, no real motive for his apparent outburst of rage that led to the second killing, and I'm stuck with an airtight alibi that places him miles away from the crime scene at the time of the murder."
"And what is my role supposed to be in all of this? Why did you phone me ten times?"
Sherlock looks as if he had just been reminded of something, "Oh, right. Where is the key of the top drawer of the cabinet?" he gestures toward the wooden piece of furniture.
That's it? 10 missed calls in the middle of her exams only to have someone to vent out to and fetch him some stupid keys? She sighs and passes a hand over her knackered face. "In the fridge, next to the doorbell. I still wonder how it ended up there, for the record."
"It kept ringing," Sherlock tersely replies. "Who put the key there and why?"
She walks to the kitchen explaining, "John did, thinking that since you hardly ever consume any food, it'd be easier to keep away from you the temptation of opening up the drawer and taking your Browning."
She grabs the key and steps closer to Sherlock placing it on his palm. As he closes his fingers around it, he grazes her hand. The mere touch of her fingers sends a stinging sensation through his fingertips spreading quickly all over his body; a thousand needles seem to pierce his skin at once. He frowns and stares at his own hand trying to process what has just happened. Correction: what has just happened to him, because she doesn't seem to have noticed or felt anything odd, which rules out the possibility that their bodies exchanged a little electrified shock. So why did he feel a burning sensation searing his skin when they touched? Was it just the sharp contrast between her hot skin and the frozen cold key placed in the middle of his hand?
He shakes his head to throw out any unnecessary thought and opens the drawer taking out his gun. Giulia carefully observes his movements; when his fingers wrap around the firearm, a shiver runs down her spine causing her to tremble slightly at that sight. She is still haunted by the dark memories of her attempted murder.
Sherlock notices her attitude and quickly puts it away, locking the drawer again. She is having a hard time processing her post-traumatic syndrome disorder: the last thing she needs is for him to trigger it back again. That's understandable; everyone would be in shock, but he can feel that there is something else in her case. The image of him pointing a gun at her must have awakened a previous, overwhelming trauma. Why can't she just open up to him? He is a sociopath, alright, and she definitely wouldn't get any empathy or compassion from him. But he wants to know... He wants to know her.
She furrows a brow at him, "Why did you need the gun, anyway?"
"I just hoped that by holding a weapon that's familiar to me, it would have become clear why Isaac allegedly decided to kill his mother with his father's handgun instead of his own shotgun. It makes no logical sense to me. Another mystery inside an already mind-boggling case."
"Most people usually get to difficult answers when their mind is busy with something else. You should find a distraction," she suggests.
He snorts, "I refuse to be equalised to 'most people'. Although, I guess I have to find a way to prevent the atrophy of my brain. I'll do some anatomic experiments, and I wouldn't mind having an assistant," he suggestively says marching to the kitchen.
"That's it? You made me rush back home just to hold the magnifying lens for you?" she asks bewildered.
He shrugs with a smirk, "Are you going to help me or not?"
After ten minutes of experiments on several body parts coming from St. Barth's hospital, Giulia drops the tools she was holding for Sherlock and places her hands on the table breathing heavily.
"I think I'm going to faint," she murmurs.
He doesn't even look up from the microscope and replies mechanically, "Nothing to worry about. Just pay attention not to smash your head against sharp edges or blunt objects."
She shoots him a death stare, "Sherlock, you've got to help me."
He finally decides to pay attention to her when he catches an alarmed note in her voice. "What happened?"
"I- I don't know. I guess I've never stared at bloody limbs for so long. The sight of blood seems to affect me; I should have understood it the first time I went to a crime scene with you when I couldn't even enter the room where the corpse was."
"How can you say that you are about to faint?" Sherlock is intrigued by her self-diagnosis.
"It has already happened to me, once. I can recognise the signs: there is a black edge framing my view and narrowing my visual field. Your voice keeps getting further away, and I am covered in a cold sweat," she manages to analyse her own symptoms in between heavy breaths.
He takes her hand and guides her to the living room. Oddly enough, he looks way more uncomfortable than the girl who is on the verge of unconsciousness. It feels weird: his hand holding hers. Does it feel weird? It's not unnatural or anything; it's just that... well, he is not very used to such a gesture. It should be something intimate and comforting, yet his manners are so robotic and awkward.
"Take a seat. Rest your back on the armchair and breathe normally."
"It isn't working. Could you just talk to me, please?" she begs.
"You want me to talk? About what?" he looks confused.
"Anything, as long as you keep my mind distracted," she shuts her eyes massaging her temples with her hands.
"Alright, did you know that Indium - atomic number 49 - is a chemical element used to make touch screens, flat-screen TVs and solar panels? That's because it can conduct electricity and create strong bonds with glass. Its name derives from the bright indigo line in its spectrum."
She keeps her eyes closed and exhales deeply while murmuring, "Interesting. No, I didn't know it."
He steals a glance at her, "Are you feeling any better?"
"Hydrogen," she replies flatly.
"Sorry?"
"Hydrogen is my favourite chemical element," she states in a slightly firmer voice.
He cocks a brow at that peculiar opinion. Do people have favourite elements or is it just one of her quirks? he wonders. "How so?" he asks intrigued.
"It can give both life and death. Have you ever thought about it? Two atoms of hydrogen bound to one atom of oxygen result in a molecule of water: H2O. Water: the foundation of life. And then there's the hydrogen bomb or thermonuclear weapon. We created a weapon of mass destruction out of the very means that generated life. Aren't we obtuse?"
"Yes, most of you are," he chuckles.
She cracks her eyes open and peeps at him, "Do you ever feel like part of humankind?"
"Rarely and mostly from an anthropological point of view," he spits out haughtily, then his voice softens and drops an octave as he asks, "How are you feeling?"
"Better. Thank you," she swallows hard and gives him a grateful smile. "After this, I'm definitely going to put up a notice in the newspaper to find a proper assistant for your experiments," she jokes around, but at those words, something in Sherlock's mind clicks.
Notice in the newspaper. It echoes in his subconscious, setting his brain's gears into motion. All of a sudden, it hits him: the London Gazzette, the paper John caught a glimpse of in Mrs Admiral's purse. When she tripped and knocked over her handbag spilling everything on the ground, John gave him a list of the contents including the London Gazette. But why should it be relevant to the case? An epiphany is on its way but he can't catch up with the realisation just yet.
She shoots a glance at his bewitched expression. "What's wrong? Don't worry, I wasn't seriously suggesting I will liquidate our fruitful business of slashing cadavers open," she mocks him.
"Liquidate... Yes!" he cries out making Giulia jump in the armchair. He powers on John's computer with an ecstatic expression on his face and starts a frantic search on the Internet.
"What are you doing?" the girl hesitantly questions.
"Scrolling through the latest issue of the London Gazzette."
"Never heard of it. Is it a paper for the local news?"
"No, it is the UK's Official Public Record, actually. Mrs Admiral, a clumsy woman from the town of the crime scene, was carrying it in her purse," Sherlock answers typing impossibly fast on the keyboard.
"And how could the Public Record possibly be of any interest to her?" she inquires scratching her head.
"I wondered the same. I found it quite odd, at first, but I disregarded that detail trying to focus on her health conditions. Although, now I can't help but think that if she bought it, it means she was looking for something, expecting to read something involving her. And I think I've just found the answer," he flashes a toothy smile and shows her the screen.
She stares at a notice about the bankruptcy of a Plumber's Company. "I presume that woman is connected to this company. Was she employed there and lost her job due to the liquidation?"
"Way worse than that. She was the owner of the company, she had inherited it. Which means that this morning she got the worst news ever: the imminent liquidation of her father's hard work. When we met her, she was experiencing some sort of drug-induced hallucinations and while looking at John, she thought that she saw her deceased father. By simply paying heed to her ravings, it wasn't too difficult to infer that financial strains were plaguing the company. When she thought she was talking to the ghost of her parent, she apologised profusely and felt guilty for letting her dad down. She affirmed that she was ready to do anything to save the company. What if 'murder' was an option, too?"
"Are you saying that she might be the killer?" she tries to follow his reasoning.
"Maybe, but I still don't have anything to back this theory up. No proof," he sighs in a disheartened tone.
"How can I help?" she instinctively proposes.
His eyes immediately light up. "You did help. Just a few minutes ago your ironic remark sparked an idea in me. Just do me a favour and keep talking: you're helping the stream of my thoughts. Now you are the one who has to do the talking for me. What were you saying earlier? Hydrogen, life, death..." he vaguely gestures to prompt her to pick up on her previous comments.
She laughs and plays around, "Oh, I was just raving, I guess. Hydrogen is indeed my favourite element, but simply because it's the easiest one on the periodic table. Atomic number: 1. Atomic mass: 1. Position: top left. That's all I needed to know. I've never been too keen on chemistry. I always feared to get a chemical reaction wrong and get poisoned with some toxic substance."
At that moment, Sherlock understands what Giulia meant earlier about distractions. His brain was so focused on hunting down nebulous connections that another realisation strikes like thunder, forcing him into his mind palace. Poisoned: she must have been poisoned rather than drunk or high. But how did it happen? And how does this detail connect her to the murder?
He opens a door in his mind palace and he is on the crime scene again. He ignores the corpse in the living room as he feels driven to the garden. When he steps outside, a reproduction of the Therton's dog, the one that was found dead on the grass, runs to him wagging his tail. He squats down to play with it: he would never admit it out loud, but he has always had a soft spot for dogs.
"Hey, buddy, what happened to you? How did you die?" he asks the dog scratching behind his ears. In response, the dog starts biting his cuff. He tries to yank it from its mouth and jokingly scolds it, "You'd better not chew it." He stops dead as he finally connects all the dots. The dog didn't simply die of asphyxiation: it had been eating a poisonous substance. And he knows exactly what that was.
He comes back to reality springing to his feet and shouting, "Toxic! Yes, toxic to the human body, lethal to a dog. Finally, all the pieces fit together." He claps his hands and twirls around the place much to Giulia's amusement.
"What are you talking about? Did she kill a woman and a dog too?" she gets always horrified by how gloomy Sherlock's world is: murderers, psychopaths, lunatics of any kind. And yet, she can't help but feel a slightly morbid attraction to it. It... or him?
"I solved the case. Now I know how everything truly went down," he affirms taking his long coat from the coat rack and urging her, "There is not a minute to lose. We need to hurry up. Martha Admiral's life might be in danger."
Giulia arches a brow at the name he had pronounced a few minutes before, "The crazy woman who mistook John for her dead father?"
"Yes, except that she isn't crazy at all. At the time, I deduced that she must have been high on drugs given her symptoms, but your little joke about chemical elements made me realise that my diagnosis was wrong: she was poisoned."
"Poisoned? My goodness, this is terribly serious, we should call an ambulance and notify the police."
"Yes, in due time," he says standing in the doorway. He stares at Giulia as she hurriedly stands up and fumbles with her coat, scarf and beanie. This isn't a good idea. Deep down he knows that involving her in his life, in his cases has never been a good idea. He should stop her, leave her there, go alone. That would be the wisest thing to do; it's the usual protective instinct he always adopts towards his friends. He threw an American spy out the window multiple times when Mrs Hudson was attacked, for crying out loud. He would do anything to protect his friends.
So why isn't he stopping Giulia? Common sense would suggest to leave her at home, safe and sound.
He pauses for just one second as all of his considerations lead up to one thought: he is not stopping her because he does want her to come. He wants to keep her close. But that is a selfish, hazardous game. If anything was to happen to her...
He prevents himself from finishing that thought: there's no time for that. Still, he cannot hold back one more realisation, something about himself that he hasn't come to terms with yet: among all his noble concerns for the safety of another human being and the risks of living with him, one of the real reasons why he had tried hard to push Giulia away, to cut her out of his life completely wasn't just to protect her... he wanted to protect himself, too.
To a sharp, ice-cold mind like his brother's, that would be considered as 'disadvantage'. But to an insufferably all too human Sherlock Holmes, it is much more than that. It's dangerous.
Giulia frowns at his torn expression, "Why are you staring at me like that?"
He breaks from his pensive contemplation and hisses at her approaching the switch, "Don't turn off the lights!"
"Why?"
"Because your armed bodyguard will definitely want to tag along, and I'm not in the mood for unnecessary passengers," he looks out the window at the man in dark clothes standing in the street. Sherlock strolls across the room, cracks the window open, places a dusty gramophone next to it and puts on a Bach vinyl record.
As the melancholic sound of a violin fills the air resounding in the street below, he simpers, "We'll let him think that we are both at home while we sneak out through one of Mrs Hudson's windows overlooking an alley at the back of this building, where her car is parked."
She smirks at his getaway plan but objects, "If I try to get rid of my bodyguard, Mycroft will go nuts."
He winks at her, "I'm counting on that."
When they jump in Mrs Hudson's car, she looks at him, "Where are we going?"
"Back to the countryside. We need to get to Mrs Admiral as soon as possible, before either her symptoms lessen and eventually disappear, or intensify and lead to her death."
She shivers, "The first case scenario looks positive to me."
"It isn't. I need to verify my hypothesis, I need to check all possible signs of poisoning," he explains darting along the road.
"Check? You never need to check anything. Why are you so insecure?" she asks looking out the window.
"Oh, please, I'm never insecure. But this case has proved to be quite challenging: I thought I had the right answer all along, but could never get the whole picture. All these doubts have had a strange effect on me. The haunting feeling of unease... the impression that I was one step behind the whole time..." he stops his self-pity spiral and casts a glance at Giulia: her head is leaning against the seat, her eyes peacefully closed. Has she dozed off?
"Are you even listening to me?"
She nods slowly keeping her eyes shut. "Yeah, I've had a long day. I just need to rest my eyes for a bit," she replies trying to stifle a yawn, but he notices it.
"It's a long drive. Why don't you sleep a bit? I won't try to wake you up with my monologues, I promise," he hints at a smile.
She opens her eyes and turns to him with a serious expression, "No, I don't want to leave you alone."
He shrugs, "I can survive. I've been alone before, a lot."
She keeps staring at him, "And that's precisely why I won't let it happen again."
He takes his eyes off the road for a second to look back at her. What does she truly think of him? Why is she always by his side, no matter what? Is it just 'Florence Nightingale syndrome'? Is he just a hopeless person for her to save?
He focuses again on the dark streets. "In this case, even though I'm quite obviously not a fan of pop culture, maybe some music will help you stay awake."
She nods and both of them reach for the radio. Their fingers brush against each other before Sherlock could quickly withdraw his hand placing it back on the wheel. That burning sensation again, a heat that spread through his chest up to his cheeks. What is wrong with him?
She throws him a timid smile and fiddles with the commands until she settles for a delicate ballad. She relaxes in her seat and stretches her back.
He steals a glance at her and briskly inquires, "Aren't you tired of it all yet?"
She gives him a quizzical look; he doesn't meet her gaze, but wonders, "How can an apparently rational human being such as yourself bear this lifestyle of ours?"
"Look, Sherlock, all these things that keep happening to us, all the cases, terrorists, violent deaths, my kidnapping... it's exhausting, it's true. But I was never made for an easy life."
"Will you ever tell me more about your life?"
This time Sherlock's eyes are fixed on hers, and she averts the gaze, "I will. When I feel ready to talk about it, I promise I will. In the meantime, why don't you tell me why this case is so important to you? As much as it pains me to say it, this should be just another murder to you. You don't get so excited, usually."
"You don't understand: I don't care about the victim."
"Then why were you going mad?"
"Because of that boy, because of what they are doing to him - the inhabitants of his hometown, Anderson and the other officers. I know for a fact that he has already suffered more than necessary. And I don't just mean the tragic loss of his parents; he suffers from a much deeper, way worse kind of pain... Depression," he murmurs in a breath.
She frowns puzzled, "How do you know?"
"I might seem oblivious to other people's mental issues, but I'm very observant. When I went to the crime scene - his house, I noticed something apparently out of place in his bathroom: he had a razor."
"Isn't it normal? Many men shave in the morning."
"Isaac is fifteen and he has a real kid's face. He won't need a razor for another year at least. And this is why I need to check something. Take the wheel," he carelessly states before fumbling in his pockets to catch his phone.
She leaps to the steering wheel and grasps it striving to keep the car moving ahead in a linear manner, "Sherlock!"
He ignores her panicked voice and makes a call as if that was the most natural thing to do. "Lestrade? Did you get lab results on that bloodstained towel you found in Isaac's wardrobe?" He makes a pause seemingly giving his interlocutor time to reply, but then jumps in, "Don't tell me: it only half-matches Elisa Therton's DNA."
Giulia can distinctly hear a sigh on the other side of the line and a hoarse voice pronouncing, "Should I ask how you know that?"
"Irrelevant. But you got the wrong man. In every possible sense. Send a squad to the Admirals' house. Before you object:
• yes, I am sure this time;
• no, I don't have the time to explain now;
• so yes, you'll have to trust me. Just a leap of faith, Detective Inspector," Sherlock quickly lists before ending the call.
He puts away the phone just in time to regain control of the wheel and guide the car back into its lane.
"What the hell? You can't just let go of the wheel while driving!" Giulia screams at him, and he shrugs.
"What was that about? Whose blood is that?" she inquires passing her hand on her sweaty forehead.
"Isaac's. He cuts himself. Do you get it now, why this case matters? Everyone is treating him like some sort of joke. He's being framed just because he is different. I won't allow this farse any longer, because I know what it means; I'm a sociopath too and I've been an outsider all my life. And let's face it, I didn't exactly turn out the best possible way. Nobody should experience that. I will not let them turn Isaac into a monster."
She gazes at him for a few seconds. There is no pity in her eyes; she isn't staring at a sociopath or a loner. Despite what he thinks of himself, she is just looking at a broken human being.
She whispers, "For what it's worth, I don't think that you are a monster."
She'd swear she saw a glimpse of a smile on his lips. Although, she cannot be sure now. It was just for a second, like a flash, then he straightened his mouth in a flat line, forcing an indifferent expression. It is as if he tried to contain himself, to control the instinctive reaction of his body. He probably does that all the time: his brain must always be in charge. No exterior signs can ever mirror what he hides within.
She glances at him. However, his system is glitchy, he fails to control his eyes. He would have to shut them close to prevent his green-blue irises from revealing his mood, his sensations. She can read his look sometimes, and that is why she is so daunted right now: he keeps his eyes fixed on the road. What is he thinking? Has he realised that she doesn't judge him, never did, never will? Does he even care? Or is he thinking about the case again? Work, just work, incessantly, day and night, only work in his mind. Does he ever think about something else, about someone else? Does he ever think about her?
That last question comes as a surprise to her. Why would she even wonder such a thing? It's impossible, it's absurd. It would be too dangerous for him: that would cloud his judgement, his reasoning process - the thing he lives for. He could never grant anybody such power over his mind. No one will ever reign over his mind palace: that would be his ruin.
And she, on her part, should never even entertain such foolish thoughts. She knows better than that: she must keep the whole world at distance, far away from her heart. She cannot allow herself to give in to any kind of affection. Not anymore. Not after what happened the last time she loved somebody. It killed her in every way possible. She ended up annihilated. She is just learning to piece herself back together again.
She must pull the brakes now, stop whatever it is that she is feeling, stop whatever might be and never should. She should just stop. Love will always destroy her, it will murder her without mercy. She should stop. So why isn't she? Why doesn't she pull away, why can't she stop?
She peeks at Sherlock, and a sudden realisation dawns on her: He will be the death of her.