CHAPTER 54: REWRITING HISTORY
They are so focused on staring at the black screen with bated breath that they don't realise that Moriarty's face has reappeared on the other monitor. Only when he starts clapping loudly, their heads simultaneously whip around and goggle at his gleeful sneer.
"Congratulations! You got that right," he gives them a complimenting nod.
John flies into a rage, barking, "What happened to Greg? Show us!"
At that moment, the second screen powers on once again, showing a disoriented Greg, coughing spasmodically and wrinkling his nose. He is still in a fugue state, but he seems to be reacting more actively to his surroundings. The three people in the room sigh in relief.
"He is alive and well, thanks to you. I simply opened the window in his room. The air was starting to get heavy," Jim jokes.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at him, struggling to control his mounting fury, "Were you really going to kill him with laughing gas?"
The Irish criminal shrugs, "Not as effective as a bullet, but you've gotta admit that's funnier," he comments with a sarcastic smirk. "Now, please proceed to the door and down the corridor: you will find another room waiting for you." His words are followed by the click of the automatic lock and the door springs open.
The doctor looks viciously at the screen, without moving, "What makes you think that we feel like playing anymore?"
Jim looks down on him, a sparkle of cruelty shoots across his dark eyes, "After seeing what my 'incentives' consist of, do you really think that you are in a bargaining position, Doctor Watson?" He cocks a sarcastic brow. "You remember the men that were chasing after you in the parking lot, don't you? I'm afraid you're going to meet them again, but don't worry: they are not authorised to harm you... unless you unwisely choose to defy me and try a daring escape," he fakes a yawn, before explaining, "I have positioned them along the corridors of the theatre: there's nowhere to go. But I'm sure I won't need to use such brutish ways with you. After all, Sherlock would never leave the game. He is so convinced that he can beat me that he will go all the way."
John turns towards his friend and shoots his a concerned look, whispering, "Sherlock, this has already gone too far. How are we gonna get out of this?"
The detective clears his throat in an attempt to buy some time to gather his ideas. "We obviously can't rely on the police; we've just freed Lestrade, and Donovan and Anderson just don't care about me at all. If I were to go missing, they'd wait a month before starting a search," he whispers back ironically, masking the hopelessness of the situation.
John sighs frustrated and presses him, "What about your brother, then?"
The detective fishes his phone out of the pocket of his coat, and his lips twitch anxiously at the sight of an empty screen: no signal. "I contacted him before getting here, but I don't know if he got my messages. Since we stepped into the theatre, my phone lost any connection to the outside world," he announces flatly. He is trying to hide his anguish behind his infamous icy façade, but he is not certain how much longer he can keep it up.
"So did mine," Giulia confirms in a squeaky voice. She hates that she sounds so terrified. All her life she has been taught to keep her composure and cool head, to face difficulties with determination and calmness. Yet, no etiquette lessons nor training has ever prepared her for the visceral fear that this maniac criminal is instilling in her. The most petrifying aspect of that lethal game – she reflects, is not knowing what further horrors wait next. With Moriarty as the puppetmaster, is there a line that cannot be crossed?
"He must be jamming the signal," the detective concludes.
"We will have to think about an alternative way to get free, then" the doctor pronounces, stepping reluctantly out of the room.
Sherlock raises a brow at him, "What do you think I've been trying to do ever since we got into this bloody theatre?"
John stops abruptly in the corridor and turns around to face him, a granitic gaze in his eyes, "Honestly? I'm not sure if you're staying because you're held at gunpoint or simply because you want to."
Holmes gapes at his harsh accusation before rolling up his eyes in annoyance, "Oh, please. You aren't going to listen to Moriarty, are you? He is playing with your head, John," he raises his voice.
One of the armed men standing in the corridor as per Jim's instructions motions menacingly at them with his rifle, signalling to keep walking. John grunts and steps forward, replying cuttingly, "Mine or yours? I'm starting to think that he might be half right. You are curious and crazy enough to want to play this game. You are always eager to find out if you can measure up to him."
It takes Sherlock all his self-control not to start shouting at his friend: how can he be so blind and obtuse?
"That's not a game anymore. Solving intricate murders was fine. Racking my brain to solve the conundrum of the tenor's homicide was a blast. Playing cat and mouse in the parking lot while solving brainteasers was Christmas, I'll give you that, but all of this has stopped being amusing a long time ago," he rebuts.
When they get in front of an open door at the end of the corridor, he comes to a halt and grips at John's arm, forcing him to turn around and look him in the eyes. His words come out more scathing than intended, "Just so I know, do you think that I enjoyed myself in that room, fighting for Lestrade's life? What kind of a monster do you believe I am?"
His firm voice almost falters on that hideous word: monster. He has been given many names over the years: freak, psychopath, madman. Yet all those nicknames are always used to qualify a human being. But a monster... that's a creature of completely different nature. And it makes him inexplicably sad.
John stares back and slowly shakes his head, "I don't believe anything. I know you like the back of my hand, and I just know that you get off on it; it's what keeps the blood pumping in your veins."
The detective arches a mocking brow, "It's what keeps your blood pumping, too."
"Yes, but not when there are human lives at stake. Look me in the eye, and in all honesty try to deny that when you positioned the third roller completing the code, a part of you wasn't thinking about Lestrade. You were just curious to know if you got the combination right."
Sherlock clenches his fists and steps forward, coming menacingly close until he is towering over his friend. An offended look blazes in his eyes, but he keeps quiet.
John shows his tight-lipped, livid smile, "Don't bother answering that. It doesn't matter anymore. Congrats, you won the first round," he walks away, but stops for an instant, "Oh, I almost forgot, you also got a bonus: your friend is still alive," he finishes in a deprecating tone, walking to the door.
Moriarty's voice booms through the speakers, "Look at that; troubles in Heaven. Please proceed to the second room: I want to be able to witness you fight. This is getting intriguing."
Sherlock remains frozen in the corridor, puzzled. He can't understand why John is so furious at him. He solved the riddle and saved Lestrade, after all. Was he supposed to do it differently? Was he expecting him to snivel pathetically and beg Moriarty to spare the Inspector's life, instead? What is the doctor reproaching him?
Giulia is about to walk past him to get entry when he leans in to murmur in her ear, "What's gotten into him?"
She glances at John through the open door, then flashes an empathetic smile to Sherlock, "Give him a break. The last half an hour hasn't been easy for anyone."
"Agreed, but you aren't here lecturing me on my absence of PDA," he remarks but stops immediately and tilts his head slightly, with an inquisitive look on his face, "Are you?"
She exhales deeply, "No. I'm just trying to point out that having someone dear in the crosshairs added an unexpected toll to the game. Maybe John just wasn't ready for that emotional involvement." God knows she wasn't, she mentally adds.
She is about to turn around to enter the room, but he places a hand on her left shoulder, stopping her and making her turn around. "Don't you get it? That's precisely Moriarty's plan. We should keep a cool head at all times."
She presses her lips together and squints at him as if she was looking for something. "And it's scary to see how easy it comes to you. Sometimes I truly wonder how you can keep yourself so... distant," she hesitates on the last word, lifting her eyes to meet his.
He eludes her gaze, and stares into the void, murmuring, "It's a survival strategy. Moriarty hopes to mislead me, distract me."
She instinctively places her right hand on his still resting on her shoulder, and gives it a tender squeeze, looking for his eyes, "Sherlock, caring about your friends' fate isn't a distraction."
He stares right back at her when he spells out, "To me, it is."
Their eyes lock for a second as they study one another. It is clear that neither of them is talking about that specific situation. Giulia cares; she has always cared about everything and everyone, and that's the reason why she is right there, right now. She came with him and for him, and she'll stay by his side all the way until the end. On the other hand, Sherlock is apparently there for the very opposite reason: he is careless of all the lethal danger.
She turns around silently and is about to step into the next room when his warning reaches her ears as the warm breath of his whisper seems to caress her neck. "Don't lose your cool head."
She stands still and doesn't turn, this time; as she keeps staring ahead, she whispers back, "Don't lose your human side."
Even if she can't see his reaction, he frowns at her comment and rolls his eyes, seemingly outraged. Yet, Giulia can peek beyond his façade; she knows that he is moved by something else than mere logic. She can see it; she has seen it on many occasions already. She knows that he is much more human than he'd be ready to admit.
As soon as they get into the second room, Sherlock immediately assesses his surrounding. The room is as spare as the first one, and just like the previous space, there are screens on the wall – one to the right and another in front of them. The main difference is the presence of three levers on the opposite wall, right under one of the turned-off monitors. He scrutinises that contraption; at the top of each of the three sticks, there is the shape of a miniature weapon: a gun, a dagger, and a grenade. He doesn't know what it means, but it does not bode well.
Unlike him, his friends' attention is drawn to the centre of the room, where yet another marble figurine is placed on the floor. The delicate woman is holding an open parchment scroll in one hand, and a set of tablets in the other. Giulia studies it briefly, before affirming, "That should be Clio, the Muse of history."
Sherlock nods at her as the right-hand screen powers on, and Moriarty smiles proudly at the girl. "Remarkable knowledge of Greek mythology, Miss Giulia. I, on the contrary, have always been quite fond of history when I was a boy."
John scoffs, "Let me guess; you hoped you would go down in history as the greatest criminal ever?"
Jim looks at him with genuine curiosity. "You make it sound like an insult, but isn't it the highest achievement that a human being can ever wish for: being remembered?"
"But at what cost?" Giulia bursts out.
Moriarty drives his eyes on her horrified face and bares his teeth in a sinister grin, "Any cost. You could be an absolute angel but never accomplished anything extraordinary, while I could be the greatest dictator of all time. Still, history will only remember one of us – the one who stood out, no matter why. Being remembered, that's all that counts."
"Being remembered..." John repeats after him, faking deep contemplation. "To make it more meaningful, you should die, first. I can help you with that," he glares at him.
"You are right, Doctor Watson. Death is the key. In the end, history is just a long account of the dead," he makes a pause to ponder an idea, then he smirks, "It's funny; people usually dream of spring weddings. I think I'd rather settle for a spring funeral. Wouldn't it be poetic? Dying right when nature is coming back to life."
"Don't count on me to bring freshly blossomed flowers to your grave," John clenches his jaw, struggling to control his anger.
Jim smiles at him, as always unperturbed. "Luckily, you won't need compassion right now, but I do hope that you have good historical memory for this round."
At his words, Sherlock's head springs up, "What do we have to do?"
"Someone's eager to play," Moriarty rubs his hands together in anticipation. "Very well, I think I can accommodate your wishes."
The other monitor in the room switches on with a click, displaying a distressed woman whose desperate cries for help are silenced by the absence of audio. They stare at her in horror, immediately recognising the next victim: it's pathologist Molly Hooper. She is shown from the waist up: she is tied to a pole. She is trying to wriggle free convulsively, getting more scared with each jerky movement.
Sherlock has turned into a pillar of salt on the verge of crumbling down. He can't keep his eyes off that sickening spectacle as he draws short breaths. He grinds his teeth, angry at himself for not being able to shake off that irrational feeling of anxiety. He turns away from the screen and takes a deep breath to steady his nerves, then fixes his eyes in the ones of his nemesis. His voice resounds deeper than usual as he asks, "Why Molly? What is her connection to history?"
Jim's expression softens into an almost commiserating smirk, "You don't get it, do you? I chose Molly for this round because history never changes for her. Every day she wakes up hoping that a case will draw you to her morgue, daydreaming that you will finally look at her with new eyes and realise how much she cares for you. She wishes that one day you will care for her too, even though deep down she knows that it will never happen. So she is doomed to relive the same anguish day in day out. History repeats itself."
Giulia listens to the explanation, dumbfounded. She doesn't know Molly too well. She only asked for her expertise and help once, when they analysed together Sherlock's possessions to look for drugs, many months before. Then Molly came to Baker Street to celebrate Christmas Eve, and finally, they met again in the morgue of St Barth's just a couple of days ago for the autopsy of the nun, at the beginning of that roller coaster of mysteries. At that moment, she realises that they have never truly had a proper chat.
She whispers to John, "What is Moriarty talking about? Is Molly into Sherlock?"
John arches his brow in an eloquent grimace, "I'm not Cupid, but even a blind person would see that she has feelings for this emotionless machine," he points at Holmes, "He never acknowledged it, though, and she was never really vocal about it."
The girl frowns and lowers her voice, "So he doesn't have a clue?"
The doctor shrugs, "Or he simply doesn't care. Who knows?"
Giulia turns again towards the monitor showing the panic-stricken pathologist. Even though the two of them have apparently fallen for the same, unemotional man, she cannot bring herself to be jealous of Molly. The truth is she pities her and her unrequited feelings. Most of all, she sympathises with her. Whenever Sherlock tried to keep her at bay, he hurt her deeply. She never admitted it, not even to herself, but Sherlock's indifference has been one of her greatest fears lately.
"You have already crushed her heart. Now the question is: would her loss at least chip yours? Are you ready to play with her life?" Jim declares ominously.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at him until they are nothing more than two slits, "I swear if you harm her..." he hisses through gritted teeth.
The criminal mastermind lifts one hand to his chest, putting up the most inculpable expression he is capable of. "Me? I'm not the one doing the hurting. Look at her, Sherlock."
The detective steals a glance at the monitor and finds himself unable to look away. Jim's words push him to stare at that tormented woman, "I bet that you've never truly noticed her before. Interesting: the man who always observes everything is the most unaware of the people around him. Oh, dear Sherlock, you're the one who's been hurting her for the longest time. Your indifference has been killing her. In her little lab, she is always so desperate for your attention. Well, I guess she has your undivided attention, now," he alludes as a cruel smile creeps on his lips.
"What's the threat against her life? Are we supposed to guess it again?" John takes the reigns of the discussion since the detective doesn't appear to be thinking lucidly, at the moment.
"Of course. It is significantly easier, this time: after all, history has never been kind to women. And Doctor Hooper would have made for the perfect victim of misogynistic mistrust, in other times. With her extensive knowledge of medicine, her retired life at the margin of society, unmarried, socially awkward, she would have been called..."
John considers those remarks for a couple of seconds, and before anyone else can react, all colour drains from his face as a single word escapes his lips, "Witch."
Sherlock and Giulia turn their head toward him in sync, and he raises his index finger to point at the screen, mumbling, "She is not simply tied to a pole. She is standing on a stake."
"Excellent deduction, Doctor Watson." Moriarty compliments him and widens the frame of the camera to show Molly standing on a pyre of hay and deadwood. A burning torch, positioned only a few feet away, is being mechanically lowered towards the bonfire. It gets closer and closer each passing second.
Sherlock tries to convince himself that all the chills down his spine are nothing more than a figment of his imagination. He strives to regain his composure. "Earlier, you said that death is the key, so I'm assuming that it was a hint for the next riddle that we must solve. And as fire is clearly the threat against Molly, I guess that the weapons symbolised by those three levers are supposed to refer to someone else's death, then," he argues dispassionately, nodding at the machine on the wall.
"Correct, but whose death, Sherlock?" Jim teases him. "This is what you have to find out. When you've made up your mind, you pull the lever."
Holmes lowers his eyes on the levers, imagining all the different scenarios. He gives voice to his worst nightmare, "And if it's not the right choice, the torch won't stop and will fall onto the pyre, lighting it up."
Moriarty nods smugly. "I see that the rules are clear. You have ten minutes. You'd better start reasoning; things are heating up rapidly," and with one last predatory grin, his face starts fading out.
"Wait!" Sherlock shouts, a note of despair taints his baritonal voice. Giulia raises a brow at him; she has never heard such an urgent tone in his voice, not even in the direst situations (of which there have been quite a few, over the past months).
"Wait," he repeats stepping toward the monitor, where the outline of Moriarty's appearance is getting more defined again. "I imagine that the main clue is probably an important historical figure, and we have to find out who that person is and how they died, but you haven't given us any information. How are we supposed to identify the right person and connect them to one of the levers?" he protests fervently.
Jim tilts his head, almost confused at the scene, "Mr Holmes, did something get you distracted? I gave you some hints, already. But fine," he concedes. "I'll provide you with some more clues. We are dealing with a man quite obsessed with Germany. He was the leader of the armed forces and was so ambitious that he even tried to conquer Britain. I'd say that we could almost consider him as an emperor. Quite the historical character… but who are we talking about? You have seven minutes."
"Seven? You said we had ten," John objects. Even if Sherlock has known Molly the longest, she is his friend, too.
"Yes, but it was before Sherlock asked for extra help. I don't grant anything for free. Six minutes and fifty seconds to go. Tick tock..." Jim's voice dies out while the monitor switches off. They stare in horror at the burning torch speeding up its descent towards the pyre.
The detective turns his back to the distracting scene and looks at his flatmates. "We don't even have to discuss it, do we?"
John cocks an interrogative brow, and Holmes grunts, "Alright, I admit that without those additional sentences, the guess would have been entirely arbitrary. However, after Moriarty's extra clues, there should be no doubt whatsoever. It's plainly obvious that the man in question is Adolf Hitler."
"Nothing is ever obvious in this game," the doctor argues. At his words, Giulia's eyes widen in realisation and she comments, "Hitler is a reasonable option, but..."
"It makes perfect sense," Sherlock remarks, talking over her. "First hint: a man obsessed with Germany, check."
As he speaks, he casts a glance at the screen with Molly. His gaze focuses on Molly's terrified eyes glued on the burning torch. He'd swear to see the fluttering flame reflected in her pupils. Or is his mind playing tricks on him?
"Moriarty said something about being the leader of the armed forces," John recalls. After a five-seconds silence, he turns to his unresponsive friend. "Are you listening to me?"
Sherlock averts his gaze, striving to focus on John's words. "Erm, yes," he regains his original train of thought. "After becoming Chancellor and head of the State, Hitler appointed himself both Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces and Commander in Chief of the Army. Third clue: the ambition to conquer Britain. You are both cultured people; I don't have to dive into a full account of Operation Sea Lion and the Battle of Britain during WW2, right? We need to hurry up," he pronounces stealing another nervous gaze at the screen. Even if he can't hear Molly's screams, he can judge the intensity of her shrieks but the tension in her extended throat, the redness on her cheeks, and the frantic movements of her gaping mouth. He has always been the observant person that notices and registers the slightest details, but right now, he wishes he hadn't just memorised her expression of pure agony.
John follows his gaze and gestures for him to go on, keeping him grounded.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and concludes his reasoning, "Finally, Moriarty said that our person of interest could be considered an emperor. Given that the English translation for 'Reich' is 'Empire', I can see how Hitler's position as the leader of the Third Reich would ideally make him an emperor. Any questions?" he asks rhetorically, taking some steps towards the levers, until he is stopped in his tracks by Giulia's trembling voice, "Actually, yes. How can you be sure? Hitler isn't the only possible match."
He does a double-take. What is she implying? Is she questioning his solution?
He shoots her a sceptical look, "You have a better idea?"
She doesn't flinch, but simply replies, "Julius Caesar."
"I'm afraid I'm not following," John furrows his brow, disoriented.
Giulia calmly explains, "Caesar was obsessed with Germany – or as the Latin called it back then, Germania. He repeatedly engaged in military campaigns against the Germans to expand the territories conquered during the war in Gaul. He was never proclaimed emperor since the Roman empire was officially established only later, but he did hold the title of 'imperator', in the sense of military commander, as it was the usual meaning in his political time. He does comply with all the requirements," she insists.
"I must admit that Giulia's explanation makes perfect sense, too," the doctor rubs his forehead. Why are they constantly running against the clock?
"Sure, she got some history facts right, but come on!" Sherlock exclaims dismissively, "Hitler is obviously the right answer."
Giulia takes a step toward him, frowning, "What if it was too obvious? Look, I agree with you: Hitler ticks all the boxes. But when John said that nothing is ever obvious in this game, I started second-guessing the blatancy of your answer."
"You started second-guessing me," he hisses harshly, and his words echo in the bare room.
She scowls at him, "It's not about you."
"Stop it, you two! There's no time to argue," John interjects, stealing a worried look at the descending torch: it is dangerously close to the pyre. "Moriarty said that he had already given us some clues: let's try to retrace his initial words and see if those unmistakably lead us to one of the two options."
The detective's mind sets rapidly into motion, "When talking about his dreams of glory for the history books, Jim did mention being 'the greatest dictator of all time'. My answer still stands; Hitler, ladies and gentlemen. It's self-explanatory, isn't it?" he argues contemptuously. He doesn't even know why he sounds so defensive, but the minute Giulia presented her alternative, his throat tightened, giving him a choking feeling. He isn't used to being challenged; everyone just trusts him blindly.
Giulia's eyes sparkle upon hearing his explanation. "Dictator…" she murmurs, before adding louder, "If you read that epithet as a Latin noun, it is precisely the title that Caesar assumed: dictator perpetuo, meaning dictator for life."
"Bloody hell," John sighs closing his eyes in defeat. "It doesn't help us. Did he say anything else?" he urges them; his eyes dart from one to the other.
"Spring funeral!" Sherlock and Giulia exclaim at the same time and exchange bewildered looks.
Holmes talks first, "Hitler committed suicide on 30 April 1945 – gunshot to the head. It would make for a spring death or funeral. I'd say that it points to the lever with a gun on top," his prideful smile dies off instantly as a sudden realisation dawns on him. "Although..."
"Although," she takes over, "Same goes for Julius Caesar. He was assassinated on the Ides of March (namely the 15th) in a conspiracy plot in the Senate of Rome, where he was stabbed twenty-three times. I think we should pull the lever with the dagger."
"Technically, it happened a few days before the spring equinox, so I'm not entirely sure we can consider it as..."
"Sherlock!" John's desperate scream snaps him from his futile thoughts. "We don't have time for astronomical considerations. We need a final answer, now. Who is it, Hitler or Caesar?"
He nods as his eyes land once more on the monitor showing Molly; he lingers on her spasmodic movements against the ropes, her mute cries for help, her heartwrenching eyes. He bites down on his lower lip and steps forward resolutely, "I am sure of my answer. It makes the most sense. I stand by my view that Hitler is the solution to this riddle. I'm pulling the gun-shaped lever," he affirms placing his hand on the tool and taking a deep breath.
Moriarty's face appears on the screen, his face even bigger as he leans forward to better contemplate the scene. "Are you certain, Sherlock? Are you really so confident of your abilities or are you simply unable to accept that a woman could warn you and provide a different answer? Can history be rewritten?"
"I am not afraid to be beaten," Sherlock declares, tightening his grasp on the lever. And yet his palm is sweaty, his fingers are quivering. Why is he so hesitant?
"This is not what he just said..." Giulia mutters, widening her eyes as an epiphany clarifies the meaning of their torturer's last comment.
At the very last second, she leaps in the air stretching her arm out; her hand clutches the lever with a dagger on top and yanks it down before Sherlock can lower the stick with the gun.
The impetus of her action flings her forward, and she lands sprawled on the floor, at the foot of a speechless Sherlock. Muffling a groan of pain for her maladroit landing, she raises her apologetic gaze on him and for an instant, she can perceive a shade of betrayal in his gaze. Then, Sherlock turns his neck painfully slow and forces himself to check out Molly's fate. His heart skips a beat when his eyes lock on the flaming torch. Its inexorable descent comes to halt, and the jet of a fire extinguisher intervenes to put it out. It's over. Molly is safe.
Giulia reads the relieved look in his eyes, and she eventually allows herself to watch, too. A sigh of relief empties her lungs, and she begins to stand up, but her wobbly legs fail her. John's prompt intervention prevents her from hitting the floor once again. He springs forward and wraps an arm around her waist for support, helping her onto her feet.
"Are you alright?" he asks concerned.
She nods at him, attempting at a grateful smile.
He frowns as if he was suddenly reminded of something, "In the end, how did you know that yours was the right answer?"
"Moriarty said it," she replies laconically, then she decides to satisfy his curiosity. "Sherlock thought that Jim was taunting him with the possibility that a woman could beat him, but those weren't his exact words. He said 'warned by a woman', and I remembered something from my Latin studies. Legend has it that the night before Caesar's murder, his wife Calpurnia dreamed that she was holding in her arms the dead body of his husband. She tried to warn him in the morning and begged him to stay at home and avoid the Senate. She didn't manage to convince him, though, and we all know how that ended. When Moriarty mentioned the chance to rewrite history, I understood what he truly meant. If a woman's warning was heard, history would be rewritten. It didn't end up in tragedy, this time," she breathes out; her lips still shaking from the adrenaline rush.
"Thank you," John whispers and unexpectedly hugs her. She is taken aback and remains still, her arms along her sides, as he squeezes her lightly, before letting go. "If it weren't for you..." his voice becomes hoarse and he trails off. There is no need to finish the sentence; they all know the meaning of his unsaid words.
"You three have been magnificent," Moriarty applauds from the screen. "I couldn't have dreamed of a better trio to perform this show. I can't wait to see more of you. Chop chop. Off to a new room, now," he encourages them, opening the automatic door.
John doesn't even protest. He knows it's pointless. He braces himself for new torture and goes out into the corridor.
Giulia adjusts her wrinkled dress with a comforting gesture and starts following him. As she passes by Sherlock, his feeble words barely reach her ear. "I don't know what to say."
She stops but doesn't turn in his direction; keeping her eyes fixed on the open door, she snaps back, "There's nothing to be said. Save your breath for the next challenge."
She takes one step forward when she perceives Sherlock's cold hard latching on to her wrist. "Wait, Giulia. I'm sorry, okay?"
Her head whips back. An apology from Sherlock is one of the rarest phenomena on earth.
He clears his throat, biting his tongue, "I'm sorry I didn't trust you. I got cocky; I thought I had all the answers and nearly killed Molly. I should have listened to you, instead."
She scoffs. He got it all wrong. Again. "You don't understand. It has nothing to do with me or you. It's about other people. You were playing with Molly's life on the line. This is what makes me upset: how can you ignore what truly is at stake in this game? We are talking about actual human lives. Why don't you care?" she growls at him.
He doesn't meet her gaze, but bows his head down, "Because when I do, someone is likely to get hurt."
She furrows a brow at him, "I don't get it."
He sighs and stares right into her eyes, "That's what distracted me earlier. I looked at Molly's desperate eyes and I got scared," he rolls up his eyes in self-recrimination. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes – the showoff, got scared. This is why I rushed the solution and blindly believed in the quickest, easiest solution. I wished mine could be the right answer because I wanted to put an end to that horrible challenge. I couldn't bear to see her so frightened and lost. And it affected me. Before entering this room, you asked me how I can always keep my distance, and here's the answer: I have no choice," he throws his arms open in surrender. "It is the only way I can keep a clear head and think straight. Emotions cloud my judgement and expose myself to all sorts of risk and mistakes, as you've just witnessed."
She stares at him for a long moment. "Sherlock, we are all terrified here. But that's the point: you are not alone. I'm not asking you to impulsively follow me because Heavens knows I'm never sure of my own answers. Do you have the slightest idea of how uncertain I was when I lowered that lever? I was taking on myself the responsibility of someone else's life," she raises her voice.
He looks surprised and confused. "Why did you do that if you weren't sure?"
She shrugs, "Because I wasn't listening to my fears but only to my brain. And I realised that mine was indeed the most logical solution, given Moriarty's clues and crazy rules of his game."
She is about to step out, but she turns around on the threshold to face him, murmuring, "For the record, that is something I learned from you."
He stares at her silhouette vanishing in the dark corridor and closes his eyes, tormented by his inner demons. If he behaves too coldly, John will assume that he is a heartless monster; if he gets too carried away with foreign emotions, he runs the risk of having people killed. He feels like Jim is pulling the rug from under his feet.
As he exits the room, his mind is caught up in a grim thought; witnessing his friends in danger and solving riddles on borrowed time is not even the hardest part of that game. What is proving to be unexpectedly challenging is going through it all and staying sane.
Author's note: Dear readers, thank you for your endless patience. I apologise for the long hiatus. I hope to make it up to you with this long update. About that, would you prefer shorter chapters? I am always open to your suggestions about the format of this story.
One more question: as you can see, I'm trying to explore the emotional side of the characters. Do you think that some heartfelt moments sit well with the usual brainy riddles and twists? I can't wait to hear from you.
Your grateful author.
