Chapter 4: Realizations

They were walking down the streets of Cagliano del capo, looking at all the empty houses.

"All those empty houses. Looks like some of them had been built and never finished," Sheila suggested.

"Salento is one of the poorest regions in Italy. The younger generations don't have much of a future here, so they move away. The old people are left behind and if they die, no one thinks of coming back here. It's a shame. Salento is getting more and more a place for tourists and it's kind of sad, because the old traditions like making pasta or sitting in front of the house are fading," Sherlock explained.

"Why aren't they changing?" John wanted to know.

"Well, they try but unfortunately, they were twenty years too late. Most of the young people are already gone." The detective sighed.

The four walked on, staring at the ruins around them. When they finally reached the place, where the festival would take place, both John and Sheila were speechless. The place was decorated with a lot of beautiful lights. The special thing about those lights was that they formed a picture.

"O my god. This is beautiful Sherlock," Sheila whispered.

"Isn't it? People in Italy are celebrating mostly every day. Today it is San Rocco, tomorrow it's the festival of tomatoes… There's always something to be thankful for," the detective informed.

"I am impressed," John admitted, while staring at the lights.

The place was filled with people and a lot of white plastic chairs were in front of a big stage. The four decided it was worth sitting down and when it was 10PM, the bells of the church were starting to play a wonderful melody. Finally, the sounds of the bells silenced and a group of musicians joined the stage.

"Good evening people. It's such a pleasure to be here tonight, celebrating St. Rocco today. We will play the old traditional music, which is typical for our region here. Most of them are songs about love, others are meant for dancing. Hope you like it and now: Have fun and enjoy." The lead singer of the band had informed of this in Italian while Sherlock translated to his friends what had been said.

All at once the music started. The typical drums called Taranta, were the main part of those traditional songs and as soon as the music started, there was movement in the crowd. It was kind of magical, as you automatically had the wish to dance. Sheila stood up and started to clap her hands, turning around in circles. A few minutes later, she and John were dancing right in front of the stage, joining the other people. It didn't matter that they couldn't understand the language. At this moment they were just dancing like the people of Salento.

The concert ended at 11:30PM and was closed with a big fireworks display.

"By the way," Sherlock informed, "This is typical as well. Every night there's are fireworks somewhere."

When they slowly walked back to their car, they met the little chihuahua again. Big, desperate eyes staring at them and Sheila had the feeling she was going to break. She tried to talk to the little dog, tried to get his trust but it was useless. When she tried to get near the poor thing, the dog ran away.

On their way back home, no one was talking. They were driving on the road, when in the distance the fire from two hours ago appeared and when they crossed the scene, the fire had gotten out of control. Now three fields were burning, over 150 trees were left to die.

"Why is no one caring?" Sheila asked, tears running down her face now.

"They do care, but the problem is, while everything here is old school, they don't really have a fire brigade like we do. Their cars are old and there are so many fires that it's impossible to be everywhere. You can say there is one car for ten fires. Same with the hospitals here. Italy has the best doctors in the world and, to be more precisely, the most doctors, too. But not in Salento. Here you can find one doctor in the radius of twenty kilometres and if you are involved in an accident, it can happen that help is coming too late for you. Here in Salento, paramedics are nearly as qualified as doctors and it's not uncommon you find them in the OR, too."

"Well, let's hope we don't have an accident here," John let out.

"I'm sure you could teach them a lot of things," Sherlock replied with a little smile.

They reached their house in Torre Suda at 1 AM and were relieved to finally to be home. Rosie was already sleeping and Sherlock guided her gently to the bedroom.

John was taking a shower, his back rewarding him with a big crescendo of pain. When he had finished, it was obvious that he had cried. Sheila decided not to tease him any further and instead guided him to the bed, where she carefully took care of the blisters. Thankfully, the doctor was fast asleep from exhaustion, snoring peacefully. The young paramedic stepped out of their sleeping room, searching for Sherlock. He was nowhere to be seen, so she stepped out of the front door, sat on the stairs, buried her head and started to sob. A few seconds later, the detective sat right beside her.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked insecurely.

"It's nothing," Sheila replied.

"Well, if it was nothing you wouldn't sit here crying."

"It's just… I don't know how to say it. When you told me about the Maldives of Salento, I thought you were talking about a place like paradise. But this… This is far away from paradise. Does anyone see that?"

Sherlock looked at her with a sad face. He knew exactly, how she felt. "Well, people are seeing it, but they don't care. If you look around, there are hotels everywhere. Those hotels do have their own beaches, so no one sees the truth out there. Tourists only see the bright side of Salento: beautiful clean beaches, nice food, clubs, events, sightseeing tours… Everything is planned in detail, so no one would see the problems behind it. When I was here as a kid, I saw one thing that marked me forever. My grandparents were driving to a supermarket and while we were driving through a village called Alliste, I saw something that changed my life forever."

Sheila looked at him, her eyes red from crying.

The detective let out a deep sigh and then spoke, "We were driving along the street, when we could already see the black smoke in the air. When we reached the village, a whole field was burning. There was only one fireman and the owner of the land. While the fireman was trying to stop the flames with a little water hose, the farmer was standing on the field, trying to stop the flames with a blanket. I will never forget this scene. Next day we were driving by again. The whole field was burned. There was nothing left. Even the wood of the power pole had been burned. This man had lost his existence in a couple of hours. Strange thing is, that even today Alliste is burning mostly every day. I don't know why, but I doubt its always the weather…"

"I feel so sorry for the people. But what makes me even more sad is the fact of how they treat animals here. I mean, how can you abandon your dog?"

"Don't ask me. I am asking myself this question for over thirty years now. I also don't get why people are still using their land as a dump. I mean, they have a very good way of collecting garbage. On Monday they collect normal garbage, on Tuesday they collect plastic, on Wednesday it is glass, Thursday normal garbage again… I don't understand why the Italian people still don't use this offer. I like how they handle garbage here. In Germany, for example, they do have something called 'yellow bag', where they collect everything recyclable. This bag is collected every two weeks, same thing with garbage. You can decide, if the garbage is collected every two weeks or every month. I don't want to imagine the smell in their basements."

The woman wiped away the last of her tears and sighed, "I want to go home Sherlock. This is a place where I don't feel home."

"If you want to go home, we can arrange that. Did you talk to John?"

"No. Not yet. I'm sorry for ruining your plans, but I really can't stay any longer. I… I tried but it's too much to take," she excused.

"I'm sad to hear that you don't feel home here, but I understand your reasons," Sherlock replied calmly.

Sheila looked at him in surprise, "You do?"

"Yes, I do. I had the same problems but I learned to ignore. Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to stay here and believe me: That's not a lie."

"John will be disappointed."

"No, he won't. I'm sure he feels the same," Sherlock whispered.

Now the paramedic looked at Sherlock. "Why are you really here?"

"I'm here because I wanted to forget about the past."

"Your past?" Sheila was irritated.

The detective just nodded. "Since my memories are returning, I am confronted with a lot of forgotten moments and I need to know, what I hardly tried to forget."

"I really hope you will get some answers," she replied while standing up.

"Where are you going," Sherlock wanted to know.

"I'm packing. Rosie and I need to be prepared."

"You're taking Rosie with you?"

"I think it's better for her right now. If you are going to face some demons of your own, I am sure John will need to concentrate a lot," the paramedic sighed and disappeared.

Sherlock was still sitting on the stairs, eyes closed…

"Maria, it's time to go. We're late."

"Just one more minute Salvatore. I will be there in a minute." It was his grandmother, who was standing in front of the broken mirror, her eyes smeared with a mixture of tears and black mascara. He was seven years old, when he had to stay with his grandparents. It wasn't a place he felt like home. His grandfather was very rude and sometimes had the habit of beating his wife.

"Maria, goddammit! Hurry! What takes you so long?" he could hear his grandfather scream from downstairs.

"I'm coming, one more minute." She replied, wiping away the rest of her make-up. When she turned round, she just smiled at him. "It's nothing to worry about, Sherl."

When he opened his eyes, he sighed. He had Italian roots, that he was sure of. His memories had started to return shortly after he had solved the secret of Moriarty and Eurus. He had assumed it was over, but then new memories appeared in his dreams and when he started to dig a little deeper into his locked memories, he recognized that there was more to his trauma than he had been aware of. The trip to Italy wasn't only for recreation, but also for finding out something about his past. When Mycroft was at Ruegen, Sherlock wasn't always allowed to join him. While his parents needed to be with their oldest son, he had to stay with his grandparents in Italy. Why had he forgotten about his grandparents? That's what he wanted to find out. He lifted himself up from the stairs and decided it was time to get some sleep.

The next morning, he awoke to the sound of Sheila and John talking in the living room.

"If you can't stay here, it's okay. I don't blame you. I am confused too but I can't leave Sherlock alone. You know him. Trouble waits for him everywhere."

"John, I know that. And I am glad you're always by his side. Believe me, I would have stayed longer but I really can't handle all those things I saw."

"You should talk to Sherlock and tell him."

"I already did last night and he understands my reasons."

"Please make sure, our little girl is fine," John whispered.

"Of course, you know me. Rosie and I are best friends, aren't we Rosie?"

Sherlock could hear the little girl giggling. The detective decided it was time to get up and when he opened the door, Sheila was already standing there with her suitcase. She didn't look happy at all.

"So, I guess you two already talked to each other?" Sherlock tried to lighten the mood.

The doctor sighed, "As you can see, we did."

"There is a cab for you outside. I already contacted my brother. There is a private jet at the airport of Brindisi waiting."

Sheila tried to smile, "Thank you Sherlock, that means a lot to me."

They stepped outside the house, the cab parking right by the entrance. The young woman secured her suitcase, while John kissed Rosie a little goodbye then closing her door. Sheila hugged him one last time, then stepped into the car and both men sighed while watching her drive away.

"Well, that was a short family vacation," the blogger said while clearing his throat.

Later that day, the blogger had another problem which Sherlock needed to solve. John's back was still full of blisters and the pain was excruciating, so he stepped into the detective's room asking him for help.

Sherlock turned round and stared at the doctor. The older friend knew exactly what Sherlock wanted from him, so he turned round showing his back.

"Jesus John, that really doesn't look good. Maybe we should see a doctor?"

"I am a doctor Sherlock. Just use some of this special burn cream and help me out, will you?"

The detective did as he was told, but felt uncomfortable while touching the doctor's back. John hissed from the immense pain and tried to stay still but it was nearly impossible.

After a few minutes of pure torture, the back was taken care of and both men sighed relieved.

"I'm sorry I hurt you," Sherlock apologized.

"It's not your fault. I was the one staying in the sun without protection."

"Guess we have to stay here for a couple more days," the detective replied.

"And what are we going to do? I mean, we don't have a TV, we don't have any books and we also don't have any games, so what are we supposed to do here?"

Sherlock thought for a minute, then nodded. John was right. They would die from boredom and it was something he didn't want to do.

"You're right. So, here's my idea. We stay here until the sun sets and then we will spend some time at the beach. Deal?"

The blogger nodded in agreement. "Deal."

Both men stood there in the living room, staring at each other in total silence. John was the first to speak. "So, what are we really doing here in Italy? It's not just a vacation, isn't it?"

The detective was surprised. "It's that obvious, is it?"

"I know you, Sherlock. You can't just relax. You would get bored, maybe you already are. So, what are we doing here?"

For a long moment, Sherlock wasn't sure how to tell his friend that he had lied again but then he decided to be honest with his best friend. "I know this sounds crazy, especially when you look at my white skin but I have Italian roots."

Now John burst out in laughter. "You? Italian roots? No way. That's a joke, isn't it?"

"No, it's not. My father's parents lived here."

"Well, why aren't you going to visit them," John asked.

Sherlock sighed, then explained, "My grandmother disappeared and was never found. My grandfather seemed to be an aggressive man but my memories are blurred. I wasn't aware of the fact that I have Italian relatives."

"You shut those memories out, so something terrible happened here, am I right?"

"I'm not sure yet. It all started right after Moriarty's secret was revealed."

"Nightmares again?" John was worried, Sherlock could see his friend's eyebrows rising.

"Kind of. At the moment, everything is very blurred but I hope I will get some of my memories back."

"Well, I hope you get the answers you are searching for."

"The first thing we have to do is find the place where my grandparents lived," the detective replied, while crossing his arms.

"You want to go there," the blogger asked excited.

"I wish I knew where they lived," Sherlock said with a serious tone in his voice.

"Now I understand. You are searching for your past."

"Kind of."

"But why not ask Mycroft? I mean, he's seven years older than you. He should know."

"I don't want to talk to him about that," the detective yelled, scaring the doctor in front of him.

"I don't get it. Why wouldn't you talk to Mycroft?" John couldn't follow.

"Because he never has been here! Not once!" Sherlock was agitated and the blogger recognised, that something must have terrified the detective.

"Jesus, Sherlock. I didn't know that."

"Well now you know. Excuse me, I have to be alone for a while now," the detective said and walked back to his sleeping room, where he closed the door.

John stood there, in the middle of the living room, not knowing how to react. First Sheila, who couldn't stand Salento's misery and now Sherlock, who was acting weird. The doctor walked into his empty sleeping room, sighing, "Why am I still doing this to myself?"

Meanwhile, in another sleeping room, Sherlock was lying on the bed, his eyes closed. He had drifted into his mind palace, searching for any memory that would tell him were his grandparents had lived.

The scene was disturbing. He didn't know why but there was something in the air he didn't like. His grandparents were sitting opposite the little wooden table, not looking up from their plates. He was sitting at the table too, looking at them. His grandfather, Salvatore, had a cold expression on his face, while his grandmother wasn't showing any emotion at all. Sherlock looked at her wrists. The left one was badly bruised and swollen. When did this happen, he asked himself? It was not the first time that he discovered bruises on his grandmother's body, but every time she saw his eyes fixed on her injuries, she just smiled at him and whispered, "It's nothing dear. Just a little scratch. It will heal."

Sherlock always knew she was lying but when he asked his grandmother why she didn't leave her husband, the reply was always the same.

"I am married to this man. If I would leave him, he would be alone and that's not what he deserves. He needs me, Sherlock."

The scene changed and the detective found himself in his former sleeping room. He laid on his back, his hands grabbing for the sheets. Next to him, he could hear his grandfather screaming and his grandmother crying. He didn't know why, but it seemed that nothing his grandmother did was good enough. No one knew how scared he was and he decided it was better to stay silent because he needed to make sure that his grandmother wouldn't be punished because of him.

Again, the scene faded and he found himself now standing in front of the house where his grandparents had lived for a long time, before everything changed drastically…

He shot up from his bed, screaming. Why was he screaming? There was nothing to be scared of…

There was a knock at his door. "Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"Yes. Yes, I am alright John. Just go to bed," the detective replied, while still trying to catch his breath.

"Go to bed? Jesus Sherlock. It's 5PM. I thought you wanted to drive around."

Surprised, the detective looked at his watch. John was right. It wasn't time for bed, but time to go out. He stepped to the door and opened it.

"O my god. What happened to you?"

"Me?" Sherlock asked confused.

"You're soaking wet and you are pale like a ghost. Are you feeling alright?" The blogger really was worried.

"Of course, I'm alright. Just a bad memory."

"Do you want to talk?" John offered.

"Not yet. There are still some things I need to remember first. Just give me a minute to redress."

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in the Mini Cooper, driving around with no real destination.

"So, where are we going tonight?" the blogger wanted to know.

"I don't know for sure. There is a special market in Cutrofiano."

"Cutrofiano?"

"Yes. It's called the pottery town. The market is a special one, where the streets are decorated with all kind of plates, cups and everything else which can be made of clay," the detective explained.

"Sounds interesting," John replied while typing something into his phone. "Over forty minutes of driving. My back will like it."

"Stop complaining John and be a soldier. You had other painful injuries. Shall I help your memory?"

"No thanks. I don't need to hear it," the doctor replied and looked out of his open window.

They were driving all the way in silence. Sherlock knew from previous situations that it was better not to agitate the doctor further, otherwise things could happen that either of them would regret.

When they finally had made it through Aradeo, only ten minutes were left before they would arrive at their destination. John was trying to control the pain from his back. The blisters were still burning and he forced himself not to whimper. He wouldn't give Sherlock the satisfaction.

Finally, after more than forty-five minutes, Cutrofiano appeared in front of them. With nine-thousand people living here, Cutrofiano was one of the bigger cities of Salento. While John was taking in the sight of the city, Sherlock was concentrated on the street, scanning the area for the market. Suddenly, without a warning, the detective hit the brakes hard and stopped. John's head connected with the dashboard, leaving him with a bump on his forehead.

"Jesus Christ Sherlock! What's wrong with you? You can't just stop on a main street!" the doctor yelled at him.

The detective wasn't responding, which concerned the blogger immediately. "Sherlock? What's wrong? What is it?"

But the detective didn't say a word. Instead, he parked the car next to the main street, opened his door and stepped out, his eyes never leaving the building on the other side of the street. Now John stepped out of the car, too, positioning himself next to the tall man.

"Sherlock? Answer me. What's happening?"

"This…house," the detective whispered.

"Yeah, I can see it. What's wrong with it?"

It was like the detective simply couldn't hear him. Sherlock walked over to the traffic lights, his eyes still staring at the house with the number seven. John decided it was better to follow his friend, not sure what was going on right now.

When the detective stood in front of the building, he touched the glass of the entrance-door. The house itself was very run down and John asked himself if someone might be living here. The detective was observing everything, like this place was some kind of wonder of the world.

"Sherlock, I really think you should talk to me. I'm feeling kind of weird by your behaviour," the blogger whispered.

"This house John… It's my grandparent's house."

"You must be kidding me. You haven't been here in over twenty years."

"The detective pointed at the metal ornament on both glass doors, "I remember these special doors. The ornament was unique and I never forgot it. I am sure this is the house! There are some changes, but I recognise it, John. This is where I lived."

Suddenly, the door opened and a man stepped out. "Can I help you?" he asked kind of astounded.

Sherlock stared at the man in front of him, finally regaining his voice. "I am Sherlock Holmes and I am sure this is the house where my grandparents lived a long time ago."

The owner of the house looked at the detective in surprise. "I've heard of Maria and Salvatore. Tragic story."

Now John was the one to interrupt, "Tragic story? You didn't tell me about this part."

"I wanted to tell you, but not now," the detective answered.

Before Sherlock could say another word, the owner of the house decided to tell his version of the story, "Maria and Salvatore were busy people. They had a tobacco field and he was there most of the day. His wife, Maria, stayed at the house most of the time. I didn't see her often but when she was leaving the house, her eyes were always sad. Don't know why. They had everything, a house, a field, money… There was nothing to be sad for. And then, from one day to another, everything changed."

Now John interrupted, "What happened?"

The man looked at both friends and sighed, "Well, Maria disappeared and was never found. Some people blamed Salvatore and unfortunately, we don't have special units here. It's still a problem, but as long as no one cares…"

"So, she disappeared and no one was looking for her?" John couldn't follow.

The man tried to supress an ironic grin, "Of course someone was looking. The whole neighbourhood tried to find her but to no avail."

"She's still missing?" the blogger's eyebrow twitched.

"Si, she was never found," the man replied.

Now John turned to Sherlock, "And what happened to your grandfather?"

"I don't want to talk about it, anymore! Just stop it now!" The detective seemed very disturbed by the things he heard, so John decided it was better to stop here.

Somehow, the Italian man understood that it was time to stop and a smile appeared on his face. "Do you want to come in and take a look?"

John looked at his friend, who was standing there like a statue. "You alright?"

Sherlock nodded and stepped inside the house. He didn't say a word while walking around. Off the entrance there was the kitchen. Left from the kitchen was the bathroom. A very little one but it was enough to get clean. Under the stairs was a washing machine and when he turned to the right, he could already see the living room. When he stepped up the step, he froze. There was still the old closet from his memories. The living room was also connected to the sleeping room. He stepped in and blurred pictures started flooding his brain. He could see the old bed, the broken mirror where his grandmother used to style herself. Then he heard blurred voices which he assumed belonged to his grandfather. More and more pictures appeared in his memories, floating in front of his eyes. And when he reached the point where he became overtaxed, he started to grab his head in his hands, sank to the ground and screamed…