Chapter 7: We'll Cross That Bridge When We Come To It

The police station was like a ghost town. Lights were flickering, an air conditioner was uselessly blowing cooled wind in the office. Sherlock looked around. He had to be fast. There was a little office right next to him. The computer was still on and Sherlock decided it was the best shot he had. In a hurry, he started to look through the last years, trying to store as much information as possible. If there was a missing person, the police for sure would know. He was going through every page and every detail in seconds. One quick glance at his watch told him, that he had seven minutes left before the officers would return. He was aware of the security cameras, so he had calculated every spot, which was not seen by the cameras. He wasn't surprised that there were only three cameras in total. Salento was still a region where crime was no big deal. Most of the people had a house and that what's counted. And the tourists who had found their way here were using alarm systems. There wasn't much for the detective to find, so he decided to walk through the backdoor, so no one would see him leave. While he was walking along the long corridor of the station, a cell came in sight. A man was sitting there, his head bowed. When he saw the strange man, he stood up. "You're not from here," the man immediately recognized.

"True. Problem?"

"Not at all. Nothing matters anymore," the man with the torn Jeans replied.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock had the feeling that this man could be important.

"They locked me up. Thought I was going crazy, but I'm not I swear to you. I'm a normal guy, working as an electrician."

"How did you end up here?"

"My daughter Laura disappeared a week ago. First, I thought she was with her boyfriend, but she didn't return and her boyfriend isn't answering the phone."

"Did the police search the house?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"They did but found nothing. Assumed they had decided to leave this place, starting a new life somewhere else."

"But you didn't believe this, right?"

"Of course, I did not! Laura is my only child and if she had planned to move, she would have told me. I overreacted and that's how I ended up here in this cell."

The detective knew that the man was telling the truth.

"Listen, I am a private detective from London and I believe you. I can't get you out of here, but if you tell those officers that you were just a little stressed out from work, they will let you go."

"A private detective in Italy? How did you end up here?"

"I had grandparents in Cutrofiano, so I decided to go back to my roots."

"Well, I hope you find what you are looking for," the broken man in the cell replied.

"First of all, I want to find out what happened to your daughter. If you give me the address, I will pay your house a visit."

"I live in Via Ribera 31. You can't miss it. I live opposite a little shrine, where St. Antonius is taking care of us all. You can't miss it."

"Do you have a key or do you want me to break in," the detective asked with a grin.

"There is a second key behind the gas pipe left to the door. The wall there is pink. You can't miss it."

"Don't worry. I will get you out of here as soon as I know what happened with your daughter." The detective padded the man's hand and ran away. He could hear the first cars approaching, so he had to be fast.

When he reached the backdoor, he found it locked and now he had a real problem. In a few seconds the station would be filled with officers and if they discovered him, he would end up in a cell, too. He reacted instantly and looked around for another escape route. There wasn't any. On the right side was a door which lead to the toilet. He thought it was the best chance he had, so he entered, searching the room. The windows were locked, big iron rods blocking the way.

"Brilliant," the detective whispered and tried to find another way out. There was a ventilation shaft above the toilet in the middle and he knew that this was the last thing he could try. He stepped on the toilet and tried to reach the ceiling, but failed. Now he was definitely in trouble. The only way to get out of here was the front door and unfortunately the first officers were already entering. Sherlock decided to force his luck and stepped out of the toilet. When he walked back to the entrance, one of the police officers jumped into action.

"Excuse me. Who are you and what were you doing at the cells?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a private detective."

"A private detective?" Now other officers were joining the conversation.

Sherlock wanted to show them his ID but before he could do anything else, another officer thought he was pulling a gun and used the electric tasers, knocking the detective out cold.

When the officer, who had discovered the detective first, knelt down and searched the pockets, he found the ID and immediately recognized the mistake.

"Goddammit, Francesco! He's really a detective," Michele, the officer whispered.

"I'm sorry. I thought he was pulling a gun," Francesco explained.

"What is a detective from London doing here?" a third police officer asked.

"Well, that is something we need to find out," Michele replied and together with his colleague dragged the detective in one of the cells…

Meanwhile, outside the police station, John Watson was getting more and more nervous. He had seen the police cars returning and still there was no sign of his friend.

"What the hell is he doing inside? Time is running out and he's still not back."

The doctor decided to wait another thirty minutes. If Sherlock hadn't returned then, he would go in by himself, searching for his stupid friend.

Why wasn't it a surprise to John that his best friend wasn't returning and he had to get out of the car? His face was a mixture of worry and anger. It wasn't the first time that he saved the tall man from trouble and he was sure this wouldn't be the last time. The blogger cleared his throat and then entered the police station. An officer noticed him and asked, how he could help. John, not really speaking Italian, gulped and tried his best to explain what he wanted.

"My name John Watson. Looking for my soul," he said, hoping he had used the right words. The police officer just stared at him, totally confused.

"My soul, you understand? I'm looking for my soul," the desperate doctor explained again.

Still, the officer was confused and finally called another colleague. The second officer looked very aggressive and John felt very uncomfortable now.

"Please, I am just looking for my soul. Why don't you speak English?" the blogger asked desperate.

"You are in Italy, so speak the language."

John wasn't able to understand and while he didn't speak Italian, he decided to use his phone. It was a mistake. As soon as he was about to grab his phone, a taser hit him and he fell unconscious to the ground…

He was the first one to awaken in the cell one hour later. Confused, the doctor sat up and touched the back of his head. There was a bump and it had been bleeding.

"Fucking perfect," John whispered and tried to cope with the pain and dizziness he was experiencing. He looked around. A second figure was lying on the hard bed next to him. The blogger knew immediately who it was and crawled to his friend. Sherlock wasn't moving.

"Jesus, I hope they didn't use the taser on him, too," the doctor thought worried and checked for a pulse. It was strong and regular. The doctor was thankful and started to shake his friend's shoulder. The tall figure on the bed mumbled something into the pillow but otherwise wasn't moving. John, already trying to suppress his rising anger, nudged him again, "Wake up you cock! No time for napping. We need to get out of here."

Finally, the detective showed the first real signs of life by stretching his limbs. "Bloody hell," he whispered, while rubbing his sore head.

"Bloody it is," the doctor replied calm and checked the little tear above his friend's eyebrow. "It doesn't need stitches, lucky boy."

"Well, thanks for checking. Where are we?" the detective was still confused, but immediately remembered when he saw the cell. Slowly, he walked to the grids and screamed. Someone would hear them.

A police officer appeared and looked at them. He took his keys and opened the door, waiting for the two men to leave. John and Sherlock followed the officer, who led them into some kind of interrogation room. They sat down and waited for the big bang. It never came.

"If I would have known that the famous detective Sherlock Holmes is investigating here in Italy, I would have welcomed you differently."

John and Sherlock looked at each other in surprise. The officer offered his hand, "Nevio Tedesco, chief of this police station. Nice to meet you."

Sherlock reciprocated the gesture, John wasn't sure after he had been electrocuted.

"You should teach him Italian," Tedesco said, while putting a big box on the table in front of the two friends. Sherlock gave John a questioning look.

"He was very agitated and wanted to find his soul," Tedesco replied in Italian. A smile appeared on the detective's face while looking at the irritated face of the doctor next to him.

"You wanted to find your soul? That's very poetic John."

"No, I didn't. I was telling them that I was looking for my friend," the doctor replied surprised.

"No, you told them you were looking for your soul. You wanted to say amico but used anima. And anima is soul, sorry John."

Now the doctor understood, while they all thought he was crazy. "God, I'm really stupid," he sighed.

"Yes, you are. But it doesn't matter because we now have a great opportunity to ask questions," the detective replied satisfied.

Tedesco opened the box, while trying to understand what the two men were talking about.

"Well, I guess you have a lot of questions if you need to break into our library," he mumbled.

Sherlock stretched his legs and folded his hands on the table. He was curious. Answers were right there. All he needed to do was find out what was inside the box. Tedesco seemed to read his mind, so he handed the box to the detective.

When Sherlock looked into it, his face switched from happy to desperate. "That's all you have?" He grabbed into the box and came up with a handkerchief.

Tedesco looked at the detective and nodded, "We searched her room, but that's all we found."

John and Sherlock looked at each other, the doctor was rolling his eyes. Both knew what the other was thinking. Just how bad were the police in Italy?

Sherlock examined the little tissue in his hands. It was made of cotton and he could feel some strings of cashmere, too. Unfortunately, there was nothing more to find. This evidence was useless.

The detective sighed, "Are there more open cases like this one?"

Tedesco thought for a moment, then replied, "Just one that I know of. A very tragic story."

"I'm all ears," Sherlock said calmly and waited for the big surprise.

"In 1990 a woman disappeared and although the police were searching in every direction, they found nothing. Her husband was blamed for being a murderer, but there was no proof at all and before we were able to investigate further…"

"…he jumped from the wall," Sherlock completed the sentence.

"How did you know?" Nevio Tedesco seemed astonished now.

"Maria and Salvatore Pezzuto were my grandparents."

"Dio, you are the little child who was beaten by this man."

"He was desperate."

"Well, from the x-Rays they took it seemed he was desperate a lot. Doctors found some old broken bones and I am sure they didn't happen by accident." Wow, the ship was sinking. John's eyes widened, when he heard about the broken bones. "Sherlock, just tell me this isn't true." The doctor was really trying to fight the urge to cry. This was his best friend, who was assaulted as a child. Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time the doctor had to learn about the detective's dark past. "Please, please tell me it's not true," he whispered.

Sherlock rose from the chair and looked at Tedesco. "Can you give me a minute? I need some air."

The blogger looked at the officer, who nodded. At least they were allowed some freedom after all. When John stepped out of the front door, the detective was holding a cigarette in his hand. He hadn't been smoking since Culverton Smith and the fact that he was now, alarmed John.

Although it was still warm outside, his tall friend was trembling.

"Are you alright," John asked worried.

"I never wanted you to find out," Sherlock whispered kind of ashamed.

"Well, I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Why are you sorry?"

"For your childhood. It's hard for me to learn that my best friend had such a dramatic childhood." The doctor stared at the ground. He couldn't look at Sherlock right now.

"It's not your fault. I was just unlucky."

"Unlucky? UNLUCKY? For Christ's sake, Sherlock! You were abused as a child and no one cared about you?" John couldn't hold back his emotions.

"As I told you, it is what it is." Sherlock's voice was thin and the blogger wasn't sure if that voice he just heard even belonged to his friend.

The detective took another drag on his cigarette and snipped the rest away.

He looked at the sun, which was already plastering the night with some orange colors.

"Do you think the cases are related?" the blogger tried to break the silence.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders," I don't know yet. The evidence is ridiculous and so far, I don't have a clue if anything is related at all."

A slight breeze from the sea was stroking their faces. Both men sighed in unison.

"Are you really alright?" John asked again.

"To be honest, I don't know. Memories are returning and I'm trying to stop them. I don't want to relive the past."

The blogger didn't say a word. His eyes were focused on the tall man next to him, who was looking like an innocent child right now. "Should we go back inside?" he asked, the silence worrying him.

Sherlock nodded and walked back in.

Nevio Tedesco was still sitting at the table, a file in his hand. As soon as he saw the detective entering again, he gave him the document. Sherlock and John sat down and opened the file. It was his grandmother's file and when he saw her photo, he gulped. The blogger saw it and patted his friend's shoulder.

"It feels like yesterday," Sherlock whispered while looking at the picture.

"Do you have any idea what happened?" Nevio asked kindly.

"No. All I remember is that she disappeared and I tried to find her but couldn't."

"You can keep the file, if you want. Maybe we have missed something," Tedesco offered. Sherlock was thankful for the offer and nodded.

"It's 5 AM now. Maybe we should go home now and have a little nap," John yawned.

"Sounds like a plan," the detective agreed and gave Tedesco a questioning look.

"Of course, you can come and go whenever you want. It's an honor to help the famous detective Sherlock Holmes."

When Sherlock and John were about to leave, the detective once more looked at the officer and said, "Let the man in the cell go. He's harmless. Just worried about his daughter."

"He was agitated," Nevio tried to defend his decision.

"Yeah of course, he's agitated! His daughter is missing, what else is he supposed to do? Celebrate?" John was angry. He had a daughter, too and if she would run away or even worse, he wouldn't react any differently.

"Calm down John. I'm sure Officer Tedesco will trust me," the detective replied and walked back to the car.

They returned around six in the morning, black circles around their eyes. When they entered the living room, Sherlock let himself sink on the sofa and sighed. "I think we're getting old John."

The blogger, surprised by this statement, started to giggle. "Why do you think so?"

"Because… For the first… time… I… feel… t…red." The next thing John Watson heard was loud snoring. Sherlock was at his limits, the doctor recognized. But was it really astounding? The detective was dealing with emotional trauma, also had to solve a case and even now in Italy he wasn't allowed to get some much-needed rest. For a moment, John was thinking of sedating his friend, so he wouldn't wake up too soon but decided it was better not to. If Sherlock would find out what he did, he would be in trouble. The doctor shook his head, carefully placed a blanket around the detective's body and took away the file, which was hanging loosely from his hand.

"We can get to this later," John whispered to himself and stepped into his sleeping room.

"Sherlock? Where are you my little boy?" He was sitting on the rooftop of their house in Cutrofiano, painting pictures on the brown painted metal door with water and a paint brush. The sun was so hot, that the water was drying very fast and he could draw another "water-picture" on the door. He always was fascinated by this door and the fact that he could paint on it.

His grandmother was opening the door and he jumped back, scared of who was looking for him. When he saw his Nonna, a smile appeared on his face. "What are you doing here, Nonna?" She smiled back at him. "I came to ask you, if you would like a Frisella with tomatoes and salt and olive oil?" His eyes started to shine. "O Nonna, that would be great!" His grandmother offered him a hand and while they were walking downstairs to the kitchen, the little boy was smiling all over his face.

He had just finished the first bite of his Frisella, when the front door opened and a very angry and drunk grandfather appeared. Without warning, Salvatore was once again slapping his grandmother. She was crying, but that never stopped the man from threatening her further. Sherlock, only four years old at this time, jumped in front of his Nonna, ready to defend her this time.

"O you little piece of shit! How often did I tell you to leave us alone? That's none of your business."

"I won't let it happen again! Leave her alone!" the little boy stood there, brave and vulnerable.

It all happened in less than a few seconds. His grandfather, not really aware of what he was doing, grabbed him and pulled him into the sleeping room. There he grabbed a wooden stick, which was leaning behind the door and beat the little boy until he wasn't moving anymore. When he had finished, Salvatore walked back to the kitchen, sat down and ate the Frisella, which was made of love for the little boy who was now lying on the cold ground of the sleeping room. When Maria saw the blood on her husband's hands, she feared the worst and started running for the little boy. Sherlock was lying on the ground, unresponsive, blood oozing from his head. He wasn't moving and barely breathing and so his grandmother grabbed his lifeless body, dragging him to the car outside. She didn't know how to drive a car but had watched Salvatore a lot of times to figure it out. As fast as she could, she drove to the next hospital, hoping that she wasn't too late this time. It had happened before but when she told her daughter about Salvatore, all she was thinking about was Mycroft and his asthma. It's not that Mrs. Holmes was a bad mother but she always thought Sherlock was a strong boy, who could defend himself.

While his grandmother was sitting by his side in the hospital room, she cried. He could hear her, although he was sedated and it broke his heart. He knew his Nonna wasn't to be blamed but she felt responsible for everything that happened. While his grandmother was crying, he heard the door open and a doctor stepped in.

"Mrs. Pezzuto? I'm Dottore Cura."

"Dottore? How bad is it?" his Nonna asked worried.

"He was lucky. Concussion, some broken bones but no internal bleeding."

"Oh Dio, grazie!" she was relieved.

"Now, Mrs. Pezzuto, we need to talk about what happened to your son. Those aren't injuries you sustain from a fall," the doctor questioned.

"It was…"

"I fell from a big tree," came the weak voice from the bed.

"How is that possible? We had him sedated, he should be out for some more hours," the doctor asked astonished.

"Leave her alone! It was my fault. I wanted to see the sea, so I climbed up an olive tree and fell," the little boy lied…

John awoke to the sound of whimpers. He rubbed his eyes and tried to figure out, where the noise was coming from. Slowly he stepped out of his room, looking for Sherlock. The detective wasn't lying on the sofa anymore, instead he must have been sleepwalking because the doctor found him curled in the shower of their bathroom.

"Jesus Sherlock, what happened?"

But the detective wasn't moving. He was lying there on the ground, whimpering softly, tears visible on his cheeks.

John knelt down beside him, stroking the curls away. "Hey, wake up. It's alright. I'm here."

The crying stopped and all of a sudden, Sherlock's eyes opened, staring shocked at his friend. "Hell John, where am I?"

"I could ask you the same. Why are you in the shower?"

Irritated, the detective looked around. "Dammit. I must have been sleepwalking again."

"You cried. Is there something I can help you with? Are you in need of medical help?" John was confused. Sherlock could hear it in his voice.

"No. It was just another nightmare. Nothing to be worried about." The tall man stood up from the cold ground and stepped into his sleeping room. "Goodnight John. Just go to bed, you hear me?"

"Yeah, I did. Thanks for waking me up," the doctor mumbled while stepping back into his own sleeping room. Whatever happened the last few minutes, Sherlock's behaviour started to worry the doctor…