CHAPTER 1: DEDUCTION TIME
Do you know what the worst part of a nightmare is? When something clicks in your mind and you suddenly realise that you are inside one. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes we have a glimmer of lucidity, even in the darkest dream. It might give you the impression of being finally in control... Wrong.
When you recognise you are having a nightmare, that is when the scary part truly begins. Now you are trapped. You consciously understand that nothing of what is happening is real; nothing will affect either you or your life. And yet, there is no way out. How do you wake yourself up?
When you realise you are dreaming and caught in a nightmare, you'll try everything to make it stop. But no matter how smart you are, in your dreams, you are always a slave of your mind. The nightmare draws you into its narrative. It wants you to keep going; it doesn't let you escape its claws.
In a hotel room, a tormented woman tosses and turns spasmodically in her bed, as her forehead is beaded with cold sweat. She is fast asleep, yet in the realm of dreams, she is perfectly sentient and aware of being cornered by a product of her imagination.
She knows she only has two options to escape her lucid nightmares. The first way is simple: she just has to kill herself to wake up. It works every time, but it's a dangerous game. The mind plays tricks on you, and you start doubting, wondering: how can I be so sure that this is actually a dream? Can I trust my own senses enough to affirm that this isn't real? Or am I taking a step I can't take back?
Nightmares are not for the faint-hearted.
Still, there is another way to awaken oneself: crying out loud—as loud as possible. She has always thought that if she shouts loud enough inside her dream, her body will do the same in real life, and her mouth will let out a high-pitched sound, waking her up. It might work, and it's worth a try.
The panicked woman jolts awake and sits up in her bed as a yell dies in her throat. Another nightmare, another cry for help, her mind quickly reasons.
She falls back and plunges into the pillows, panting heavily. It'll get better, she thinks. From now on, everything will be alright. She takes some deep breaths and tries to focus on her surroundings: an anonymous hotel room. Where is she again?
If you don't recognise the bed you wake up in, you likely had quite an eventful night. But beyond some alcohol-induced confusion, normal people rarely have a hard time remembering precisely in what part of the world they fell asleep the night before.
And yet she does, and that's disturbing, she reflects, grumbling at the slowness of her mind. To be fair to herself, though, she must admit that her confusion is understandable. She lost count of all the countries she has been shipped to in the past year, wandering from city to city, until now.
This thought sparks a sudden realisation in her. That's her second day in London, more than a thousand miles away from her home—assuming there is still a place in the world she can call home. London, UK: the beginning of her new life.
Not a great start, after all, she considers, staring up at the ceiling through a tuft of hazelnut hair. She closes her eyes and mentally summarises her to-do list:
First, University Orientation
Second, Book shopping (not a real priority, yet it still feels like it's not high enough on the list).
Third and last point, finding accommodation and leaving her nomadic life behind.
She climbs off the bed and paces the small room, noticing a note on the floor by the entrance. Someone must have slipped it under the door during the night.
She bends down and takes it in her hand. Below a phone number, there are just a couple of lines:
As per your instructions, you are on your own now.
Whatever you may need, don't hesitate to contact me.
M.
She frowns, and her eyes linger on that single letter: M., the man who helped her settle in London and provided her with the means to start over. Now, with that note, he is giving back the freedom that someone else tried to take away. M: just one letter, not even the complete name.
All she knows about him are whispers and overheard rumours from his subordinates. She has never even met him, only exchanged emails, but she trusts him anyway. After all, he has kept her alive for the past year. She owes him that chance at a new life.
The day goes by quickly, and after the successful accomplishment of the first two points on her list, she decides it is time to deal with the last burdensome matter. She wanders around the city examining five different houses with a disheartening result: some are far too expensive, and the potential flatmates in the others... Out of the question, the dullest people she has ever met. That scavenger hunt is proving to be a complete waste of time.
She sighs and looks down at the creased paper in her palm. Below all the crossed-out houses that were suggested by the people she met at the university earlier, there is one last address, possibly her last hope: Baker Street.
By the time she arrives in front of the black door with the gold number 221, it is getting dark and chilly. She is about to knock when the door bursts open, and a man with a shocked expression on his face rushes out of it, bumping into her. He mumbles something she barely catches, then runs away. She shrugs at the weird scene and walks through the open door, peeping inside.
"Good evening. Anybody in?"
A kind lady with a warm smile walks up to her in the darkened corridor. "Hello, dear. May I help you?"
"Yes, please, ma'am. I'd like to have some information about renting—" She is cut short in the middle of the sentence by the sound of footsteps coming frantically down the stairs.
"Good heavens, he has no respect," a corpulent woman complains before marching out the door.
At that moment, a dirty-blond-haired man appears on the landing at the top of the stairs and shouts out, "Wait!"
But the woman has already disappeared into the night.
"Oh, John, what has he been doing all day?" the old woman asks him, bringing a hand over her heart like a grandmother regretfully witnessing her grandchildren's ill manners.
"You know him, Mrs Hudson: just being himself," the man snorts.
"I lost count of all everyone that's been here today. Including the two that have just run away, how many potential tenants has he scared off? Six?" she asks, darting a glance at the front door that was just slammed.
"Seven. God help me." He rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair before looking down at the confused woman standing in the hall. "Is she the next one?"
Mrs Hudson nods and eloquently arches a brow at him before whispering to her, "I think it's your turn, dear. Go on upstairs. They're waiting for you."
She climbs up the stairs with a puzzled expression on her face and follows the blond-haired man into a messy living room.
"I believe proper presentations are in order. I am Doctor John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes," he tries to break the ice, pointing at a man with curly dark hair and piercing eyes sitting silently in a black armchair.
Doctor Watson sinks into another armchair and nods at an empty seat across from them. "Please, have a seat."
She cautiously places down her shopping bag and rucksack and sits, smiling politely.
"Hi, my name is—" she begins before being interrupted by the man that was just introduced as Sherlock. Weird name.
"Not interested, thank you. I already know everything about you. You are an international student who has recently moved to London. You believe that this experience could mark the start of an entirely different life, yet you are afraid of feeling homesick." He spits it all out impossibly fast and does nothing to hide the bored expression painted all over his face.
"Sorry?" she asks, astonished.
Sherlock glances at her and gestures at her body.
"You are wearing brand-new clothes to help you feel different but worn-out shoes; I suppose you must be sentimentally attached to them. As I said, it all indicates a desire for novelty but a tendency for melancholy. I pointed out that you are an international student, but I might as well add that given your age (which I'd place in the late twenties), I'd say came to the UK to do a PhD in a prestigious university. I recognised the coat of arms on the tag that was recently stuck on your bag." He looks down at her possessions abandoned at her feet.
She follows his gaze to the sticker attached to her bag. How did he notice that?
But before she can express the question verbally, John Watson raises his eyebrows at Sherlock.
"International student?"
"Obviously. There's a flyer with an evocative expression peeping out of the front pocket of her bag: Welcome to the UK," he reads out loud. "She must have gone to the university before coming to the flat. Besides, her foreign accent could have revealed it, as well."
"What foreign accent? I didn't catch that," John objects, earning a conceited look from his flatmate.
"Clearly." He turns to face her. "As for your nationality, I would say Spanish or Italian. I'm not sure which one yet. After all, you've barely pronounced five words."
She gapes at him and exclaims, "That's impressive!"
"Italian," he concludes. "A foreigner attending an expensive university but looking for a flat… It means that you highly value your education and want to make a sacrifice, yet you don't want to waste money on on-campus facilities, which explains why you're searching for something cheaper. That leads me to another point: you made new friends at the university today."
"How..." John doesn't even have time to raise a question because Sherlock pre-empts him.
"It is entirely possible she desires to acclimatise to a foreign country by meeting new people at the university today. I'd be careful if I were you, though: some of them are very trustworthy, but it doesn't apply to everyone you talked to."
"How can you possibly know that?" Watson looks at him in disbelief.
"From the name on the shopping bag: it's a bookstore in a small alley, excellent but little known. Only a helpful Londoner could have given such a piece of advice."
"What about the untrustworthy ones then?" John questions him, sick of always being one step behind.
"Natural deduction. She came to Baker Street looking for cheap accommodation." Sherlock deepens his voice in an intimidating tone. "You should know, Miss, that whoever told you to get here was trying to make a fool of you. This is central London; the rents are very expensive."
"Not at 221B," John instantly adds with an encouraging smile. They can't possibly afford to let another person flee in terror.
"Technically, we are going to rent out 221 C, the room that Mrs Hudson, the landlady you met on your way up, refurbished completely after the discovery of the trainers of Carl Powers," he corrects his friend and turns to her.
"I suppose you wouldn't mind living in a place where a criminal mastermind planted the shoes of a kid he murdered twenty years ago, would you?" He flashes her an ironic smile.
She widens her eyes at him but doesn't utter a word. Sherlock briefly frowns at her flabbergasted face: he can't entirely read her expression. There seems to be something else besides the human reaction of horror and visceral fear, he realises unexpectedly. Is that curiosity in her eyes?
He waves a hand in the air as if to dispel any unnecessary thought. Then he meets her eyes and grins falsely.
"Let me go on. I'm almost enjoying this conversation. You've recently lost weight. And yet, you still cross your arms and legs as if you wanted to hide your body. Probably an unconscious leftover of the time you were ashamed of it."
"Sherlock, that's simply a defensive position: it's basic psychology," John contradicts him.
"Sure, but she's trying to keep control of herself. It's clear she is hungry; she shot several glances at the coffee table with tea and biscuits, but she didn't ask for them." Holmes smirks, nodding at the tray with Mrs Hudson's scones.
"Politeness?" John ventures.
"Rigor," objects his friend. "After every gaze, she looks down: a visible sign of shame. She thinks she shouldn't desire food; she is trying to convince herself that she must resist. I bet she has eaten little today, probably just some fruit."
"Alright, you're making that up," John bursts out.
Sherlock ignores him. "Tangerine, was it?"
She looks dazed at him. "Pardon?"
"Your lunch. I recognised the distinctive scent the moment you walked in. You peeled it, and its odour remained on your fingers. However, why eat so little when you've already reached your goal? Fear of gaining weight again, of course. As I said earlier, new trousers mean a different size. You cannot let yourself get fat," he says curtly, ignoring every basic rule of tact.
John clears his throat loudly and makes another attempt to put an end to that surreal conversation.
"Are we done now?"
"In a moment. You've got a boyfriend," affirms Holmes.
"A boyfriend?" John asks, confused.
"Look at her ring: she's playing with it, moving it from one finger to the other. Her feverish activity shows that she is nervous and needs a familiar object (possibly connected to a pleasant memory) to calm her down. I am not genuinely surprised by her mood, though, since I am the one who is making her uncomfortable." He gloats. "Let's focus on that piece of jewellery: she brushes her index against the internal surface, suggesting that it isn't completely smooth. There must be an engraving of some sort: maybe a name or a date related to someone very close to her. Traditional bright ring with an inscription inside and sentimental attachment to it - conclusion: a boyfriend."
"It seems plausible." John agrees, nodding slightly.
"Can I give it a closer look?" Sherlock leans toward her and stretches out his hand.
She places her ring in his palm without a word. He turns it over between his fingers, then looks at the internal engraving and wrinkles his nose, baffled.
"Giulia," he reads out loud.
"It doesn't sound like a boy's name," John comments, biting his lips to prevent himself from smirking. There's always something he gets wrong.
"It's not. A girlfriend, maybe?" Sherlock speculates, unexpectedly disoriented.
"I'm afraid you got that wrong, Mr Holmes," she finally speaks. "Not everything, to be fair. That ring does mean a lot to me, and it was indeed a gift from a special person. Not a boyfriend nor a girlfriend, though: my mother gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday. As for the inscription, this is my name. But how could you know since you weren't interested in listening to it earlier?" She flashes a sarcastic smile.
"Checkmate." John giggles at Sherlock who glares at him and retorts, "Fine. Last deduction: you are a volleyball player."
"Volleyball?" John looks surprised that his friend still wants to rub it in.
Sherlock talks inhumanely fast, scanning every inch of her body.
"Look at her: toned muscles, so we can deduce that she works out. To identify the sport, we have to look for clues. Let's jump to her hands: micro-fractures and traumatised fingers. It could have been an accident, but no, those injuries have occurred on separate occasions and have been treated differently. Although, it may suggest other disciplines, such as boxing or martial arts—statistically less likely, but I don't want to leave any margin of error. Let's examine her arms, then. The right bicep is more developed than the left one: it's the dominant arm, meaning she uses it when the action requires considerable strength and effort. Finally, look at her shoulders and back. She's sitting up straight, though her joint is slightly out of alignment: she must have suffered from a shoulder dislocation."
John stares intently at her, professionally judging the medical treatment she received over the years.
"What's the matter with her back? I can't spot any clear flaws."
"Simply aching. It noticed it when she set down her heavy rucksack. Backache is very common among volleyball players."
"Fine, but there could be another option," John suggests tentatively.
It takes Sherlock a moment to register those words, then a surprised expression breaks the facade of his poker face. "What?"
"Given the things you've highlighted (her developed right arm, the injured shoulder, and backache), volleyball is a reasonable explanation. However, there could be another sport: tennis," the doctor presents his argument.
"Interesting observation, John. But no, it's undoubtedly volleyball. The ball on her keychain is unmistakable," Sherlock affirms as his tapering finger points down at her rucksack where a volleyball is dangling from the zipper.
"That's cheating," John protests, frustrated.
"That's observing. Volleyball, then. Not competitive level, though."
"Excuse me?" Giulia bursts out after being x-rayed like a lab rat for several minutes. Sherlock remains unperturbed.
"With all due respect, you are not tall enough to be a pro. Even John could deduce this one."
There is a moment of silence inside the living room. John steals a furious look at Sherlock, then turns to Giulia with a crestfallen expression.
"I am truly sorry for that. This is the part where he plays the role of the mind-reader."
Holmes tosses his head offended and retorts, "I don't read minds, John. I read details, clues, clothes, and behaviours."
"You read people like books," Giulia points out, startled.
"I do, and it seems I've already finished all your pages." Sherlock turns his back to her to look out the window.
"Well, in this case..." She clears her throat before quirking her lips up in a sheepish smile. "Thank you for letting me skip presentations. I'm terrible at them."
John snaps his head up, confused. "And this is usually the part where everyone leaves outraged."
She frowns. "Why? Why are people always so scared of the truth?"
Sherlock turns to her again, intrigued by her words.
"Good question. I believe they simply fear a stranger who knows everything about them."
"And what makes you so frightening, Mr Holmes?"
"I make people feel exposed," he says with an edge of contempt for the average reaction he usually gets from people. And yet, she didn't react as everyone else would, he notices.
"I guess it depends on the information you bring to light. Some things are better to stay secret," she murmurs as her voice drops an octave.
John tries to chip in. "Alright. Your name is Giulia, isn't it?"
"Correct, and I think there are no more questions left. Your friend has just blurted out an indecent number of personal facts."
"And I made offensive deductions, but you haven't left yet. Why?" Sherlock stares at her, but she doesn't budge under his inquisitive gaze.
"I bumped into a potential tenant downstairs. He was running away from you and said you were crazy. I'm just trying to determine if he was right." Giulia holds his gaze, tilting her head to the side.
John can't help but chortle, while Holmes looks away, remarking plainly, "You believe him." It isn't even a question, just a pure statement.
"No, I don't think you're crazy. I'd rather say disrespectful of the people around you, unaware of their thoughts and feelings... No, sorry, not unaware, simply careless," she re-words it. "I bet you could break someone's heart without even realising it. You aren't cruel, though, just indifferent."
He cocks a brow at her observations. "Are you trying to deduce me?"
"Not at all. I lack the ability to do so."
"Just observe, then." His voice resonates deeper as he encourages her to go beyond the surface. The art of observation is his favourite pastime.
"I am observing. And I've been listening to you all along. I'd say that your original purpose was to amaze me."
"Nope." He pops the 'p' to express his disappointment. "I just wanted to get rid of you."
Shame, the conversation might be slightly intriguing for his taste, but she still appears way too ordinary in his eyes. Practically everyone does.
Instead of getting offended by the hateful comment, she squints her eyes at him with a playful expression.
"Yeah, I'm sure. But you couldn't resist showing off, could you?"
John chuckles. "She's good, indeed."
"You deduced me from head to toe because you wanted me to be astonished in front of your high intellect and leave," she says.
He twitches his lips in disgust. "Useless effort. Amazed people get clingy."
"Amazed people become vulnerable," she corrects him. "That's why everyone before me flew away."
"True. Everyone fears vulnerability and uncertainty. Ever wondered why?" Sherlock doesn't bother to feign interest. After all, why would he care? He never experiences doubt.
"Because it feels like being a child in a world of adults. Terrifying, isn't it?"
"I've never asked one."
"I think you should know." She smiles at him, her eyes fixed on his.
He rolls his eyes and grimaces. "So, that's your idea of me: a child."
"Spot on," John confirms, moving his eyes from one person to the other as if he was watching a tennis match.
"You look at the world as nobody else does. You do whatever you want, whenever you want, uninterested in what people might think. You say whatever crosses your mind just because you can't restrain yourself. That's childish."
He cocks a brow at her audacity. "Do you intend to impress me?"
She laughs. "God, no. I've barely known you for ten minutes, but I'm pretty sure you can't be easily impressed."
"Probably your finest deduction so far."
"I think I made a mistake, though. You aren't just a show-off. Your performance is not an end in itself; you want to make a point, to prove something."
Sherlock gazes at her, an inscrutable look darting in his eyes.
"What." He doesn't even take the trouble of making it sound like a question.
"That you are the smartest person in the room."
They stare at each other for a couple of seconds, like two gunslingers in the Wild West. At that moment, John chimes into the conversation.
"Alright. I think we're good then."
Sherlock goggles at him. "You can't be serious. You think she is suitable, don't you?"
"Sorry, suitable for what?" Giulia asks, confused.
"Living here, apparently," Holmes replies in a bored tone.
"Look, Sherlock, she is clever and has her studies to keep her occupied. Most importantly, she doesn't seem to be annoyed by you, which is honestly the greatest and only requirement needed."
"Erm, you might want to discuss it together," Giulia intervenes.
"Yes," Sherlock promptly replies, but John talks over him and smiles triumphantly.
"No, it won't be necessary. Welcome to Baker Street."