CHAPTER 3: LAST WORDS

One week later, Giulia has fully settled down in Baker Street. She does some research at the university every morning, then goes back to the flat and cooks something for her flatmates—basically for John, since Sherlock seems to think that oxygen counts as a nutrient. She studies in the shared living room, which can be a peaceful heaven or a messy hell, depending on the circumstances. Sometimes, Sherlock just lies on the couch for hours without moving or even uttering a sound, deeply sunk in his thoughts, lost inside the corridors of his mind palace Those are the good days.

More often, however, John and Sherlock are busy receiving crowds of clients. Those poor people have a seat between their armchairs and tell their stories while the two men decide whether or not to take their cases. Sherlock always raises hell, is rarely satisfied, and usually kicks them out unceremoniously. Those are the usual days.

Today is a good one, though. Sherlock is lying down with his eyes closed, and John sits thoughtfully in his armchair, rubbing his forehead with the back of a pen.

"Why is it always so difficult? I'd like to finish this bloody crossword puzzle, eventually," he grumbles, slamming the newspaper on the tea table.

Giulia raises her head from the books. "What's the matter?"

"I try to complete this sort of game every day, but they aren't easy at all." He shoots a hateful look at the paper.

"Can I give it a try?" She asks politely, stretching out her hand.

He gazes at her, confused. "You think you can beat a native speaker in crosswords in his language?"

"Crosswords are not just about language skills; a healthy amount of general knowledge is also needed."

He hands her the newspaper with a sceptical look, and she scans the definitions for the last few spots.

"Let's see: Greek Titan forced to support the sky on his shoulders. Easy, it's Atlas." She takes the pen from his hand and writes it down.

"There's another blank space," John says, surprised it barely took her ten seconds to get one of the answers he was wracking his brains to find. "Something about astronomy. I don't have a clue."

"The brightest star in the Lyra constellation," she reads out loud. "I thought it was Sirius, also named the Dogstar, but it doesn't fit." She rolls the pen between her fingers, completely focused. Then a triumphant smile widens on her mouth as she jots down four letters.

"Got it. V-E-G-A. Vega. There you are." She gives back the paper with a wink.

"You simply got lucky. I had nearly completed it," John complains disheartened.

At that moment, Sherlock loses it suddenly and springs to his feet.

"Can't you two be quiet for just one second?"

Giulia turns to him with a mortified look on her face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Too late," he spits out and marches out of the room, stepping nonchalantly on the coffee table.

"Don't worry about him: he's just irritable because he can't find a proper case," John explains with a grimace.

"But a thousand clients visited him during the past week," she protests.

"Nothing interesting in his opinion. He is still waiting for a good murder to come up." He finishes the sentence and frowns. "It didn't sound good, did it?"

"I've learnt not to ask questions and pretend I didn't hear anything." She shrugs innocently. She has realised that inexplicable murders and mind-boggling enigmas are a very common source of excitement in 221 B.

"That's Baker Street Survival Guide 101," he kids. "I'll do some shopping. Keep an eye on Sherlock, would you?" He jokes around, but she catches the hint of seriousness in his tone.

A few moments after John left, a soft knock on the door precedes the pompous entrance of an elegant man in a waistcoat. The newcomer clears his throat and casually walks into the flat.

"Hello?" Giulia greets, raising a brow at his lack of introductions. Arrogant, she instinctively judges him.

He looks down at her and smiles falsely. "Good afternoon. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."

"Whoever comes here is. He'll show up in a moment. You can take a seat in the meantime." She points at the interrogation-chair in the middle of the living room, but the man doesn't budge.

"Or you could just stand there if you like," she adds, striving to sound polite.

The man takes out a silver pocket watch, shoots a glance at it, and squeezes his lips together in a flat line before hissing, "It's rather urgent."

"That's what every client says." She rolls her eyes at the intruder, getting annoyed at his attitude.

"I am not a client. I am his brother, Mycroft Holmes," he announces. He is used to seeing everybody flinch at his name.

On the contrary, at that mention, her eyes lit up: The infamous Mycroft Holmes. None other than Sherlock's brother. Oh, this day has just become rather interesting. She has heard many things about him and his involvement in the British Secret Service. Time to check for herself.

Giulia scrutinises him from head to toe: impeccably dressed in expensive clothes. He must hold a prestigious position at a high-profile level. He is most definitely a senior officer in high places of Her Majesty's intelligence. After a closer look, she concludes he is not carrying any weapons: not a field agent.

She furrows her brow.

"Would you mind showing me your ID?"

Mycroft freezes as if hit by lightning. "I beg your pardon?"

"You've just said you are Sherlock's brother, but he has never mentioned you. It's not that I don't trust your statement, just… Can you provide any proof?" She flutters her eyelashes at him to emphasise the naivety of her request.

"I don't have to prove to you that I am who I say I am," he affirms imperiously, stabbing the point of his umbrella on the floor.

"Haughty, scornful, and always carrying an umbrella," she catalogues, nodding at him. "Yeah, you definitely match Sherlock's description."

"So, he did tell you about me."

"I think complaining would be more accurate."

At that moment, Sherlock bursts into the living room, simpering at his brother.

"Hello, Mycroft. I see that you've met Giulia. I'm afraid I have deliberately omitted to mention that I have one more flatmate now."

Mycroft sighs before reciprocating the fake smile. "Not a problem, brother mine. I knew it anyway."

Sherlock purses his lips. "Of course you did."

"Needless to say, I strongly oppose this new arrangement," Mycroft declares firmly.

Giulia's offended eyes dart to him. "Excuse me?"

He turns around to face her. "I meant no offence, Miss Giulia. My remark wasn't intended for you. As far as I can establish," he spends half a second running his eyes all over her, "you are the kind of woman who could use some peace and tranquillity to focus on taking back the reins of her life. Although, I fear you don't have the faintest idea of what you have embarked on by renting this place."

She tilts her head, relaxing back in her chair. "Are you concerned about my safety?"

"About your sanity," he corrects her with a sarcastic expression.

A hint of a smile curves her lips. "That's cute."

He looks horrified by her choice of adjective. "What is?"

"That you think I'm sane."

He gazes at her for a second and sighs. He cannot help but admit that her sharp character is the perfect match for his brother's house, but that is part of the problem: he is afraid that she will soon acclimate to that den of wretched souls. Maybe peace isn't truly what she is looking for, after all.

Sherlock eagerly chimes in. "That's enough small talk for a lifetime. To what do I owe the unpleasantness of this visit, Mycroft?"

"Business." His brother quickly jumps to the relevant matter.

"What a relief. I feared you were attempting to transform our blood connection into a real brotherhood," Sherlock lampoons him while pouring himself a cup of tea. He purposefully avoids offering one to his unwanted guest.

"Between us? Not a chance, brother mine. But I need your expertise." The elder Holmes hesitates on the last word, pretending to examine the tip of his umbrella.

"I'm busy. I'm always busy for you. You know the way out." Sherlock gestures eloquently towards the door, but Mycroft only moves closer to him.

"I'm here to give you a case. I thought you'd be pleased." He stares into his eyes, a stern expression on his face.

"No, thanks."

"You don't even know what it is about," Mycroft rebuts, furious at his brother's stubbornness.

Sherlock smirks, pleased. He is getting on his nerves, and that is the only enjoyable aspect of his conversations with Mycroft.

"Let me guess: a matter of national importance?"

"International," his brother clarifies as his voice drops an octave.

"Still not interested. Have a nice day."

Mycroft flares his nostrils at him and takes one more step forward.

"Sherlock," he exhorts him in a vexed tone.

"Are you going to beg me?" his sibling interrupts him.

"Certainly not," the eldest almost shouts, sticking the point of the umbrella on the carpet.

"In this case, thank you for dropping by. Hope it won't happen again. Goodbye, brother dear," Sherlock stands by the door and keeps it open, hinting at the stairs.

Mycroft approaches him and simpers. "Brother mine, we'll keep in touch."

"I don't think so." And with one swift movement, Sherlock slams the door behind his back.

Giulia looks at him in despair. "You weren't very kind."

"He is my brother; I don't have to."

"He could have something worthy of your time."

At that moment, Sherlock's phone rings.

"I doubt it, but this man might." He places the device near his ear. He answers the phone without even greeting the caller. "Tell me this is good."

"Look, Sherlock," a hoarse voice says on the other side.

"Murder?" the detective immediately cuts him short, getting straight to the point.

"Suicide," the voice states, sounding weary.

"What happened? Jump off a bridge? Gun to the temple?" Sherlock displays his signature total lack of empathy and sensitivity.

"Poison."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, disappointed. "Dull."

"I think you could find it interesting, though. And I need your help," the raspy voice groans. It's quite obvious that whoever it is, he has to deal with this kind of conversation rather often. And it is also clear that he can barely stand Sherlock's childish attitude towards death.

Holmes's eyes sparkle for an instant. "Where?"

"Fifteen minutes away from your house. I'll text you the details."

"It'd better be good." Sherlock checks his watch.

A deep sigh resounds through the speaker before the husky voice says gloomily, "You've never seen anything like this, that's for sure."

Without another word, Sherlock hangs up and wears his coat.

"Was it a client?" Giulia asks, hopeful.

"Better. It was Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. When he and his team are in the dark about a case, they consult me. That's why I invented the unique job of Consulting Detective." He can't hold back a smug grin.

"And did he have good news for you?" She asks again while her brain is still registering that piece of information. Did he truly just receive a phone call from the police inviting him over to a crime scene?

"Excellent: there's been a suicide," Sherlock exclaims, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

"I thought your speciality was murders and kidnappings."

"There's probably more to it. There must be something wrong about this death," he reasons, tying his blue scarf around his marmoreal neck.

"Bye. Have fun." She waves at him.

"I will," he affirms before disappearing down the stairs.

As Sherlock hails a cab, he receives a text from D.I. Lestrade with an address. He opens an image attachment and reads the missing person report.

NAME (last/first): Baaral Cathy

SEX: F
EYES: Brown.
HAIR: Black.
BLOOD TYPE: A-plus
FINGERPRINTS AVAILABLE? Yes.

At the top right corner of the report, there is a photo—a freeze-frame from security footage. The resolution of the image isn't too clear, and he zooms in to study a woman's face. That's all. Just a form full of blank spaces and incomplete information. No details about her date or place of birth, nothing about her nationality. Sherlock takes a moment to analyse those scarce data, then phones the inspector.

"Where are you?" the same raspy voice asks abruptly.

He steals a look out the window. "On my way. Lestrade, listen, where is the sensitive information? Her age, hometown, employment?"

There is a pause on the other side of the line.

"We don't have it. That's all we know about her," Greg Lestrade replies as his tone gives off the impression of dishonourable defeat.

"What does it mean? You are the police. You must have additional sources."

Most of the time, Scotland Yard is the most difficult client to put up with, and they are supposed to be the very ones in charge.

"Of course we have. And I checked everywhere. I swear there is nothing else. She's like a ghost. Well, she was."

"So, how on earth can you know her blood type?" His voice booms through the line.

"It was on a medical report from a hospital where she had a check-up two years ago. That's all we managed to dig up."

"What about her disappearance? Who reported her missing?" Sherlock submerges his interlocutor in a barrage of questions.

"No idea. Confidentiality policy: we cannot trace the calls," the inspector replies in a weary voice.

Sherlock loses his temper.

"Why the freeze-frame at the top of the report? Were the police keeping an eye on her?"

"Erm, not directly, but I'd rather not discuss it on the phone," the D.I. hesitates, and his voice drops to a whisper.

"No need for that." Sherlock hangs up precisely when the cab pulls over.

A tall man with grizzled hair waves at him from the doorstep of a nearby building and points at the entrance.

"This way," he says briskly, in the same hoarse voice from the phone call. Holmes follows him inside, and they climb to the first floor, while the inspector leads the way.

"Have you touched anything?" Sherlock inquires as he walks into a tiny flat. He looks around and processes every detail.

At the centre of the room, the corpse of a young woman lies on the carpet. He glances at her and immediately recognises the face he has just seen in the freeze-frame attached to the text.

"Nothing at all. My men preserved the scene exactly the way it was when we found the corpse early this morning."

Sherlock whips around, gaping.

"Morning? It's five o'clock in the afternoon now. Why didn't you call me earlier?"

"It didn't seem necessary."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows with his air of superiority, forcing the inspector to add in a mocking tone, "It looked like a common suicide, no need for great experts."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. "What changed then?"

"We got lab results. Quite shocking." Lestrade scratches his chin, pensively.

"Why? Was she an addict, a haemophiliac?" He presses him, but before the inspector can open his mouth to reply, Sherlock raises a hand in front of his face.

"No, don't answer. I need to concentrate."

He takes some steps forward, trying to reconstruct the victim's last moments.

"So, she rushed into her home. She didn't just open the front door: she flung it open. The door slammed into the wall, and the frame that was hanging here broke into a thousand pieces, causing the painting to fall on the floor." While speaking, he squats down by a bunch of shards of glass and carefully pulls out a sheet, spreading it out. It's a poster representing an entrenched beach, several warships, and an air fleet. The word D-Day stands out in bold characters.

He lets it glide down to the floor again and continues his lucid stream of consciousness.

"She ignored the mess; she was running out of time. She knew she was about to die. Right then, just a few moments before swallowing the poison that would eventually kill her, she left a message."

"A message?" Lestrade gives him a bewildered look.

"A note, to be precise. Now the question is: where are her last words?"

"What are you talking about? There wasn't a note. We found nothing of the sort," the inspector objects, looking around the place.

"But she must have written something. We can easily deduce that she did. There are traces of ink on the fingers of her right hand; only a fountain pen would leave those marks. And what a coincidence!" he exclaims ironically. "There is a fountain pen in the furthest corner of the room. It must have been easy to throw it there while standing in the middle of the living room." He stands by the lying woman and simulates the scene to get Lestrade on board with his reasoning process.

"Now look at the desk." He points to the right side of the room. "Her agenda is open at a ripped page missing the bottom half. Why is that? Probably because a whole sheet would be too big for her purposes. We can assume that she wrote a few words on a scrap of paper since she needed to leave some piece of information, but not publicly. Conclusion: she hid a small note. The only question left unanswered now is: where is it?"

"It could be anywhere," the D.I. says, massaging his temples to relieve the stress of that dreadful investigation.

"Wrong. Not anywhere. She was staying in this exact spot and never moved from here. It's on the body," Sherlock logically concludes, crouching down next to the cadaver.

The grey-haired man follows his movements with a horrified look.

"You're not planning on searching a corpse before the medical examiner conducts the autopsy, are you?"

"No need for a random search, Detective Inspector. One of her shoes is unlaced," Holmes points out in a plain tone as if every clue were as clear as day.

"It untied in the rush, perhaps?" Greg theorises.

Sherlock shoots an embittered look at his speculation.

"Untied? Look at the other foot: she used to knot laces twice. She undid it," he states and gently slips her shoe off.

"Why?" Lestrade asks, confused.

"To hide her message." Sherlock delicately draws out a note stashed under her heel. He spreads the creased paper on the inside of his palm and reads it out loud.

My dear,

Please, forgive me for all the trouble and pain that this is going to cause you.
I wish we had a normal life; I wish we had a normal relationship, like everyone else on the face of the Earth.
But we were meant for something bigger, and this project that brought us so close is going to draw us apart forever.

Best of luck, my love.

I'll be waiting for you on the other side. Take your time.

xx