CHAPTER 9: BATTLE OF WITS
Two weeks later – Mid-October
"Sherlock! John!" Giulia furiously cries out, rushing upstairs.
It's been two weeks since their case together, and it almost looks like the three of them have finally found a balance at 221 Baker Street. Almost.
The two men sitting in their armchairs exchange confused glances and John glowers at Sherlock like a father scolding his son. "What did you do this time?"
Sherlock lifts his eyes from the computer placed on his legs and scowls back at him.
"Nothing. And she called your name as well."
"I am innocent," Watson states, emphatically placing a hand over his heart right when Giulia throws the door open and marches inside the living room.
"So am I," Sherlock adds candidly.
"I don't think so. One of you two read my diary," she protests indignantly, shaking a notebook in the air.
The detective gives her an indifferent look. "Why would you think I'd ever be interested in it?"
"Maybe you thought I wrote something about you."
"Did you?"
She raises her eyebrows. "You already know the answer. You broke into my flat and—"
"To be fair, you allowed us to go in. You gave us a spare key, remember?" Sherlock cuts her off.
"Yes, in case of an emergency. Certainly not to violate my privacy," she hisses, then shakes her head, letting her anger cool down slowly. "But while we're at it, please, do tell: what do you think about my personal thoughts?"
"I already know them. I read your plain mind every day: nothing special." His tone is more scornful than usual, and she quickly figures out the reason behind his bad mood.
"Oh, I see." She smiles slyly, with a gleam in her eyes. "You didn't like what you found."
Sherlock's head snaps up. "Actually, I didn't like the way you described me."
"No, no, Sherlock. You're blowing it: you can't admit that you read it," John intervenes in despair.
"Seriously, John, et tu?" she asks, surprised, crossing her arms over her chest.
Watson swallows hard and mumbles, "I'm sorry, it was none of our business."
"It really wasn't. Although, I expected you would nose around my things, eventually."
Holmes reflects for a few seconds, then inquires distrustfully, "Wait, how did you know we had read it? We've been extremely careful: we left everything exactly the way it was. Have you installed hidden cameras?"
She rolls her eyes. "Come on, 221C is not the Pentagon."
"Then how?" He fixes his eyes on hers. This is getting interesting; most of his friends never spot his little intrusions. For instance, Lestrade has never suspected that Sherlock pays regular (unauthorised) visits to his office while he is out in the field, and he would probably pale at the number of police IDs and items that the detective has stolen from him over the years. Only his brother can always deduce when he breaks into his house, but that's hardly a surprise considering Mycroft's superior mind and the fact that the whole point of Sherlock's incursions is to test the limits of his sophisticated alarm system, out of boredom.
"Have you ever read '1984' by George Orwell?" Giulia asks him.
"You mean the book about Big Brother? I must have leafed through it when I was a boy. School stuff: bo - ring!" he spells out, focusing back on the PC in front of him.
"I did and enjoyed it, but I don't see any connection," John chimes in.
She pulls out one single hair from her head, puts it on the pages of her diary, and closes it. John observes her movements and immediately understands.
"Right. It's the same trick that Winston Smith, the protagonist, used in order to check if the government had read his journal. By placing hair between the pages of his diary and checking that it stayed there, untouched, he was certain that nobody had snooped around in his things. It was in the story."
Giulia flashes him a cunning smile.
"That book is a classic, and you two are very predictable; I knew you would get rid of that sign the moment you opened the pages. You always go mad if you find some of my hair around the flat." She looks around, wrinkling her nose. "And yet you never complain about the dust."
"Dust can tell you everything," Sherlock retorts.
"Hair can do it too, apparently," John chuckles.
"What bothered you, then?" Giulia faces Sherlock with a challenging expression, circling back to his critique of her private notes.
He twitches his lips in disgust, without even looking at her.
"You wrote that I'm too clever for this world."
"I didn't intend it as an insult."
"But it makes no sense. What does it even mean?"
"In fairness, you always complain that everyone is an idiot," John underlines with a groan.
"Because practically everyone is," Holmes snarls.
"Right, and you are the misunderstood genius, aren't you?"
"No, he isn't," Giulia intervenes.
Sherlock furrows his brow, seemingly offended. "Pardon?"
"He is brilliant, yeah, but there's nothing unintelligible about what he does. He simply wants everything to be clever to keep the wheels in his head turning around."
Sherlock puffs. "I'm already fed up with this conversation. John, can I use your phone?"
"Sure. It's in the kitchen." His friend doesn't even ask why he can't use his own. He knows it is a lost battle.
"Too far," he idly complains and looks up at Giulia. "Can I borrow yours?"
"Don't you have one?"
When she said that everything he does is understandable, she was referring to his deductive methods; she still has to put up with his infinite laziness.
"Yes, but I left mine in the bedroom. Can I take your phone, please?" he asks impatiently; his plead could not sound more forced.
She digs her phone out of her pocket and hands it to him, but immediately asks for it back.
"Sorry, I forgot to unlock it. You should give it back if you want to use it: it's password-protected."
He raises an eyebrow in a full display of his arrogance. "Won't be a problem."
"Excuse me?"
"Unluckily, these little obstacles don't deter him. My computer is password-protected, too." John sighs, nodding at the laptop that Sherlock has been using all along.
"Do you really think you can guess my phone code?" She asks dazed.
"I don't guess; I deduce," he corrects her.
"Go on, then: show me."
Sherlock keeps her phone between his folded palms and props his chin on his hands, keeping his eyes fixed on her.
"Let me think. You are a practical, organised woman, and here's a four-digit code—"
"Wait a minute," she interrupts him. "How can you be sure it's four numbers? It's not compulsory; one could set up any combination: five, six, even ten numbers."
"Yes, one could," he admits, then grins at her. "But I'm pretty sure you didn't."
"Why?" She struggles to understand how he can see through her so easily.
"Because I'm not playing with numbers on a keyboard, I'm playing with you. I've started with simple observations: an international PhD student that keeps in touch with friends and family abroad. You hardly ever turn on your computer and for research stuff only, suggesting you check everything directly on your smartphone: e-mails, websites, news, messages. You must use it often during the day. Why on earth a reasonable, busy person who has loads of occasions to unlock her phone would ever bother to press several numbers every - single - time? Conclusion: you probably went for the easiest and fastest option."
She stares at him for a second, speechless, drawing one conclusion herself: he has been observing her.
"Fine. Sorry for interrupting."
"You didn't deny my conclusion, so I'll assume I'm right. Now, four numbers, chosen by you—quite a smart woman, I'll concede it, but still banal from my perspective."
She frowns at him, even though after some weeks of cohabitation, she knows better than to take offence at his hateful remarks.
"Banal and four numbers: likely a date, possibly a birthday, but your birthday?" he says in an unconvinced tone.
"You don't know when I was born," she talks back.
"I don't, but it's sort of public knowledge: all of your closest friends and each member of your family would know your code. Too risky."
"You're assuming I'm not inclined to show the content of my phone."
"I'm assuming it's a personal matter. You may have secrets there. Almost everyone has." He shrugs, surprised by the look on her face, both amused and insulted at once.
"I'm not so naïve," she protests.
Sherlock freezes. "Naïve," he repeats the word aloud. "It would be indeed naïve to choose your own birthday, but there's more; you are not self-centred, and I've always thought this would be an egotistic choice. Not your birthday, then. There's still a chance the code might refer to a mother's, father's or sibling's birthday. But then again, who would be so attached to their own family?"
"Sherlock," Watson scolds him.
"What? It isn't nice? I don't care, John. I'm striving to be objective. No, no birthdays. It must be something different. Let's focus." He closes his eyes for three seconds, then snaps them open.
"Focus. Yes, your focus; something you care about. You came to England from Italy for your PhD and education, your research and work matter a lot to you." He comes to a halt and nods confidently. "That's it: the code is related to your studies. Definitely a date: a particular day, but which one?"
"You said she left her country to study abroad. Maybe the day she came to London?" John suggests.
"No, too recent. She's a creature of habit; she wouldn't have changed her code because of this event, just some weeks ago. She must have used the same methodical sequence for at least a year, maybe two. A significant date, apparently." Holmes stares at her standing in the middle of the room and smiles triumphantly. "Perhaps the successful completion of the course of your studies. You're doing a PhD and I'm pretty sure you got both a Bachelor's and a Master's degree, correct?"
She nods.
"When did you get your Master's?"
She keeps an unreadable face and replies plainly, "Some time ago. I took a few, erm, sabbatical years. On the 3rd of July 2020, by the way."
"Good. Now I have two options left: either the complete date 3-7-2-0 or just the day and month. You are precise, and I've observed you studying: you usually write the date at the top of the page and always put all the zeros in it. You are very meticulous, indeed. No year, but simply 0-7-" He starts pressing the numbers but stops. "Hold on. You aren't American; you are Italian. The day first, then."
He deletes the numbers and types the code again from the beginning.
"0-3-0-7. Here we are, the moment of truth," he announces, keeping the phone up in the air for all to see.
"Are you sure?" She tests his ego.
He keeps his eyes on the screen. "Undoubtedly."
He confirms the code, but the phone doesn't unlock. A sign appears on it: Error. Try again.
"What a pity," she mocks him with a sneer. "I enjoyed your deductions, by the way."
He stares at the screen. "I was so sure. What did I get wrong?"
"Technically, three numbers out of four, but most of the things you said were very accurate. You made only one mistake."
"Only one? But I got three digits wrong," he objects, confused.
Giulia grabs the phone from his hand and smiles at the baffled detective.
"You said it, Sherlock: it's not about the numbers, it's about me. I haven't chosen a date, I'm not so banal..." She smirks at the last word and types four numbers then turns the screen to show it to him.
"I'm even more simplistic than that."
The code is 2-5-8-0.
"Everything you said was on point. Yes, I'm practical. Yes, I'm busy and I use my smartphone again and again during my day. No, I've never changed my code; I'm used to it. And you know why? Because it's handy; those are the central numbers, the easiest to press with the thumb when holding the phone with one free hand. A simple stroll on the keypad, with no relevant meaning."
She hands back the phone for him to use.
"Do you see now what I meant about you and your apparent genius attitude earlier? You always want everything to be clever, but you risk being disappointed: sometimes people just aren't the challenge you'd like to face." And with that, she goes back downstairs.
He watches her leave. She might be right about people in general, but her… Oh, she looks precisely like the kind of challenge he would like to pick.