CHAPTER 15: LIE DETECTOR
When Sherlock walks out of the interrogation room, he squints his eyes at a familiar silhouette in the middle of Scotland Yard's lobby.
"Look who honours us with his presence," he says in fake surprise and an edge of disdain.
Mycroft Holmes is leaning casually on a black umbrella and rolls his eyes at that remark.
"Hello, brother mine. I've heard you solved the murder, in the end." An undertone of sarcasm veils his voice.
"I did. Why are you here, other than to spoil my fun?"
"Mycroft," Giulia exclaims, walking towards him with a wide smile. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"I could say the same about you," he replies, looking around the police station with a disapproving grimace.
She chuckles and stretches her hand out. "Thank you for your invaluable help."
He shakes it firmly. "Anytime."
"Oh wait, it's obvious. You wanted to check on Giulia—the woman who called you from a prison cell," Sherlock says.
"It was merely a holding room," his brother retorts, jumping to her defence.
"Ignore him. He is just jealous because you instantly replied to my distress call but dismissed his request," Giulia addresses the elder, disparaging Sherlock's insinuations.
"Now, I'll leave you to your siblings moment." She winks at them. "Sherlock, I'll wait for you outside. Thanks again, Mycroft, and apologies for all the trouble I may have caused you. Have a good night." She waves at him and steps away.
They watch as she walks through the glass doors of Scotland Yard's lobby, then Sherlock cocks a brow at his brother.
"Should I believe you found your damsel in distress?"
"Is this a childish plea for my attention?"
"No, it's a warning."
Mycroft turns his head to him with an interrogative look. "About?"
Sherlock shoots him an eloquent glance and spells out, "Disadvantage, brother dear."
"Don't be silly. You think you can see through everything, but I must tell you: you are in thick fog, in this case," Mycroft teases him with a smirk. Torturing his little brother by highlighting his obliviousness gives him some subtle contentment.
"What are you implying? What is it about?" Sherlock eagerly questions him.
"You'll find out in due time. After all, I thought you'd like a little puzzle," is his enigmatic response. "Now, if you'll pardon me, I am here on important business. Good night, brother mine."
He walks away, swinging his umbrella and approaching Lestrade, who is just coming out of the interrogation room, a stack of papers tucked under his armpit. He loathes the paperwork.
"Detective Inspector, I trust that you'll deal with this unfortunate hitch in the best possible way," Mycroft states peremptorily, without even bothering to greet him first.
"No need to worry, Mr Holmes. Everything's under control," Greg affirms confidently.
"Everything?" Mycroft frowns, disappointed. "You don't seem to understand: this whole thing never happened. Are we clear?" His burning eyes fulminate the police officer.
Lestrade clears his throat and gulps nervously. "Yes, sir."
"No record of any kind," Mycroft insists.
The D.I. scratches his chin with his thumb, uncomfortable with that conversation.
"Well, you see, this is not the way we do it—"
"It is now." Mycroft doesn't even blink. He simply slips a hand inside the breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, handing it to him without further commentary.
The inspector skims the text, turning pale. He raises his eyes on Mycroft and nods vigorously.
"No records at all," he assures.
Sherlock scrutinises the scene from afar and scowls at the ambiguity of Lestrade's sudden change of attitude. Then he shakes his head and steps out into the frosty November air. Giulia is waiting for him on the pavement.
It's a chilly night, but they decide to walk back home.
After several minutes of utter silence, Giulia breaks the ice. "You still don't believe me, do you?"
He doesn't turn in her direction but keeps staring ahead.
"You're wrong. I know you didn't commit that murder."
She instantly catches a whiff of distrust in his words.
"That? You think I could actually commit one, that I'd be able to kill?"
His eyes are fixed into the distance. "I highly doubt it."
"Yet you are not sure." Her voice is firm, calm: no anger, no disappointment, no sadness.
He sighs and turns around to look at her.
"The first time we met at 221B, I thought I knew everything about you. I deduced every single detail; there was nothing left to discover. And I was absolutely sure of it. However, in my life, I've learnt the hard way that I can be wrong, too. It doesn't happen too often, but it's a... possibility." He wrinkles his nose confronted with the repugnant evidence that he, too, is human.
"What I'm trying to say is, I would like to be sure about you, but I don't want to be cocky and underestimate the person in front of me."
She nods, then twitches her lips in a half-smile. "I'm not a murderer, by the way."
"Good to know."
They walk for a bit, spending a few more minutes deep in thought, then Sherlock speaks again.
"As much as it pains me to admit it, part of this situation is on me. I shouldn't have brought you to the crime scene, in the first place. Even though I expected you to be smarter than to get framed by that guy. I mean, seriously?" He raises a brow at her, and she shrugs defensively.
"He seemed nice and polite. How could I suspect him? He was with the police. Shouldn't they be the most trustworthy guys at a crime scene?"
He takes a deep breath, choosing his words with care. He would have much to say about trust.
"It's often the people no one would ever grow suspicious of, who are the very ones no one should trust," he affirms cryptically.
She ponders his statement for a couple of seconds, then infers, "You don't trust me."
"I don't blindly trust you," he specifies.
She nods serenely. "Good, that's good."
He grimaces, throwing her a side glance. "That's not what people normally say."
"And what do people normally say?"
"I guess something along the lines of, You can trust me: I won't hurt you," Sherlock conjectures, ill at ease with standardised social behaviour.
"I definitely won't hurt you. Or John. Look, Sherlock, trust me or not: I will understand you either way. But if you have questions, just ask. I'm right here."
He comes to a grinding halt. "Who are you?"
She stops in front of him and fixes her eyes on his.
"My name is Giulia. I'm Italian, and I am a PhD researcher. I live at 221C Baker Street."
He raises a mocking brow. "I didn't need the last bit."
"Yeah you did. It was your most certain reference. I gave you one fact whose truthfulness you are completely sure of so that you could study my reactions in front of the truth, searching my face, my eyes for the slightest twitch. Now you can accurately establish whether the other things I said were true or false. It's the same principle on which the polygraph test is based; you start by asking the subject some information you already possess just to see how they deal with true statements."
Her explanation is concise and methodical, and Sherlock does a double-take when he hears it.
"How do you know that?"
She smirks and turns her face toward the road ahead.
"What are my results, detective? What did you deduce from my introduction?" Her voice almost gets lost in the wind as she walks up the street.
He follows suit, catching up with her. "Everything was true."
"Very observant. Giulia is, in fact, my real name."
"But Ferrini is not your last name," he logically concludes.
"No, it's my new identity, but that's irrelevant. I asked and got to keep my first name. I still wanted to be myself." She cannot hide a trace of pain in her voice.
They walk side by side, without touching, without looking at each other. It feels like there is a chasm between them.
"What else?" Sherlock inquires after a while.
"I am indeed a PhD researcher, and my nationality is Italian. You correctly deduced those two things during our first meeting. Congratulations: you can still trust your capabilities," she jokes around.
"But I was wrong about one detail: you aren't just a foreign national that came to London to do some research and have a new exciting experience after some sabbatical years." There is a self-deprecating note in his voice. He reproaches himself for his inaccuracy.
She sighs heavily. "It's a matter of perspective. In a way, I did come here to change my life."
He puckers his lips. "This is a half-truth."
"It's better than a whole lie, isn't it? That's just one side of the story."
He makes one logical assumption. "You were on the run. Who were you running away from?"
"Bad people."
"That's not very specific," he says, slightly annoyed at her vagueness.
"Because that's not a story I am very willing to tell. I told you the truth: I wanted to change my life." She averts her gaze, fighting against a lump in her throat.
"No, you needed to," he corrects her, studying her every move: the furrow between her eyebrows, her clenched fists hidden deep inside the pockets of her coat.
"Does it matter? Now I'm here, I've settled in, and I intend to stay. My backstory is quite a complicated one. Please, don't bother asking. I'll tell you everything when I'm ready. Is it good enough for you?" Her tone is pleading.
He stares at her for a long instant. No, of course, it isn't. He is Sherlock Holmes: he must always know everything. But he cannot say that to her face: it wouldn't be kind or nice or socially acceptable, would it? He has to respect her, respect her space and her silence. He doesn't even have to understand or be empathetic. He just needs to wait and give her time. That's what people do, don't they? They protect their friends from pain, whether it comes from an external menace or sorrowful memories.
He doesn't reply but simply asks, "How did you know about that lie detector trick?"
"Because I spent some time with experts who knew that sort of stuff."
He glances at her, waiting for further explanation. She holds his gaze, feeling cornered, and surrenders.
"When you have to survive in deep waters, you need to learn how to swim among sharks."
"You've been trained by those experts," he instantly interprets the obscure meaning of her metaphor.
"Sort of. Only on defence techniques, though."
"Why?"
"It was my choice. I've always hated violence. I'm not the one who strikes first, but I know how to protect myself. Most of the time," she adds in a playful tone, cursing her carelessness that almost got her jailed.
Sherlock appears satisfied with that answer and remains silent for the rest of the stroll.
As they are approaching 221 Baker Street, Giulia whispers, "I want to thank you for what you did for me."
"I was just doing my job," he says nonchalantly.
"But—"
"The fact that you are my flatmate didn't affect my judgement. Had you been guilty, I would have sealed your sentence," he cuts her short.
"Of course." She giggles even though she knows he is deadly serious. He is not the charitable type; all he looks for is the truth—be it pleasant or brutal, it doesn't matter.
He unlocks the front door, and they step in. She stops in front of the door of apartment C while he climbs the stairs.
"It was nice of you, anyway," she murmurs at his back.
He turns around to face her from the first flight of stairs.
"It was effective," he corrects her, and she nods with a faint smile, turning the key in the lock and opening the door.
"Don't do it again, please," Sherlock mumbles as she is about to cross the threshold of her apartment.
She spins around and cranes her neck to him with a smug smile. "What? Thanking you?"
He returns the amused look. "Getting charged with murder. That's so inconvenient."