CHAPTER 22: GUILTY AS CHARGED
"Here we go, finally. Ten years later, the great detective Sherlock Holmes solves one of his first cases. It would make an impressive headline. Too bad no one will ever know this story." Kevin pouts with false regret.
"Parliament? How did you figure it out?" Giulia addresses Sherlock, wide-eyed and shocked.
"By putting the pieces together. While I was coming here, Mycroft phoned me asking for advice, odd as it may seem. He sounded stressed and worried, which indicates business, possibly a state matter. He said that all his men and agents were busy; it must be something serious, then. Lots of guardians mean lots of targets gathered altogether somewhere. The only question left was where, but my cabbie and his rants about the traffic caused by political events helped me figure it out," Sherlock sums up impossibly fast.
"But if he is here to finish an old job, it means that the Parliament was his original target all along."
"Precisely. Ten years ago, he murdered his spy-girlfriend exactly the day before the State Opening of Parliament," Holmes clarifies.
"How could you remember something like that?" She gapes at him. His recollection is even more surprising, considering that Sherlock is overtly uninterested in politics.
"Since it was one of my first cases, I bought the newspaper the next day just to read about my success as a consulting detective. Yes, I know, I indulged in a bit of complacency; I was younger, then," he says in a self-deprecating tone. "Anyway, I remember I was disappointed to see that the first three pages were all taken up by articles about the State Opening of Parliament. The news about his arrest and my contribution to the case only came much later. At the time, I could never imagine that the two facts were related, but today I cannot ignore all the clues. The US Secretary of State landed yesterday in the UK, and I bet he will deliver a speech today in Parliament. Am I wrong, Mr Rummer?"
"Right, as always, Mr Holmes," the kidnapper confirms politely. "Ten years ago, I chose the Parliament as my big show because I wanted to take my personal revenge against the British Secret Service. Not only they had collaborated with the CIA on the mission that almost cost my life, deciding to let my squad go to the field without a proper backup plan, but when an explosion blew to pieces the building I was in, they also prevented the Agency from sending someone to check if I was alive or dead. They argued it would be too risky an operation. I got the message: I was disposable. What I never understood, though, was the reason they felt the urge to put an undercover agent on my tail to spy on me the moment they caught wind of my possible presence in London. What threat could ever pose a dead man?" He lifts a corner of his mouth in a grotesque smile.
"That's it? Does it all come down to revenge in the end?" Sherlock asks him, slightly disappointed.
"Revenge is often the motive of a crime. In my case, it's the motive of my entire existence. The British Secret Service let me die (or so they thought) in an explosion at the top of my career, so I wanted to let their reputation fall apart in the explosion of the Parliament during one of the most relevant political events. I always repay in kind." His perennial smug smile is getting on Sherlock's nerves.
"However, ten years ago, you didn't get the job done because of me. Now that you are back from prison, you decided to stick to your old plan while seizing the chance to retaliate against your own country too, against the very ones who betrayed you by never even trying to find out what had happened to you." Sherlock hints at the presence of the US Secretary of State in Parliament.
"After all, my government has always suspected me of high treason and conspiracy, so why would I disappoint them now?" Kevin asks rhetorically.
"Fine. You did this to quench your thirst for vengeance, I get it. But I still don't see how Giulia should be involved in all this." Holmes glowers at him. He's done playing.
"I took her to get to you, simple as that."
"Then why her and not John, for instance? If you just wanted to get my attention, you could have kidnapped my other flatmate," Sherlock inquires, avoiding Giulia's gaze.
Kevin pretends to ponder that option while rubbing his chin.
"Yeah, I'm sure you'd be quite concerned if he was in danger. Long-standing personal ties make for great leverage, no doubt. But with her, there's something more. I wanted to exploit a sensitive subject between the two of you: trust."
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Kevin knows way too much. He tries to fake indifference and nonchalantly comments, "I don't trust her. Is that all you care about?"
"And yet you are here to save her. You're so predictable. But I wasn't talking about you. The intriguing thing is that she doesn't trust you. She never told you about her backstory, for a start," Kevin teases him.
He definitely knows too much. But then again, what else could be expected from a spy? Sherlock mentally sighs while the dreadful foreboding of being outsmarted descends on him.
"Not on my account. Whatever she may have experienced in her life, she now has some issues dealing with other people and trusting them. She didn't tell John, either."
"But she told your brother," Kevin drops in.
That sentence hits the mark, and Sherlock blinks repeatedly, bewildered. "What?"
"Oh, look at your face: so disoriented. She does trust a member of the Holmes family and turns to him whenever needed; I thought you'd noticed. You might want to know that they also secretly meet every week and exchange information: sometimes it's inside her university, sometimes at the library, etcetera etcetera," he lists, gesturing theatrically. "I discovered they rely on each other for very delicate matters, about which you have clearly been kept in the dark. Am I lying, sweetheart?"
Kevin looks menacingly at Giulia, who stares back at him, pressing her lips together in a flat line. Then she looks down and bites her bottom lip before lifting her eyes to the detective and whispering, "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."
He stands still, arms abandoned by his sides, eyes fixed on her watery eyes. How could they do that to him? How could his own brother go behind his back? To be quite honest, that's not even a big deal. They don't exactly have the best relationship. Sometimes, it feels like they don't have a relationship at all.
But her... How could Giulia do that, not telling him about those meetings, not telling anything whatsoever about her past? The worst part is that he can't even be mad at her. He isn't entitled to blame her since he was the first to push her away.
He stands up tall, but he feels that something just cracked inside him. Trust is a hazardous weakness.
"That's why my dear brother has always been so concerned about you. You are an essential asset, aren't you?" He fleers and looks her right in the eyes just for one second. Then he averts his gaze and nods twice, clearing his throat and becoming clear-headed again.
"Fine. It doesn't matter anymore. Mycroft is not here; I am. And you still haven't told me what my part in this story is," he challenges the kidnapper.
"I did tell you: I always repay in kind. This rule applies to you as well. Ten years ago, I underestimated you and ended up behind bars just because I had committed a murder and tried to make it look like an accident. But I learnt from my mistakes, and this time I swear that I'm going to be impeccable." Kevin overdoes a chef's kiss.
Sherlock immediately catches the meaning of that allusion.
"I got in the spirit of your insane game: I put you in jail for murder, so I suppose you will try to frame me with homicide as well. Who will be my victim, then? You?" He jests.
Kevin's lips bend in an evil grin. "No. Her."
Sherlock keeps silent, trying to convince himself that the shiver running down his spine is just a figment of his imagination. He states firmly, "I won't commit murder. I will not kill her."
Kevin shrugs dispassionately, the perfect image of utter indifference.
"In the end, what you do is absolutely irrelevant. It only matters what people think happened, what they think of you. And I am quite positive that there's a couple of people in Scotland Yard who'd be willing to believe that you are indeed a murderer." Kevin licks his lips, anticipating the shameful downfall of the great detective.
"I don't care what Sergeant Donovan and Anderson think that I might be capable of doing, but I have never put a gun to anyone's head," Sherlock raises his voice, wavering with anger.
"So far, Mr Holmes. So far. There's a first time for everything. But let me explain how it goes." Kevin carefully wears a pair of gloves and says, "You have two options. Option number one: I shoot her with this," and with one fluid movement, he pulls Sherlock's Browning L9A1 out of his pocket.
Holmes does a double-take when he sees his own firearm. There it is, his missing toy.
"Does it look familiar?" Kevin smiles down at the gun. "I had an accomplice of mine borrow it from your flat while you and Doctor Watson were in Giulia's apartment, discovering that your friend had disappeared. That nursery rhyme was a clever little riddle, wasn't it? I knew it wouldn't take you long to decipher its meaning, but it still bought enough time for my associate to break into your living room and collect something for me. As I was saying, if you choose option number one, I'll kill your friend right in front of your eyes, and you can't do anything to stop me. I want to remind you that you are constantly held at gunpoint." He nods to the guard aiming his gun at Sherlock's head.
"You will stand there and enjoy the show, but then you'll take the rap for her murder."
"How do you plan to frame me exactly? Just making sure that I will be found here alone with her dead body and my Browning is not enough. There has to be hard evidence," Sherlock retorts. He has been at enough crime scenes to know what is necessary to convict someone.
"Oh, but there is plenty of it. Ballistics will confirm that the bullet belongs to your gun—the very one that even Dr Watson would recognise. Thanks to the shooting game that you've played out of boredom this morning with the smiley face on your wall, you have gunpowder traces on your hands. The only fingerprints that will be found on the weapon are yours, of course; I took my precautions, as you can see." He waves his gloved hands in the air.
"Not to mention that you have a motive, too; virtually the whole neighbourhood heard your angry outbursts against her. Don't you think it might look suspicious? I'm pretty sure that after your recent shouting and temper tantrum, many people will be inclined to blame you for her murder."
Holmes glares at him. That psychopath really thought everything through. And deep down, Sherlock knows that those pieces of evidence would be more than enough to convince many people of his guilt.
"You want to turn the whole world against me? Go for it, knock yourself out. But don't think that I'm defenceless: I have an ace up my sleeve." Sherlock's eyes sparkle without the slightest hesitation.
"Who? Mycroft Holmes? Yeah, I'm sure he would side with his younger brother. He would even have the influence to spare you from a life sentence." Kevin nods pensively, evaluating that possibility. "Such a shame that he won't be there to help you out."
Sherlock frowns. His brother would never pass on the opportunity to throw such a thing back in his face for the rest of his days.
"What are you talking about?"
"Mr Holmes, your fame is utterly unjustified. You're so slow. The Parliament is my first target, remember? Your brother would never miss such a relevant political event. He is right there at this very moment, checking that everything is perfect, making sure that there isn't any threat…" he trails off, checking his watch and contemplating the perfection of his plan.
"Needless to say, he is within the blast radius. You can't save him now, and he won't be able to save you in the future."
The bank becomes eerily quiet as a disheartening sensation of defeat takes hold of the detective. Sherlock gazes upon vacancy for long seconds while he desperately forces his brain to come up with a solution. He processes every piece of information as he thrusts open all the doors in his mind palace only to find empty rooms. He has just one chance left, and he knows it.
He eventually surrenders and stares right into the killer's cold eyes.
"And what is option number two?"
That's a rhetorical question.
Kevin tilts his head and bares his teeth like a predator in front of its prey.
"Far easier, Mr Holmes," he answers, passing the gun to his guard, who hands it to Sherlock without ever lowering his own weapon.
"You shoot her."
Sherlock reaches out and slowly grabs the gun from the hands of the wary guard. He weighs the butt of the Browning in his hand: he has held his firearm so often that he doesn't even need to check the magazine to perceive that there is just one bullet in it. He looks down at the gun and tries to focus on his next move while a disturbing thought crosses his mind. With a weapon in his hand, is there really a line that can't be crossed?
Kevin glances at him and anticipates his thinking process.
"Before you do something rash and reckless, let's go through every possible scenario, shall we? You are now armed, and this could give the impression of levelling the playing field. But if you reconsidered the whole situation, you'd understand that you're still on the losing side. Let's think: what could be your best bet? Aiming for my head, for starters... Wrong!" he shouts. "In the time it'd take you to lift your arm and take aim, my friend here would put two bullets in your skull."
Sherlock takes a deep breath, reluctantly excluding that option from his mental list, then looks around the dark place. He shifts his eyes to the guard who is still aiming at him, and a corner of his mouth lifts upwards almost imperceptibly. But before he could make the slightest movement, Kevin forestalls him.
"I know what you're thinking: everything would be easier if you could just overcome my guard. Once again, that would be utterly useless because the moment you shoot in his direction, Giulia will die by my hand. I'm afraid I forgot to mention that I picked up another souvenir from your house. I thought it might come in handy."
He takes out of his pocket the multi-tool knife that the detective uses to stab his envelopes onto the mantelpiece. As Sherlock's eyes land on the shining blade, his mind presents him with the image of the ash falling from his hair onto some envelopes scattered on the floor by the fireplace, less than one hour before. There was a reason those envelopes weren't skewered on the wooden ledge. He was just too absorbed in the search for his Browning to notice that something was off in the messy living room. He closes his eyes, defeated.
"No matter what you do, you're at a dead end. She will be murdered with a weapon that belongs to you, and you're going to be held responsible, anyway. You can't save her. There's no room for a selfless sacrifice either: I'm not giving you the luxury of taking her place and playing the part of the fearless knight." Kevin anticipates even that last desperate possibility.
"I haven't been awarded the knighthood yet, technically."
Kevin smirks at his snarky comment: soon, Sherlock Holmes won't be in the mood to joke anymore. He just needs one last push.
"I haven't been completely forthright, though. If you're not the one to pull the trigger and instead decide to leave me the pleasure of this homicide, I promise you I won't make it quick, let alone painless. I will torture her before your eyes until she begs you to shoot to spare her all the excruciating pain."
Suddenly, Kevin leans forward and pulls Giulia's chair towards him, making the small wheels creak and roll over the floor. He rapidly draws the blade of the multi-tool knife and places it near Giulia's cheek. Sherlock feels as if his heart had suddenly jumped in his throat, stopping him from breathing. There's no time for irrational reactions. Pull yourself together! He yells at himself inside his brain.
Giulia screams and tries to wiggle out of that iron grip, in vain. The blade brushes her skin just for one second, then Kevin withdraws the knife and pushes the chair away, leaving her paralysed in full sight under the beam of light: the perfect target. She squints her eyes, terrified. A single tear rolls down her face, passes over the little fresh cut that has just formed on her cheek, and blends with a drop of blood, eventually turning into a crimson bead that glides down to her chin.
Kevin gazes at both their faces, frozen in terror.
"Make up your mind, Holmes. Do you want to be the protagonist or the spectator of this tragedy? What's your choice, option number one or two?" He trills in a singsong fashion, and the echo of his voice disperses in the room right when the detective believes to hear a door click. Is he hallucinating now? Or is there a sniper hidden in the dark pointing a red dot at his back, too?
Shadowy memories of a similar scene (the kidnapping of one of his friends, coupled with the doomed confrontation with a criminal in a deserted building) are projected inside his mind like frames on a screen: Moriarty and the pool.
Sherlock breathes in and swallows hard, regaining control over his body.
"I don't see why it should be important. The outcome is always the same: she dies, and everyone will think that I am the murderer."
Giulia looks daggers at him, a faint red trace still on her cheek. Does he realise he is talking about her murder?
"But what will you think of yourself? Jail time never passes, I can tell you. And a feverish mind like yours could do terrible things; it can torment you for months, driving you crazy. What will you think when you are locked up? Will you blame yourself for not being able to save her, or will you also feel guilty about killing her with your own hands?"
Sherlock sighs. Kevin is right about one thing. The conscience is the only court before which everyone always faces their trial, in the end.
"That's it, then. Not only do you wish to destroy my reputation and see me rot in jail, but you also want to turn me into a monster," the detective finally realises.
Kevin smiles proudly at him. Sherlock Holmes is about to fall. Oh, the satisfaction of that moment. He has waited ten endless years to taste it.
"Time's up. The choice is all yours."
Sherlock exhales and raises his Browning toward Giulia, aiming at her head.
"I never had a choice and we both know that," he murmurs. He isn't addressing him anymore but her.
She nods. She wishes she had the strength to tell him that she understands and forgives him. She wishes she could be strong and embrace death peacefully. It seems just right: she managed to ditch the Grim Reaper before, but she can't escape it forever. But she is not ready to die.
She closes her eyes and waits for the end.
A split second before his finger can pull the trigger, Sherlock hears a whisper coming from the opposite side of the room. Just a couple of words: Vatican Cameos.
Then a gunshot echoes in the room.
Author's note: Dear readers, I would love to hear your thoughts and comments on this work. I'm curious: what do you think of this story so far? Are you enjoying the cases? What about the characters?
Please, don't be shy; any kind of feedback (constructive criticism included) is highly appreciated. Thank you.