CHAPTER 23: HIDE AND SEEK
When the gunshot resonates inside the bank, Sherlock instinctively crouches down, gripping his Browning tightly in his hands and kneeling in a firing position. He sees the expression on the killer's face changing rapidly: a wince of pain instantly replaces his scornful grin. Kevin brings both his hands to his hip, where a dark red stain is spreading across his clothes. He collapses to the ground, howling like a wounded beast.
Sherlock's brain takes a moment to register what is going on. Someone has just shot Kevin. Not just anyone, but the only person who would whisper to him the words 'Vatican Cameos' in a dangerous situation: John Watson. John is in the room right now. Given the angle of the shot and the origin of that whisper, he must be right behind his back.
His conclusions are confirmed when the guard quickly scans the room with his eyes and aims in his general direction. In a flash of lucidity, Sherlock raises his gun and shoots at the nearest light, precipitating almost the entire room into the darkness.
"Dammit! Why didn't you try to hit him instead?" John complains, trudging clumsily in the dark, just a few feet away from him.
"Because I had just one bullet: had I missed, I would've have been a sitting duck. So, I chose to become more difficult a target," Sherlock calmly explains, trying to take stock of the situation.
"You mean you are completely unarmed now?" John whispers, struggling to keep his voice down. "I thought we could overcome them."
"We still can. One of them is down and the other is blind," Sherlock points out.
"So are we, Sherlock."
"Well then, Captain. It's time to dust off your army skills. You take care of that big guy while I free Giulia," he commands, slipping away in the dark.
"Copy that," John promptly replies and crawls behind a pillar while his eyes search the room, looking for the armed guard.
Sherlock slides silently next to Giulia, who is still tied to the chair, shaking. When he is just a few feet away from her, he hears her muttering something under her breath; it looks like she is reciting a sequence of numbers.
"17...34...51...68..."
He touches her arm softly to wake her from her trance, and she flinches in fear.
"It's alright, it's me," he mutters in a vaguely reassuring tone. "We need to get rid of these ropes and we're going to do it together, okay?"
He comes within her visual range and stares into her eyes. She nods, quivering visibly.
"I need your cooperation. Help me find the multi-tool knife he stole from my flat. He must have dropped it when he was shot," he says, fiddling with her bonds in the dim light.
At the far end of the room, they hear John assault and disarm the guard, then getting into a fistfight with him as they both roll on the floor, one on top of the other. Giulia and Sherlock look in his direction for a second, then their eyes meet again: he can read fear and horror in her gaze, but he is not sure how to comfort her.
He is not good at it. He can't deal with emotions; they would cloud his judgement. However, it doesn't take him his deduction skills to understand that she needs his support right now.
He averts his gaze, searching the ground for the blade, and murmurs, "Listen, I know it's hard, but I promise we will survive."
He finally spots his knife and starts cutting the ropes while she ironically replies, "Sherlock, has anyone ever told you not to make promises you can't keep?"
"If they did, I wasn't paying attention."
He kneels down next to her and is almost done loosening the grip around her wrists when he feels a cold object pressed against his temple.
"Freeze." Kevin's voice booms throughout the room, causing even John to stop in the middle of the brawl to look at them. The killer is pointing a small handgun at Sherlock's head while pressing his other hand on his blood-dripping wound.
Sherlock closes his eyes and groans, waiting for the bullet to pierce his brain. If that's the end, he is going to be infinitely disappointed.
"Say your prayers, Holmes," Kevin hisses, fighting through his unbearable pain.
In that minuscule fraction of time, Sherlock feels as if the world stopped, frozen in time and space. He enters his mind palace, but he must be quick: after all, he only has a split second. Still, that's more than enough time to decide how he will die: he is going to take Kevin with him.
He realises that he still has his multi-tool knife in his hand. If he is fast enough, he could dart to his left while turning halfway around, then raise his right hand and stab him right in the lungs. Obviously, in the time it would take him to perform this movement, Kevin will probably react, adjust the aim, and shoot him dead. But at least he would bring him down, too. A life for a life.
The split-second has passed: Sherlock is back to reality again and smirks cruelly.
"I pray that hell truly exists because I'd love to torture you for all eternity."
He is about to leap to his death when a deafening roar erupts in the room. Everyone's head turns instinctively towards the source of the noise, and they all witness as a door is torn off the hinges.
"I feel like you just stole my line. Freeze. Drop your weapon, now," a familiar croaky voice orders to Kevin.
Detective Inspector Lestrade and his police team spread out in the room, guns blazing. Kevin reluctantly drops his handgun and surrenders while his guard is cuffed on the other side of the room. Sherlock stares wide-eyed at the scene, struggling to fully comprehend what is going on.
"How did you know we were here?" He mumbles, dazed.
Greg turns towards him and frowns. Just three seconds ago, he was about to get a bullet in the head, and the first thing that crosses his brain is to inquire about police response time? Typical of him.
"John told me over the phone. He accidentally blurted out that Giulia was held hostage at an Italian bank at the corner of King William Street, assuming that I already knew everything. Then he hung up hurriedly, and it was clear there was a massive problem at this address. We came as soon as possible."
"Impeccable timing, Inspector." Sherlock stands up from his crouching position to shake his hand. Greg reciprocates the handshake, surprised by his unexpected kindness. That must be the first (and possibly last) time Sherlock compliments him. Is that a side effect of a near-death experience?
"You!" John's angry voice echoes behind his back.
Sherlock turns around to face him. "Save your breath. I already know your frankly wide vocabulary of insults."
"You've been so stupidly reckless," Watson bursts out.
"All in all, that's actually one of the nicest things you've ever said to me," Sherlock sarcastically notices.
"Why did you lie to me?"
"I did it for your own—"
"Don't even start," John cuts him short, lifting a hand in front of his face. "It was not to protect me; I can perfectly look after myself. And don't you dare say that you did it for Giulia, since you almost got her killed."
Sherlock bites his lip and awkwardly passes a hand through his hair, ruffling it.
"I may have made a miscalculation and underestimated my opponent."
"Or rather, you overestimated yourself. You're such a show-off," John snorts.
"I simply thought the whole situation was my fault, and I wanted to set things right," he candidly admits, renouncing witty comebacks.
John stares into his eyes. He is not lying: that's his plain truth. He wasn't trying to play the part of the hero. He felt somehow responsible for Giulia and her abduction. But it's Sherlock: why would he care?
"Well, don't do it again," and his tone is pleading rather than reproachful.
"Promise." Sherlock jokingly lays a hand on his heart and says, "I know that the soldier in you hates to miss all the action."
"You idiot," John mutters under his breath, walking away with a faint smile.
Holmes smiles back, then turns around in time to see a shadow approaching the scene. When he finally focuses on the silhouette, he grimaces, bewildered. That's the last man he would expect to see there at that moment.
"Mycroft, what the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock exclaims when he sees his brother walk inside the bank.
The eldest Holmes stops in the middle of the room and casually leans against his umbrella, grimacing.
"This isn't the warm reception I was expecting to receive."
"Pardon me, nobody told me I was part of the welcoming committee," Sherlock snaps back.
Mycroft glowers at him, then the corners of his mouth bend in a grin.
"Oh, I see why you are so angry to see me. You are disappointed that I am not dead."
"Disappointed that I won't get the whole of our parents' inheritance? Maybe. But I'd rather say surprised. What happened, or rather what stopped a catastrophic event from happening at the Parliament?"
"It was me, of course," Mycroft says proudly, indulging in a moment of self-appreciation. "During our call, I told you I had doubts and suspicions about a delicate business, and I am fairly sure that now you know what I was talking about," he hints at the attempted attack during a political meeting at the British Parliament, and Sherlock silently nods, letting him continue.
"I could feel that something wasn't right, so I intensified the level of security. I made my agents search everywhere for the slightest threat until they found a bomb hidden in the security control room. It was promptly disposed of, and nobody in the building got hurt. As to how that device ended up there, it is still a mystery that I hope our American spy will unravel soon." He stares ominously at Kevin, who is handcuffed and driven away in a police car.
"The security control room? Ironic and quite impressive. How can a single man arrange all that?"
Mycroft shakes his head slowly. "One alone can't. I am inclined to believe that he is part of an organisation or a criminal network. You should tread carefully."
His younger brother rolls up his eyes and changes the subject.
"You still haven't answered my first question: what are you doing here?"
Mycroft casually loosens the knot in his tie, his face noticeably stressed after the long, intense day.
"Checking on my little brother, of course. My employees kept me updated on your movements. When I got wind that the police were coming here, I came too. I constantly worry about you, brother dear."
"You're lying. This is precisely the second time you've shown up on a case in which Giulia was directly involved. I would call it a coincidence, but I know all too well what you think of coincidences," he says suggestively. "That spy was not only a mediocre criminal but also a blabbermouth. He said that you secretly meet with Giulia on a weekly basis to exchange information. What's happening here, brother mine?"
Mycroft recoils at that mention and eagerly retorts, "None of your business."
"She lives under my roof; it is my business, indeed. I want the truth, Mycroft."
"And you'll have it, but not from me. She will tell you everything when she's ready. For the moment, just know that it is a matter of her past," his sibling cryptically replies.
"I know from personal experience that the past will always come back to haunt everyone, eventually," Sherlock thoughtfully affirms, looking around the bank. A case that he thought he closed ten years ago almost ruined his present and compromised his future. Demons, ghosts, shadows: whatever we leave behind without a direct confrontation is never really gone. It all dwells silently in the shadows until it surfaces back again.
"This time it's different." Mycroft steals a glance at Giulia; a team of paramedics are checking her up.
"How?"
"She is haunting it," Mycroft allusively replies. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to inquire about Giulia's health status," with that, he walks away, swinging his umbrella in the air.
As he comes near her, he gently places a hand on her shoulder, startling her.
"It's just me. Apologies, I didn't mean to scare you," he murmurs in a tone slightly softer than his usual icy arrogance.
She lifts her gaze to him and forces a feeble smile, trying to get rid of the sudden fright.
"Hello, Mycroft. Sorry for my reaction. I might be a bit oversensitive right now."
"It's perfectly understandable. Are you alright?"
"I'm alive. That's a start."
"I'm here because I have sensitive information for you." He drops his voice to a whisper, cutting to the chase.
She arches her brows, surprised. "I thought you'd prefer to meet in less crowded places," she says, hinting at the bunch of people that know them both. Although, in fairness, nobody is paying attention to them at the moment.
"Now that Sherlock has found out about our meetings, I'm certain he won't give you a break: he will follow you everywhere. Honestly, it's been a rough day, and I don't have the resources or the strength to go play hide-and-seek with my brother. So please, just do me a favour and try to gesture widely while you talk in order to give the impression that you're describing what just happened to you."
"Got it." She emphasises every word with ample movements of her hands. "I'm all ears. What did you find?"
"As you already know, the criminal organisation that we suspect to be behind the events that destroyed your life last year has its headquarters here in London. We think that there is only one person at the head of the organisation, and rumour has it that such a mysterious criminal could currently be in town as well. I cannot give you further details at the moment: verifications are still ongoing, and we don't have a clear idea about the leader's identity yet. It's a little more than whispers, but it's enough for me to believe it is no longer safe for you to stay here. You should start thinking about a new city."
She holds his gaze. "No. I came here to have answers and some closure, and I have every intention to get to the bottom of my story."
He can read a fierce determination in her eyes, so he simply nods.
"Fine, but please allow me to put a personal security detail on you. I used to think that my brother was the most dangerous threat in Baker Street, but after the events of today, I realised that far worse evils await behind every corner."
"I don't want a security detail. But if it makes you feel better, I think just one man will be enough," she concedes. She is quite certain that Mycroft Holmes is not used to taking no for an answer—she will be no exception.
"Deal. From now on, you'll have a guardian angel," Mycroft approves, jotting down some notes on his agenda.
"Sounds good to me. Get some rest now. You look like you need it." She smiles weakly at him, noticing the dark circles under his eyes.
He raises his head imperiously and regains his composure.
"Good night, Miss Giulia. Take care of yourself."