CHAPTER 24: IDENTITY CRISIS
When his brother leaves the bank, Sherlock approaches Giulia and gives her a stiff nod of the head.
"I think it's time to go. We've been here far too long."
She follows him silently. They hop in a cab while John stays at the thwarted crime scene to describe to the police officers both the shooting and the scuffle in which the three of them almost lost their lives. Giulia and Sherlock keep quiet during the first part of the ride, both immersed in their own worlds, lost in thought.
After a while, Giulia stares absent-mindedly out of the car window and says, "I don't understand the very beginning of this case: was the ex-CIA agent also the murderer of the Alpes?"
"Yes," is Sherlock's laconic answer. No clever commentary, no pretentious show-off of his mental abilities.
She turns her head to look at him, struggling to put all the pieces together.
"How are today's events connected to the homicide that marked the beginning of this case?"
"They aren't—not directly, at least. I was the only connection," he replies shortly.
She scoffs at his terseness; he is usually generous with explanations if it means proving the superiority of his intellect.
"Why did he kill that man, then?" she insists. She wants some answers, and she is going to have them even if she has to force every word out of him.
He sighs and surrenders.
"To let me know he was a dangerous murderer—a psychopath that was out for blood. It was like a threatening letter to me. He wanted me to know that I got a target on my back, and so did all the people around me. It was not about killing someone; he couldn't care less about that skier. All he wanted was to draw my attention and get a reaction. He chose an unattached man, quite difficult to identify without documents, only to engage a relaxed, carefree Lestrade in the investigation, knowing that he would resort to me. In the end, the homicide was just a means to an end: to challenge me and lure me into his crazy game."
"And why the Alpes?" She asks again.
Sherlock raises a brow at her. Less than an hour before, she was kidnapped, held hostage, and had a gun pointed at her head. Necessary addition: he himself, her hideous flatmate who had kicked her out that very afternoon, was the one holding the gun, on the verge of taking her life. And now, all she has to say to him is inquire about a poor devil's death that was merely a distraction.
He thinks about it. Maybe that's the profound difference between the two of them: to him, the death on the Alpes was the insignificant collateral damage of a story that could have reaped many more victims. But to her, every life counts.
Perhaps that's why she embodies a mystery that he seems unable to unravel. He can't figure her out: she is not like him, neither does she behave like other people. He has always thought that she was ordinary, and in some ways, she actually is. Ordinary people do worry about death and murder victims; they would be concerned about one loss, just like she is now. But not after what has just happened. Normal people would be in shock. An ordinary woman would hate him for what he put her through. Why doesn't she?
He realises that several seconds have passed, and she is probably waiting for an answer.
"I told you when Lestrade initially phoned us about the case: pay attention to my words, please," he groans. "That criminal wanted to prove that he knew who my friends were. He caught Lestrade's attention even when he was on holiday, miles away from home. He aimed to instil the fear that nobody was safe, anywhere," he specifies reluctantly.
Fear. Was he indeed scared in the bank? That's ridiculous. After all, he wouldn't even care if he was framed for murder: he would help himself out, as he always does. Then why had he experienced some blurry moments of... trepidation (to put it kindly)?
"You aren't suggesting that the Great Sherlock Holmes got scared, are you?" She jibes him.
Sherlock averts his eyes to look out the window.
"Sometimes my body betrays me. I wish I could always control everything, but every once in a while, I'm forced to deal with this inefficient human nature. And I think I owe you an explanation for what happened. What Kevin Rummer did was play with my mind, with my false sense of security. I suppose you ought to know that I do not hate you, I don't find you annoying. And I definitely didn't want you to leave the flat. I was just trying to protect you. I pushed you away, hoping that you'd be safer away from me. I wanted to move you out of the target that was pinned on my back."
He lets out a deep sigh before continuing, "But I couldn't tell you the truth because I know how stubborn you are, and I knew you would never comply with my requests and just walk away willingly. So, I started acting like a jerk to get on your nerves. The point is, I thought it'd be easier; I was convinced that a couple of rude words would make you run away. But that wasn't the case, obviously, and you didn't give up. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that the only way of getting rid of you was to break you. That's why I faked some unjustified outbursts during which I said things I didn't think…" his voice dies in his throat.
He inhales as much air as his lungs can take. Regret is such a useless feeling, he mentally grumbles.
"I said things I'm not proud of. My apologies," he murmurs. Gosh, that was hard. How do people do this all the time, admitting their mistakes and apologising? Ghastly.
She is gaping at him. A thunderstorm of questions whirls in her mind. Is he serious? None of it was real? Wh... What? All those horrible things, both the subtle and explicit insults... Did he fake it all?
"It was all an act, then? You weren't really that mad about your drugs, about me touching your possessions, or simply living with you?"
"I admit I was slightly bothered about the drugs, but I might have exaggerated it a tad, for the sake of my little scene. And for your own sake, of course." He shrugs with an innocent smile.
She gawks at him, stunned. She takes an entire minute to soak in the truth about Sherlock's rude behaviour. Then she exclaims, "Stupid. Oh, so stupid."
He looks down and nods slightly. "Yeah, I know. Not the wisest idea in the world, apparently."
She shifts in her seat to face him and shakes her head.
"No, I wasn't talking about you. I was blaming myself. I should have seen it coming. I should have immediately understood. I used to think I knew you better than that."
This man is the most fascinating mystery she has ever encountered. An enigma, a coded message with no cypher to interpret it.
He gazes at her. "I could say the same about you. What the killer said—"
"He was wrong about me," she interrupts him. "I do trust you." Her voice is clear: no hesitation, no wavering. She means it, which makes it all the more unsettling for Sherlock. Because he knows that the problem is the other way around: he is the one who doesn't trust her.
He cocks a brow, unconvinced. "Then why haven't you told me your story?"
Her eyes travel all over his face before landing on his.
"Because letting you into my world would mean exposing you to grave danger, and I just wanted to protect you."
"I don't need protection," he spits out as if the mere idea was absurd.
"Maybe, but I've already lost enough people in my life. I don't like to put my friends in harm's way because of me," she says, her voice edged in guilt.
He is about to reply but stops dead, an unreadable look in his eyes.
"Am I your... friend?" he stumbles on the last word.
Her fond smile lights up her features.
"Yes, you are. You were there for me in my time of need—namely, my arrest on suspicion of murder, then my abduction and attempted homicide. You make fun of me all the time, you share your cases and your insane, disturbing world with me. That conforms to my definition of a friend. Do you have a problem with that?"
He shakes his head slowly. "No. I guess I simply thought that you had distanced yourself and considered me just like your rude junkie flatmate."
She hints at a smile and averts her eyes while her mind almost screams, Oh, Sherlock. You have no idea how much easier that would be.
"Giulia, if I am really your friend, please never lie to me again," he demands resolutely.
She tilts her head and frowns: his voice was deep, low. Is he hurt or only disappointed?
"Technically, I never lied to you. I omitted some things—" she starts, but he immediately cuts her short.
"Like the secret meetings with my brother, for instance." He squints at her. "Why Mycroft?"
"Can't you deduce why?"
"Yes, but I'm done guessing. I want to hear the truth from your mouth." He crosses his arms on his chest, waiting for a long-due explanation.
"Because he is at the head of a very delicate operation of the British Secret Service. He is my contact in the intelligence," she says, her words barely more than a whisper.
"That was plainly obvious. Don't trick me while feeding me crumbs: I'm quite observant. I've been watching your little dance all along. I noticed all the details; for example, on our second case together, Mr British Government himself immediately responded to your distress call by providing all the documents that would let you off the murder charges. Also, he ensured that Scotland Yard kept no records at all of your temporary custody; your name, picture, and any other reference had to disappear completely from the police archives. I saw him handing a note to Detective Inspector Lestrade: I don't doubt it was a formal request of silence and oblivion signed by the Secret Service," Sherlock comments sarcastically before going on. "I know my brother's role in the MI6. What I'm asking, though, is for you to tell me what your role in it is. Why are you involved with British intelligence? Why do you have a new identity? Did you testify against a drug lord? Were you in a criminal organisation that you are now helping to bring down?"
"Do you really think I would be capable of those things?" She asks, surprised.
"I don't know what to think anymore. And I don't like it."
She takes a deep breath. Time for some truth.
"Not so long ago, I had a perfect life, but perfection is not a thing of this world, and one day it all ended. To be more accurate, someone ended it."
He narrows his eyes. "Who?"
"That's the million-dollar question. I don't know, yet. All I know is that it wasn't just one person, and I'm not the only one on their tracks. When my life was falling to pieces, I stumbled upon an investigation by the British Secret Service: they were tracking down a nebulous criminal web that seemed to be responsible for the end of my world, too. When it became clear that my case and theirs were connected, I became a source of information and a sensible asset: I had to be protected and consulted about my life and what could have pushed that criminal organisation to cause all that trouble. The more links we could unearth, the easier it would be to identify the person behind it all, the very source. I demanded to be kept updated about all the developments in the investigation. Trust me, I have every intention of finding out who destroyed my life. So, to answer your question, by some twist of fate, I found myself in your brother's path: he was at the head of the MI6 operation and brought me in. He granted me protection and hid me by transferring me from city to city for months. Eventually, he let me settle in London. I asked to have my freedom back, and he gave it to me with a note left in my hotel room. I was on my own—no more security details, no more secret facilities in which I had always felt like a jailbird. No more anonymity. He provided me with a new identity and the chance at a new life: I could start over. The investigation is still ongoing, though."
"And that's why you two secretly meet: he is keeping you in the loop," he concludes.
She nods quietly.
"Now that you've finally painted the whole picture, I would very much like to know why the two of you pretended not to know each other when Mycroft came to the flat a few days after you had moved in." Sherlock glares at her, but she smiles and shrugs in reply.
"Believe it or not, that was indeed the first time we physically met. I knew he was the man calling the shots on the investigation, but I'd never met with him face-to-face. To me, he was just a voice on the other end of the line. A voice without a name, but just a letter: M. I had heard whispers about him: I spent months in the company of agents that let slip some comments on the all-powerful Mycroft Holmes—a legendary figure at the top of MI6. Those hints, coupled with your complaints about your sibling and his super-secret business aside from the government, drew quite the picture. When he walked into the flat and scrutinised me as if he knew exactly who I was, it wasn't too difficult for me to connect the dots. His reputation preceded him, and his attire was unmistakable: not a field agent, but—"
"The puppet master," Sherlock talks over her with a grimace. He is annoyed: he should have seen it coming, somehow.
"I've been honest with you; now I want the truth, too. If John..." Giulia stops mid-sentence overwhelmed by emotion but strives to go on, "If John hadn't shown up, would you have—"
"Shot you?" He finishes her sentence. She looks straight into his eyes.
He furrows his brow, and his gaze glides to the window again.
"I was thinking about a way out of that awful situation. I couldn't let him torture you, to begin with. And I knew John was on his way," he jabbers.
"No, you didn't."
"Okay, maybe I didn't, but you know John: he can be very resourceful sometimes," he divagates, and she gives him a stern look. "Sherlock."
"Fine, I thought about shooting at you, but I would have never killed you. I was pondering the idea of causing minimal damage with a surgical wound and using that as a diversion to gain the upper hand," he confesses.
She reflects on his words and closes her eyes. For a second, she feels as if she was in the bank again. Her mind re-enacts the scene, and she relives it all over again: Sherlock raising the gun and pointing it at her with a conflicted look on his face. Not just a torn expression, but with guilt in his eyes. She imagines how things would have gone if he had pulled the trigger.
She flinches, terrified at the scenario playing in her head and doubles over, quivering. Sherlock studies her startled reaction and stares at her, hesitant. What should he do? He is her friend, apparently. How do friends help cope with the fear and trauma of kidnapping and attempted murder?
She clenches her fists, trying to hide the tremor in her hands, but he has already noticed it. Should he take her hand in his to steady it? But that would be too personal, wouldn't it? That kind of human touch is something he is not familiar with. Maybe he could reassure her with words, then? But what could he ever say to her?
Then he has a sudden epiphany.
"17...34...51...68..." he whispers to her ear, and her shivers immediately stop, replaced by utter astonishment.
He smiles proudly. It didn't take him long to realise what she was doing inside the bank.
She gapes at him. "How do you—?"
"I heard you. When the lights went off and you were all alone tied to that chair, you were always adding up the number 17. Why?" He asks with genuine curiosity.
When she speaks, an instinctive smile bends the corner of her mouth upward.
"My father taught me that trick. It helps me deal with panic in stressful situations and prevents me from spiralling out of control. One time, when I was little, he and I got stuck in an elevator. I'm not very claustrophobic, but I was just a kid and got scared. My father noticed and asked me to do simple additions. He gave me numbers and asked for the sum; he was just trying to distract me by keeping my mind focused on maths. It worked: panic didn't take over, and I kept a cool head. It became our little 'panic button' system. I've been using it ever since."
"And since your father was not with you at the bank, you had to come up with the numbers to add on your own," he realises. "Why 17?"
"It's my birthday and my dad's favourite number. The number 17 symbolizes self-discipline, compassion, independence, and wisdom. It's for people who are both soft and strong, those who are leaders and want to change the world. It reminds me of my dad."
Sherlock spots a veil of sadness in her eyes and asks tactfully. "Do you miss him?"
"Immensely."
A sudden thought dawns on him: if she went through all that by herself with the complicity of the Secret Service, what about her family? Are they somewhere safe, too?
He shifts closer to her on the seat. "Where is he now?"
She gets choked up, and her eyes fill with tears. She just shakes her head in response. He frowns for a second before grasping the full meaning behind her gesture.
"Oh, my—I'm sorry, I had no idea. I..."
"It's okay." She gives him a tightlipped smile. "I believe in Heaven, and I know that wherever he is, he's looking after me."
The cab pulls over next to the kerb, and they hop off. Standing on the pavement, Sherlock suddenly realises that they are at Baker Street, and he looks around with a flustered expression.
"Sorry, I instinctively gave the cabbie this address, but maybe you had already planned to spend the night elsewhere before you were abducted. I can hail another taxi for you if you want…" he trails off because she has already walked to the dark door with the shiny 221 plaque on it. She brushes her fingers on the cold, shimmering surface of the numbers.
"It's already been several months since I came here for the first time," she recalls that early autumn evening. From the outside, it looks as if nothing has changed, but inside everything has.
"You chose to walk through that door and be besieged by my deductions," Sherlock points out.
"You gave me quite an impression."
"I should have known by our first meeting that you weren't that easy to get rid of. I wanted you to run away outraged, and you ended up mesmerised instead. Still, you must have thought I was mad, at least for one second."
"Make it two or three, yeah." She smirks, teasing him.
"And yet you stayed," he states as if it was almost impossible to conceive.
She nods without a word.
"Do you still think I am mad?" He cautiously asks. His tone is serious: he is not joking now.
"You've just pointed a gun at me, so yeah, definitely." She feigns an offended expression before pushing the door open. On the threshold, she turns around to look at him with a playful smile on her lips.
"And what do you think it says about my future behaviour?"