CHAPTER 25: UNDER FALSE PRETENSES

Three weeks later. 24 December.

Back to... No, not really back to how things were before. That would be impossible. And not even back to normal, because there is no such thing at 221 Baker Street.

"Sherlock, where are you?" Giulia's words are barely audible over the joyful racket coming from the living room. She walks along the narrow corridor and knocks on the door of his bedroom. No answer at all. She sighs and pushes the door open to reveal the detective sitting on a corner of his bed, his back turned to the threshold.

"Here you are. What are you doing holed up in your room on Christmas Eve? Come on, join us. We're playing a board game with the help of some glasses of wine." She giggles at his back; he hasn't even turned around to face her.

"It's fun. Come with me," she says cheerfully, stretching out a hand towards him.

He turns slightly and looks at her over his shoulder, mumbling, "No, thank you. I'd rather stay here."

"Okay, I got it. You don't like celebrations with happy and slightly drunk people." She flops down onto the mattress next to him.

He doesn't even lift his gaze on her when he talks back.

"Let's just say that social interactions aren't my cup of tea. And alcohol only numbs my capabilities and slows down my mental process: why would I even want to drink it?"

Giulia sighs heavily. She doesn't have a comeback for that and is quite tipsy herself, which doesn't help to come up with a witty reply. She knew all along that he would never follow her.

"I understand. Since we exchanged gifts while you were busy wallowing in isolation, I thought I could just bring mine here to you. Merry Christmas," she says softly, handing him a package draped in a crooked ribbon: she is not good at wrapping, that's evident.

Sherlock seems taken aback for a moment and frowns at the object in his hands.

"You bought me a present? It really wasn't necessary." He raises his eyes at her and furrows his brow, ill at ease. "I didn't buy you anything."

"Don't worry: I didn't expect you to." She shrugs nonchalantly.

"And I didn't expect you to spend the Christmas holidays here and not with your family—" he retorts, but his words fade in his mouth as he suddenly realises: What a colossal, disrespectful, obnoxious imbecile! Only three weeks before, she told him about the sorrowful passing of her father, and now he rubs salt in the wounds. His mouth works too fast—faster than his conscience, at least.

He apologises clumsily, "Sorry, I wasn't thinking—"

"That'd be a first," she cuts him short with a pinch of sour sarcasm. She gives him a hard look and stares down, fidgeting with her hands while the room sinks into silence. Then she stands up, and her expression changes dramatically.

"Look, I don't want to be sad on Christmas Eve. So now, please, open the packet," she urges him like an excited toddler.

Sherlock peers at her smiling face, trying to spot the crack in the facade, but she doesn't flinch. She is insanely strong. How can she pull herself together so gracefully?

He unwraps the package and grimaces.

"Oh, it's a book: how original."

"It's Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. It's a pirate story," she underlines, glaring at his lukewarm reaction. She doesn't remember how or when, but at some point, over the past months, she learned that when he was a child, he was obsessed with pirates. She has scrupulously stored that piece of information to tailor the perfect gift for him. She knows Sherlock isn't the most exuberant person in the world, but she was hoping for a slightly more enthusiastic response.

What she doesn't know is that behind his sombre expression and his hyper-focused eyes narrowed at the vessel on the cover, he is panicking. He doesn't know what to say. He does appreciate the gift; he has always been into pirates' stories, but the familiarity of the gesture caught him off guard. The only gifts he has recently received came from kind clients that wanted to renew their gratitude for the solution to their cases. But those presents were only the consequence of something that he had done in the first place. He isn't used to getting a disinterested gift when the other person hasn't already had anything from him.

"I know what it is about," he replies shortly.

She swallows hard. Whenever she makes a step in his direction, he seems to recoil.

"I just thought you might like it." Her whisper is tinted in disappointment as she shuffles towards the door to rejoin the party in the living room.

Sherlock's words stop her on the threshold.

"I do, I really do. Thank you, Giulia." He finally cracks a smile at her, and she lifts her head and smiles back.

"You're very welcome."

After a few seconds of awkward silence, he clears his throat and inquires, "Did John buy you anything?"

"He did. Here it is: do you like it?" She shows him her right hand and twists her fingers.

Sherlock stares at her middle finger and stutters, "A ring. It's a ring."

She nods and casually leans against the doorjamb, trying to read his indecipherable mood change.

"Uncanny deduction, detective. Something's wrong with it?"

He shakes his head.

"No, I suppose not. It's just that a ring means some sort of commitment."

She bursts into laughter.

"Sure. And a painted-wooden ring bought at a stand in a charity market unequivocally shows that John and I are going to be bound forever."

He struggles to come up with a justification. "I was just stating that—"

"You were implying," she cuts him short. "The truth is, he simply noticed I usually wear jewellery, more specifically rings, so he gave me one as a Christmas present. I like it: it's thoughtful. Why are you questioning it?"

He wonders the same. What was he reacting to and why that harshly?

"I'm not. It was nice of him." He gives her a crooked smile then tries to bring the conversation back on track by adding boastfully, "For the record, I've known that you were a ring-woman since day one. I also made a deduction about one of your jewellery."

"A wrong one, if my memory serves me well," she talks back with a smirk.

Suddenly, he springs to his feet and hurries past her, murmuring, "I gotta dash."

He grabs his coat and scarf from the coat rack and steps out of the flat under the confused gaze of everyone standing in the living room: Molly, Lestrade, John, and Mrs Hudson.

Giulia chases after him.

"Sherlock, wait. Where are you going?"

"Out," he laconically shouts from the stairs, then a loud thud echoes in the room when he slams the front door.

After several hours, Sherlock finally comes back home. He steps into his silent apartment; the guests have left, and the living room is empty again. The jolly Christmas music has been turned down, and Molly's embarrassed high-pitched voice doesn't resound in the flat anymore. All lamps have been turned off, and now just the sequence of twinkle lights framing the windows shed some tremulous light in the darkened room. Giulia is sitting in Sherlock's armchair, sipping a cup of tea.

"Is the party over yet?" He asks, standing at the door.

"Don't pretend to be sad. It isn't necessary."

"I would never do that. I'm rather glad everyone left," he candidly replies, and she shakes her head. This man has no clue about manners or human nature.

He walks to the centre of the room and hands her a package.

"Here. This is for you."

Giulia shoots an intrigued look at the man towering over her and cautiously unwraps the present. She silently stares at the open box in her hands for a few seconds, then lifts an object up to observe it in the pale light.

"It's a gun," she states, confused.

"That's my Christmas present for you," he specifies, struggling to repress a grimace. Wow, she is slow sometimes. That was fairly obvious, wasn't it?

"Is this why you went out under snowfall on Christmas Eve? To get me a present?" She gazes at him with wide eyes.

"Yeah. All stores were closed, obviously, but I have my connections and my homeless network. This is the best I could find." He shrugs.

"You gave me a gun for Christmas," she repeats as if it was too absurd a concept to process.

Sherlock studies her reaction, perplexed. "You don't like it?"

"No, it's actually great. It's just that weapons are not a very common gift." She chuckles. After all, Sherlock is not a very common person. What did she expect?

"Personally, I hate futile gifts and abhor bric-a-brac. I just thought that a useful present could be a fair compromise."

"I do hope I will never find it useful, though. And technically, I don't need it," she mutters, staring at the foreign object in her hands.

"Right. Your bodyguard outside," he says matter-of-factly, nodding to the window. On the other side of the street, a man wearing a black coat and coordinated hat is leaning against a lamppost, his eyes fixed on the door with the number 221.

Her head whips up in surprise.

"How do you know about him?"

"Come on, that man out there has been keeping an eye on us for days, taking turns with a fellow guard who does the night shift. There is always someone monitoring the house and every suspicious movement around it. If you pay attention, you'd be able to see that both guards have a small bulge just below the armpit: they carry weapons, clearly," he lists his observations in his usual condescending tone.

"Four people live in this building. How do you know they are there to protect me?"

"Easy deduction. I noticed Mycroft tends to be very protective towards you, and after the accident at the bank, I knew for a fact that he would take stricter measures."

She gives him a side glance, and a corner of her lips curls in a sly smile.

"Does it mean that your gift is your version of stricter measures towards me?"

He gulps nervously, averting his gaze.

"It's less intrusive than a guard."

"Fair enough. I guess I'm going to keep the gun. Since this is more of a toy to me than a lethal weapon, may I try it?" She flashes him her puppy eyes as if she were a little girl who had just unwrapped a new doll.

"Be my guest." Sherlock gestures theatrically, pointing at the smiley face painted on the wall.

Giulia straightens up, takes the safety off, and relaxes her shoulders; she aims at the yellow drawing and shoots twice. Sherlock looks at her movements with rapt attention: the steadiness of her arm, the confident touch of her finger on the trigger, her eyes squinted at her target. This is not the first time she fires a weapon. His deduction comes unexpectedly.

He tries to shrug off that thought. He still doesn't blindly trust her. Maybe it's because she never really told him what happened to her, what shattered her life. For him, the hardest part is coming to terms with the harsh reality: he can't always know everything. She will keep her secrets for as long as she deems necessary.

"What do you think of my present, then? Do you like it?" He asks, faking a disinterested tone.

She grins at him. "I sure do."

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortable. He doesn't know what to say. What do people normally chat about when exchanging gifts? Whatever. He clearly isn't like them. He doesn't do small talk.

He sinks into the couch, with his coat still on. Giulia puts the safety back on, delicately places the gun on the table, and walks to the window. She stares outside, looking at the snow falling down on the streets. Nobody would have expected a White Christmas in London, yet there it was.

"Look at the lights, at those snowy roads filled with joyful carols," she murmurs, feeling at peace.

"I hate it all," he snaps back.

She turns to him with an amused smile. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

The next day. Christmas day.

Sherlock walks into the quiet living room; Giulia is curled up in front of the fire, immersed in the reading of an adventure book. He gazes at her devouring every page with an insatiable curiosity and almost smiles at the scene: she is so absorbed that she doesn't hear him coming.

"Good morning," he greets, rousing her from her entrancement and causing her to jump in her seat, startled. She looks up at him; the vermilion shadows of the flames crackling in the fireplace reflect on her cheeks, painting a dance of colourful patterns. He is so engrossed in the contemplation of the reflections of the fire on the soft curve of her smile that for a second, he forgets why he even entered the room.

He blinks twice to awake from his daydream and looks around the place. "Where is John?"

"Off to his sister Harry. He said he'd spend Christmas day at her house trying to keep her off the wine," she says with a hint of sadness. She was hoping for a slightly more 'crowded' Christmas day.

Sherlock nods. Good: at least he won't have to explain to him what he is about to do next.

"Giulia, would you—" he stops mid-sentence to clear his throat, slightly uncomfortable. Is he nervous? Preposterous.

He tries again in a more confident tone. "Would you be my girlfriend?"

She gapes at him, unable to even blink. After a few seconds of bewilderment, she stammers out, "Are you high or drunk, Sherlock?"

He frowns. "No. Why do you ask?"

She stares at him wide-eyed and starts babbling, "Because I wasn't expecting that. I mean you are... What you asked... I am flattered—"

He rolls his eyes and hastens to specify, "For a case."

"Oh," she pauses. Now, she is puzzled. And maybe, possibly, slightly, unconsciously disappointed? Her own brain teases her.

"And what case do you need a girlfriend for?" She asks with sheer curiosity.

"A very important one, potentially dangerous, too. I'd understand if you didn't want to be involved," he says, pacing the flat, uncommonly fidgety.

She narrows her eyes at him. "And what's in it for me if I accept?"

He looks out the window in anticipation of what would come later that day.

"You would prevent a triple homicide."

"Are you serious?" she blurts out, goggling.

He shrugs, unfazed. "Possibly."

She ponders the idea for a second, stealing a side glance at him; she can't help but wonder what in the world he might be up to. Then her sense of duty, justice, and compassion prevail.

"Well, it's three human lives we're talking about. I'm in." She stands up, closing her book.

"Excellent." He claps his hands and simpers at her. "Now, go dress nicely. I'm taking you out." He almost pushes her out of the living room and toward the stairs.

She throws him a confused look and reluctantly goes to her flat to change out of her comfortable tracksuit and hoodie.

One hour and a half later

Sherlock and Giulia are driving silently in a rented car. No one has spoken since they left Baker Street. It isn't an awkward silence, though: it's a tranquil stillness. Giulia knows that her quiet driver is probably lost in his labyrinthine mind palace, even though she keeps wondering how he manages not to kill them both in a head-on crash. She relaxes in her seat when she notices that the landscape is quickly changing: they are getting out of the metropolitan area of London, approaching the countryside.

"What is our backstory?" She asks after a while.

Sherlock takes his eyes off the road for an instant to look at her.

"What do you mean?"

"If we are a couple, we need a story. How did we meet? How did we end up together?" She wonders. She doesn't mind improvising. In fact, she is fairly good at it. But a two-people farce requires some coordination.

"We'll stick to the truth: we are flatmates. That's our story. We won't need any more details: that would make the lie patently obvious. Besides, there will be one person who already knows that none of this is real, so we'll keep it simple. You'd better keep quiet and let me handle the talk, alright?" He doesn't even look in her direction this time.

She raises a brow at him. This is getting stranger and more intriguing with each passing second.

After fifteen more minutes, Sherlock takes a turn in a cobbled driveway that leads up to a lovely manor house. Giulia's eyes widen at that view.

"I thought we were going to some restaurant or lavish place. I wasn't expecting a private house," she murmurs, perplexed.

"I said I would take you out, but never mentioned where." He turns off the engine and hurries to her side of the car to open her door chivalrously.

"Is it a crime scene?" She asks, appreciating his unusually gallant manners.

He raises his gaze on the mansion with a displeased expression on his face. As the front door opens, he whispers, "Not yet, and let's hope it stays that way."

A cheerful woman appears on the threshold and welcomes the detective with open arms.

"Sherlock, you finally made it."

He reluctantly plunges into her embrace. "Sorry, mother. Traffic jam."

Giulia listens to his answer in horror. Mother? Wait, is she…? Oh, bloody manipulator.

"You're lying. I checked the road on the Internet: it was clear. It simply took you forever to even decide to visit your poor parents, isn't it?" She scolds him lovingly. Then she turns to Giulia standing next to the car.

"And who is this gorgeous young lady?"

Giulia blushes and timidly smiles at her as Sherlock hastily introduces the two of them.

"Mum, this is Giulia. Giulia, this is my mother."

After a firm handshake and some small talk, they enter the house and walk into the living room where Sherlock's father and Mycroft are waiting for them.

"Sherlock, what's this about?" Giulia hisses at him, keeping her voice down, barely audible.

"That's my family home, and we are here to attend Christmas dinner. I thought it was clear," he whispers back.

She stares at him, piecing it all together.

"So, in fact, the three people whose lives you claimed were at stake are—"

"My family," he exclaims out loud, completing her unheard question and gesturing at the people now gathered in the room.

Mycroft does a double-take when he sees Giulia, then a permanent smirk rests on his face. This is going to be unexpectedly amusing, he thinks.

During dinner

"So, Giulia," Mr Holmes addresses her, making her flinch. She was trying to limit her exchanges to a minimum of politeness, following her fake boyfriend's instructions. "How's living with Sherlock?"

She smiles at the kind man. Where does she start? From her kidnapping and attempted murder, or should she just stick to the gory body parts in the fridge?

"Rather exciting and challenging. No day is like another," she replies, and Mycroft raises his brow. That's the understatement of the century.

"He doesn't involve you in his cases, does he?" Mrs Holmes questions, her voice edged with concern.

"I guess I just get caught up in them, willingly or unwillingly." She shrugs, shooting an ironic look at Sherlock.

Mycroft follows the exchange of glances and decides to have some fun.

"Let's play a game of what-ifs, shall we?"

"No, we shan't," his brother quickly answers, but the elder ignores him and asks her, "Giulia, what if Sherlock was to commit murder? Would you lie to cover up for him?" His icy glare ties her down to the chair.

"Mycroft," his mother reprimands him, but to no avail.

Giulia doesn't allow herself to be intimidated and stares back.

"Would you?"

Even though Mycroft is taken aback when confronted with that question—or rather, with his own (obvious) answer, his unintelligible facade doesn't break. He shoots back, "Family doesn't count. It is a different matter entirely. But I'm curious to know how you would behave. Are you really a good friend, or, if you prefer, girlfriend?" He corrects himself, smiling smugly as his younger brother chokes on his wine.

Giulia cocks a brow, intrigued.

"You are assuming that good friends would do that," she underlines, playing with his words.

"I assume that close and affectionate people would go to great lengths to protect those they care for," he specifies, trying not to grimace whenever he talks about caring or sentiment.

"Would they? That's counterintuitive. If I lied for him, I'd be the worst friend—I mean, girlfriend, ever," she objects, and her words catch Sherlock's attention.

"Are you saying you wouldn't cover up for me?" He asks, but his tone is more fascinated than hurt.

"Of course not. That's not friendship, that's not even protection. That's overindulgence and is unacceptable. If I truly care for you, then I'd want you to face the consequences of your actions, even if it'd break me to see you spend your days in a cell—even if neither of us would want it. But I'd still do what is right. Friendship is not a synonym for unfairness, and it should never be," she states, taking a sip of wine.

The Holmes parents look impressed by her answer, and so do the brothers.

"It looks like you have quite the moral compass, Miss," Mr Holmes politely compliments her.

"My father passed it on to me. I can't stand injustice. I guess this is the reason I've been sticking with Sherlock for so long. He sees his cases as puzzles to be solved, enigmas to be deciphered, mysteries to be unveiled. For him, it's the thrill of the search and the excitement of the hunt that makes it all worthwhile. But for me, it's all about taking dangerous criminals off the streets, letting everyone get their due. So, to answer your question, Mycroft, no, I wouldn't help Sherlock get away with murder. It'd be inflexible with him. But that comes hardly as a surprise considering that he did the same with me when I was charged with homicide. That's just fair play, isn't it, honey?" She teases Sherlock as four pairs of eyes simultaneously fix on her.

"You were what?" Mrs Holmes gapes at her, and Mycroft sits back in his chair, chuckling. Amusing, indeed.

Sherlock elbows her under the table and whispers, "Did you really think it'd be a good idea to bring up your arrest in front of my parents?"

At the end of dinner, Mrs Holmes invites Giulia to the kitchen, asking for her help.

While they are tidying up together, she starts off, "I was quite surprised that Sherlock brought you here today."

So was I, Giulia mentally comments, but doesn't have the time to form a reply because Mrs Holmes continues. "But now that I've met you, I can officially say that I'm glad he has someone like you in his life. Having you around the flat could only be a positive influence on him. I'm happy he has such good friends." She smiles warmly at her.

Giulia is dumbfounded. Did she just say 'friends'?

She rushes her answer. "Actually, I am his—"

Mrs Holmes stops her by placing a hand on her arm and giving her an eloquent look.

"It's alright, dear. You don't have to keep pretending with me."

Giulia looks into her eyes and immediately understands. She is just like her sons. It probably makes sense. She can read through people, which unravels a whole series of questions. Admitting that Sherlock knows his mother well enough, he was aware they couldn't fool her. Then why did he bring her there? Did he just need an ally to keep him in line when spending the day with his parents? Or did he, deep down, want to spend the day with her?

Before Giulia could apologise for the farce, Mrs Holmes goes on. "I've been looking at you throughout dinner, and there is one thing I can't understand. People always want something from Sherlock, but you are not like them. You don't have a case for him to solve, you don't expect him to give you answers, you don't ask for anything. But we all need something out of life, and we usually think we can find it in those around us. So, now I'm asking you: what do you want from my son? Why are you here?" Her gaze travels all over her, but there isn't anything inquisitive about it; she is just dead curious.

Giulia shrugs and jokes around, "I'm here because Sherlock tricked me. But I guess I let him fool me because I was in the mood for favours. It's Christmas, after all."

Mrs Holmes stares at Giulia while her eyelids slowly roll down, and her eyes become two slits.

"Does this trick usually work with my sons?"

"What trick?"

"When you say a half-truth and expect others to believe it," she points out.

Giulia sighs and perches on a stool, trying to justify herself.

"He did bring me here under false pretences, but I guess that's not what you truly asked. Your question was different: you want to know why, after months of cohabitation, I am still by Sherlock's side. Isn't it, Mrs Holmes?"

The woman nods slightly. Very perceptive of Giulia.

"Here's the full answer. The first time I met Sherlock, when I walked into his flat, I saw something in him: a sparkle, a flame that burned inside him, consuming him. A devotion to his work and a disregard for death that I had never seen in anyone else."

"People call it madness," Mrs Holmes says flatly. Her voice masks the sorrow of a mother who had to witness her children being bullied for their exceptional minds.

"It is an easy mistake. Society detests people who are too passionate about something. The moment you declare out loud that you are slightly too keen on something, you are immediately branded a fanatic. I'll never understand why the world hates enthusiasm to the extent of wishing that everyone would just have an aloof attitude towards life. I believe there is nothing purer than listening to someone talking frantically about what they love, watching them caught in the frenzy of their fondness with a glimmer in their eyes. You are right: people usually condemn it as insanity. It's what drives them away," Giulia considers, then she raises her eyes to meet the pale blue irises of Sherlock's mother.

"But seeing your son getting excited whenever he has a case, dashing around crime scenes, deducing every breathing being from head to toe just for fun... That is precisely what convinced me to stay."

Mrs Holmes gazes at her with an inscrutable face, and Giulia stands still, overthinking. Is she satisfied with this answer? Was she too blunt and outspoken? Does Mrs Holmes hate her now or think she is a mad stalker of her precious boy?

Then Mrs Holmes slowly nods at her, and a little smile tugs at her lips. When she turns around to exit the kitchen without further comments, Giulia calls her back.

"Mrs Holmes?"

She turns around with an intrigued expression.

"How did you figure out I wasn't Sherlock's girlfriend?"

"Because he never mentioned you. Not one word, ever."

"Oh."

Giulia doesn't even know why she sounded so disappointed. Was she low-key expecting that Sherlock would talk about her to his parents? Does he even have normal conversations with his family?

Mrs Holmes studies her reaction.

"Had you been an inconsequential woman, a flirt, anything insignificant, he would have raised the topic with me during our phone calls. He detests that I call to check on him; he prefers to text and never knows what to talk about. So, he wouldn't have passed on the opportunity to feed me stories about his latest pointless conquest just to lengthen the conversation and make me happy. But he didn't breathe a word about you."

"Not even worthy of being a small-talk topic, huh?" Giulia jokes in self-mockery.

Mrs Holmes shakes her head and gives her a meaningful look.

"There's only one reason my know-it-all son wouldn't talk about something: it's when he doesn't have a clear answer. And if he chose to keep you all to himself, it means that even after several months of living together, he still hasn't figured you out. You must be one lovely mystery."

A corner of Giulia's lips instinctively curves up in a soft smile as her cheeks flush. Then she dares ask the question that has been twirling in her head since the start of that conversation.

"Presuming that Sherlock knows you well and knew you wouldn't fall for our little girlfriend's charade, why would he bring me here today, then?"

Mrs Holmes arches a brow at her, and Giulia can perfectly read her expression as if she had a neon sign on her forehead: haven't you guessed it yet?

"You are a foreigner recently relocated to London, living thousands of miles away from your family and didn't fly back home for Christmas. Your closest friends are your flatmates, who already had their own plans for the day with their respective families, thus leaving you all alone."

Mrs Holmes stops to flash her a sly grin. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe he did it for you?"

Later that night, Sherlock and Giulia say goodbye to the quirky Holmes family and get into the car. While they are driving on the motorway, she steals a glance at him. Did he really devise the whole fake-relationship act to save her from her solitary Christmas day? Would he ever be so considerate towards another human being? Towards her?

Feeling her eyes upon himself, Sherlock turns to her with a playful look.

"Whatever story my mother might have told you in the kitchen about my childhood, I'll deny everything."

She simply giggles in response, then he adds in a serious tone, "But whatever you may have said to her, you made quite an impression. She told me that while we Holmes are the ones who observe, you are the woman who sees people for what they truly are. Whatever that means." He snorts and drives into the night.

Author's note: Dear readers, I'm quite curious to know what you think of these scenes of everyday life at Baker Street. Does it work for you to have some more intimate, relaxed scenes in between the action sequences? I'm eager to have your comments on the most suitable format for this story.