CHAPTER 26: ANGELS AND DEMONS
Author's note: Just to inform you that in the first part of this chapter, I tried to describe the complex mechanisms at the basis of both nightmares and dreams as they get mixed with real scenes that the mind can create when in a half-sleep status. I hope it doesn't get too confusing. The brain is a mysterious muscle.
Two weeks later – Early January
3:30 a.m.
Giulia suddenly jolts awake with palpitation.
She had a nightmare, a lucid dream that she knew was not real. It couldn't be: everything had already happened in real life but with a different ending. Initially, it was that woeful sense of déjà vu that forewarned her. She could sense that something was off with that dream the minute she saw a familiar gun pointed at her heart: it was Sherlock's Browning L9A1.
She should have screamed just like she did when she had a nightmare on her first night in London: crying so loud that she eventually woke her body up. But this time she didn't: she stayed quiet, unable to speak, incapable of protesting. She remained speechless, staring into the eyes of her shooter: a pair of unmistakable green-blue eyes.
Sherlock.
She awakens with his name on her lips, terrified by that nightmare. She tosses and turns in bed, striving to find an explanation for what she has just seen. She rationally analyses her dream. It wasn't the same scene that occurred at the bank. There was one major difference: back then, Sherlock had aimed at her head. In this darker version, though, he went straight for her heart... Incoherent.
Yet that wasn't the only inconsistent detail: why didn't she scream? Why did she stand by and let that happen? Why did she let him do that to her? Would she ever give him the power to break her heart?
As she wraps her duvet around her shaking body, she recalls one last, disturbing element: his eyes were dead, inexpressive. The fire she described to his mother wasn't there. It was nothing like him: in reality, his eyes host universes while that nightmare version of him only showed a blank look—a mask of utter detachment. What was her mind trying to communicate to her? What was truly killing her: Sherlock or his indifference?
She stares at the ceiling of her bedroom, unable to go back to sleep. She takes a deep breath. Inhale, exhale, it shouldn't be too difficult, right?
She can feel her muscles relax, but her mind is restless, a thousand questions incessantly swirling inside her brain. She groans. Why can't the chaos in her brain stop just for one night?
She closes her eyes, desperately trying to get a few hours of sleep, but the moment her eyelids shut over her pupils, and she dreams again, a sudden streak of images crashes down on her mind. Her fantasy reproduces the swift movement of a hand holding a gun, the muzzle facing her just like she saw it happen inside the bank, and the deafening sound of a gunshot seems to resonate inside her skull. That detonation brings back another scenario in her brain: it's the explosion of the underground station during her first case with Sherlock and John. It looks as if she was witnessing the building collapsing again among tongues of flame, helplessly staring once more at the smoking ruins.
But there's more. In her imagination, the lines of the station get blurred and distorted as they shape-shift enough to replicate a different building, something very familiar to her. She can feel tears pooling in her eyes when that lost place resurfaces from the deepest recesses of her mind. In her half-sleep state, she instinctively raises an arm toward that vision as if she was trying to touch it, hold it for as long as possible. Oh, how she misses it.
Suddenly, that building blows up in a massive explosion, making her jump in her bed convulsively.
Haunting memories: that's all she got left. And yet the images in her head looked so vivid and real that she would swear that her nostrils could almost smell smoke.
She turns around in a puddle of sweat. It felt as if there were flames everywhere, outside and inside of her scorched soul. It looked like the very Hell, but what truly happened was far worse: it was the end of her whole world.
Her eyes snap open, and she realises she is hyperventilating. She yanks off the blanket and stands up on her weak legs, trying to calm down. She needs something to drink: a glass of ice cold water to extinguish her fiery demons.
She stumbles across the small entrance of her flat and trudges up the stairs. Standing on the last steps, she notices the glow slipping under the ajar door and overhears Sherlock talking in the living room. A little smile appears on her still-quivering lips. Good, it means the boys are still up. At least she won't be alone with her painful thoughts.
She pushes the door open and walks in, saying, "John, you were wrong—" but she stops mid-sentence and looks around; Watson is not there.
"Wait, where is he?" She asks Sherlock, giving him a confused look.
The detective, who is sprawled on his armchair, his chin lowered on his chest, lifts his head and inquires obliviously, "Who?"
"John."
He gazes briefly around the room as if he just woke up from a trance and noticed his surroundings for the first time.
"Don't know. He probably went to bed some hours ago."
She frowns. "I heard you speaking. I thought you were talking to him."
"I was talking to him," he clarifies, then sighs at her vacant look. "Since I can't possibly interrupt the flow of my thoughts, I simply carry on my conversations with him even when he leaves."
"It's not a conversation anymore. Those are monologues," she corrects him, and he waves a hand in the air dismissively.
"Whatever."
"Sorry then, I didn't mean to interrupt you." She shoots him an apologetic look, leaning against the doorjamb, her legs still wobbly.
"Never mind. I was probably saying something that would save the Western world, but in the end, why should it be important?" He overdramatizes like he always does.
She stares at him for a few seconds, feeling a wave of anger building inside for no apparent reason. It's the after-effect of her nightmare: she blames him for shooting at her heart in her visions. Sometimes, it happens: we dream about someone we know, and when we meet them again in real life, we mix up dreams and reality, ending up with pent-up resentment for the actions that those innocent, unaware people only performed in our dreams. Dreadful how the mind works.
Sherlock notices her hostile glare and arches a brow at her unusual behaviour, changing the subject.
"While we're at it, what was John wrong about?"
He, who is always right, can't resist the temptation of gloating when someone else gets something wrong.
The remnants of her dream vanish from her mind, and Giulia comes back to reality.
"Remedies for insomnia. He recommended a few relaxation techniques and breathing exercises to facilitate sleep, but they don't work on me."
Sherlock grimaces. "And what does he know of breathing exercises?"
"He has read up on the subject since he came home from the war. We've been talking a lot recently, and he told me everything about his days in the army," she reveals, stepping into the kitchen and pouring herself a glass of water.
He studies her movements: her grip on the glass is so tight that her knuckles are turning white. She is upset, but her darting eyes tell something more. She is not purely scared; he saw how she deals with terror. No, she is inconsolably sad. What is she doing up here? It's way too late for her to still be up, meaning that she went to bed, and something woke her up. What was she dreaming about?
"He never speaks about that period of his life," he says without taking his eyes off her.
"He did with me. He doesn't see his therapist anymore and only writes about your cases in his blog; I suppose he just needed an outlet, someone to talk to. And you know, I was willing to listen."
"I perceive a subtle pop at me," he grunts, and she gives him a side glance.
"Admit it: I'm better than you at listening. But don't be jealous; it was just small stories about the battlefield, you wouldn't be interested. Anyhow, I thought you knew that sometimes he has trouble sleeping," she teases him.
"I do know that. The frequent bags under his eyes give it away," he remarks. He might not be the most empathetic person in the world, but he is still one of the most observant people around.
"However, the problem afflicting you both has nothing to do with muscle relaxation and breathing control. You don't suffer from insomnia, you idiots. You're just haunted by nightmares—which is quite natural, by the way. Post-traumatic stress disorder for both of you: he went to war and got shot on the field, whereas you were kidnapped and held hostage at gunpoint. It would be more than enough to prevent a normal person from sleeping for weeks." He gazes at her before looking away.
"Although, in your case, all these events must have triggered some bad memories of your past. Nightmares are the way your mind deals with them. Feel free to blame your subconscious for your sleepless nights. Taking a deep breath before going to bed won't fix it," he says condescendingly.
"Thank you very much, Doctor Freud." She rolls her eyes. "Do you have better advice, then? Your own remedy?"
He lifts his eyes to her, and she is surprised by the veil of melancholy that has fallen over his face.
"You really think that I would be up at such an ungodly hour if I had it? My demons keep me awake as much as yours do," he talks under his breath.
She steals a glance at his unreadable face, then murmurs, "I love this hour, though. Past 3 a.m., you can never really say if it's too soon or too late."
Sherlock looks out the window into the black night. Is it too soon for her to let a stranger like him into her personal world? And is it too late for him to bring himself to care about another human being? That's what he has always thought, all his life, ever since he was a child. Too late for caring, too late for him.
They remain silent for a few minutes. Sherlock ponders Giulia's previous words. She has been spending quite a lot of time in John's company, and apparently, he has opened up to her about the most painful period of his life. For normal people, this means growing closer, right? And maybe, possibly, even growing fonder of each other?
Having reached his own conclusions, he asks her out of the blue, "What do you think of John?"
"He is a decent man; he's brave and—" she begins before being cut short by his annoyed tone.
"I haven't asked for the praise of his character. Do you like him?" He abruptly inquires.
"I do. I am completely readable, as you so politely pointed out the first time we met," she jabs him with the memory of his first deductions of her. "I bet you would've noticed if I hated him."
"Of course you don't hate him. But I'm not sure that I can always read your emotions, and when you talk about him, it doesn't seem that you have feelings for him—"
"Because I don't," she interrupts him. "Wait, slow down. Who said anything about feelings? I didn't say that I love him." She chortles at the idea.
"But you like him," he underlines, confused, wrinkling his nose. She is hanging out with John at the flat, chatting about their problems, exchanging confidences. Isn't it supposed to lead automatically to a romantic relationship?
He sighs and surrenders. Why aren't human emotions straightforward? Everything about humans should be logical and linear. Irrationality should be banished from the face of the Earth.
"Yeees," she confirms, lingering on the word. "As I like you," she adds with a soft smile, trying to clarify the situation.
He is taken aback for a second and blinks repeatedly.
"Oh." He wasn't expecting that. He wasn't expecting her to be so plainspoken, and he certainly wasn't expecting her to shift the focus from John to him.
"You don't wonder if I love you, though," she notices flatly.
He averts his gaze and lowers his head as his voice sounds deeper. "Because I don't expect people to love me."
She lets his words sink in. She never knew he could make that sort of consideration.
"They could, if you gave them a chance," she says, taking an instinctive step towards him.
"Despite who I am?"
"For who you are," she specifies.
Sherlock stares at her, surprisingly incapable of reading her face, her words. Should he take it as a hint? Is she trying to convey some kind of subtext or is she simply being friendly? What are her real intentions?
He stammers, puzzled, "I'm sorry, are you saying that—err, I mean, do you?"
It's dark in the room, but she is sure he is blushing.
"You can stop panicking now. If I say that I appreciate your company, are you going to burst into flames?" She taunts him, shuffling awkwardly on her feet.
"Using irony and deflecting the tension: the conversation has gone off the rails, hasn't it? Apologies, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," he stutters.
She sniggers. "How did we end up talking about this, anyway?"
"I was just trying to be sociable. It won't happen again." He sighs at his lack of capabilities with personal interactions and stands up to grab his violin. It's time for some music. He doesn't even care that it is almost 4 am. Music is the only trustworthy means that he can use to connect with others. Words are misleading. Every form of conversation should only occur through music. It could never go wrong, it would never create embarrassment or misunderstandings.
She heads for the door. "I'll leave you to your performance."
"You can stay," he hastens to say. He clears his throat and adds, "If you want to. I might go on for a bit, but if you'd like to listen..." he trails off.
"I'd love to." Her eyes glimmer, and she flops down on the couch.
Sherlock plays a lovely, delicate tune while Giulia listens to the music, her legs stretched on the sofa, her head leaned on a pillow, eyes closed. She relaxes her shoulders, and her lips bend in a hinted smile: she has the impression that his notes are caressing her gently, lulling her.
He looks at her out of the corner of his eye and ironically comments, "I didn't know I could be so boring as to make you sleep."
She cracks her eyes open and grins peacefully.
"Not at all boring. It's perfect. Who is the composer?"
"Me."
She nods, impressed, and closes her eyes again.
He steals a glance at her. She doesn't look like the same woman who came to Baker Street some months before, desperately looking for accommodation. He could deduce her in under ten seconds, at the time, but he wonders if he can still do that. She seems different now. He is different with her now. Only another woman was as mysterious as her: The Woman. Almost automatically, his fingers start to play Irene's theme.
When the last note slides along the chords of the violin and fades away, Sherlock looks down at Giulia. Her eyes are still closed, her chest rises and falls rhythmically: she dozed off. A sudden thought dawns on him, We should always see others sleeping. Everyone looks unveiled, vulnerable.
He carefully slips one arm under her knees and another around her torso, and takes Giulia up off the couch, bringing her downstairs bride-style. She wakes up halfway and rubs her eyes while mumbling, "What are you doing?"
"Taking you to your bed, obviously. You passed out on the sofa," he whispers in a falsely reproachful tone. The truth is, he feels a weird sense of delight knowing that he helped her fall asleep after the nightmares that had terrified her.
"Just for one second," she rebuts like a stubborn toddler.
He shoulders the door open, walks to her bedroom, and gently places her on the mattress. When he is about to leave the room, he hears her whisper, "Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"You should go to sleep, too. Don't worry about your demons; after your last piece, I bet they fell asleep as well. It was so tender and soft... You had never played anything like the last melody," she mutters in her sleepy slur.
"I thought you were drowsing," he says, surprised. Was she listening to his piece all along?
Giulia lifts her head from the pillow and tilts it to the side as if it were too heavy for her neck to hold up straight. With her eyelids halfway over her eyes, she speaks again, stubbornly fighting off the drowsiness.
"I told you: I fell asleep for just one second. I listened to you almost the whole time. That music... that tune… In that ethereal music, I could feel the real you. It was for a woman, wasn't it?" She deduces.
He nods without a word.
She doesn't know whether to smile or frown at that revelation, and she is too sleepy to decide, so she simply asks, "Has she ever heard it?"
"No."
She closes her eyes, feeling her body drifting off to sleep.
"Pity, it was wonderful. Thank you for this dance with the angels. Goodnight, Sherlock."
Author's note: there you go, dear readers, another scene of domestic life. I just hope that you are enjoying these scenes as much as I love writing them.
Also, if you are enjoying this fanfic, please spread the word to your followers or fellow Sherlockian fans: that would be really helpful. Thank you.
Now brace yourself for a new thrilling adventure.