CHAPTER 27: BEYOND THE MIRROR
Three weeks later – End of January
Early morning.
A man bangs repeatedly on the front door of 221 Baker Street.
"I'm coming. For the love of God, just hold your horses," Mrs Hudson shouts, dashing down the stairs to answer the door. She unlocks it and greets the man.
"Good morning—" But the moment she lowers the handle, he abruptly pushes her aside and storms up the stairs.
"Where are your manners?" Mrs Hudson complains, shaking her head.
In the meantime, the man has reached the door of the flat marked 'B' and bursts it open, rushing inside and yelling, "Sherlock, I know you dislike me. That's a mutual sentiment, by the way. But I need to talk to you—" he stops mid-sentence when he comes face to face with Giulia coming out of the kitchen.
"Who are you?" He inquires immediately, shocked.
She smirks. "A burglar."
"Really?"
"Sure, and if I were a burglar, I would definitely tell that to a police officer." Giulia sarcastically grimaces at him while pointing at the tag with the words New Scotland Yard hanging around his neck.
"Technically, I'm a forensic officer," he specifies, peeved.
"And technically I live here: I'm Sherlock's and John's flatmate. My name is Giulia. Pleased to meet you, Mr—?" She extends her hand amiably, and he shakes it curtly while taking an anxious look around the living room.
"Philip Anderson. Where is Sherlock Holmes?"
"He's been out for hours now. But judging from the anxiety in your voice and your opening sentence, it seemed rather pressing. Do you want to wait for him here? I could make you a cup of tea," she kindly suggests.
He seems to consider the idea for a second, then replies bluntly, "No, thanks. When he comes back, just tell him to meet me at Scotland Yard, okay?" and he nervously heads for the door.
Her words reach him when he is crossing the threshold.
"Is he in trouble?"
Anderson sighs and turns around.
"No, but I will if he doesn't show up." He is about to go down the stairs, but Giulia stops him in his tracks again.
"Mr Anderson?"
He turns, annoyed, and she shoots him a little smile.
"About what you said earlier, don't let it upset you: you're not the only one. Sherlock dislikes most of humankind."
He frowns, frustrated. "Did he run a test to select you as his flatmate?"
She chuckles. "Sort of. Have a good day."
He dismissively waves a hand in the air and leaves.
Upon hearing the thump of the front door closing, Sherlock steps out of his bedroom.
"What if he had accepted?" His voice hosts a disapproving tone.
Giulia turns towards him with an interrogative look. "What?"
"Your tea offer," he spits out, almost nauseated.
She shakes her head.
"I was just pretending to be polite, but I knew he would never stay. He was desperate and in a hurry; people in such a critical condition hate to sit on their hands. They feel so helpless."
He narrows his eyes at her. "You're improving quickly."
"Thanks."
"And you can lie dangerously well." He squints his eyes even more and her smile trails off on her lips.
"I'm not certain this one is a compliment," she says, arching a brow at his intrigued expression.
He shrugs. "It depends on the situation; this time it has come in handy. Thanks for dismissing him on my behalf."
She rolls her eyes. She has been instructed to always buy time whenever an overexcited client or a police officer knocks at their door—with the only exception of Lestrade, who is also the only person who wouldn't believe the lie that Sherlock Holmes isn't up for business at any given moment.
"What did he want?" She asks, surprised by his determination to turn down a distress call coming from the police.
"To annoy me, of course," he replies, lolling on his armchair.
"Sherlock, he needs your help. He looked very distressed; it might be important." She tries to talk some sense into him.
"It's Anderson. Nothing concerning him is of any importance."
"You could drop by Scotland Yard later, anyway," she encourages, like a mother with a lazy son. "What's the point of lying for you if I can't even get rid of you for half an hour?" She whines.
Sherlock stands up without a word and looks out the window, lost in thought. After a while, he breaks the silence.
"You were wrong."
"About what?"
"Me. I don't dislike most of humankind; sometimes I simply don't seem to understand it. As if I wasn't part of it," he murmurs, his voice deep, distant.
He reflects on it for an instant. He is different from anyone else, always has been. 'Different': that's a peculiar word. It comes from the Latin term 'differre', literally meaning 'carrying away'. Maybe that's why he feels different: his humanity was taken away from him long ago, at a time he cannot remember.
"Fine. And what species do you think you belong to, then? What would you rather be if not a man?" She stares at him, fascinated.
"A shark," he replies in a gloomy tone. "Sharks can never stop. Either they constantly move, or they die."
He walks to the coat rack and wears his coat. Move or die.
Her eyes follow his movement, and she flashes him a bright smile.
"Where are you going?"
"Scotland Yard. I'm not doing that for Anderson," he hastens to clarify, tying his scarf around his neck. "I'm just bored, and I want to check if Lestrade has a new case for me."
"If he had one, he would've called you," she points out slyly, teasing him.
"Stop smiling or the next case the police will have to solve will be the mysterious disappearance of my flatmate." He smirks. He gives her one last look before running down the stairs. As if the mystery surrounding her story wasn't already complex enough.
New Scotland Yard
As soon as Sherlock steps through the glass doors of New Scotland Yard, Sergeant Donovan walks up to him, inquiring, "Why are you here, Freak?"
He wrinkles his nose at that name and fakes a smile.
"Oh, hello, Sally. I would love to tell you that, but it's none of your business, so back off."
"Give me one reason I shouldn't call security now." She confronts him, putting her hands on her hips.
"Because I have a formal invitation. I need to see a person who explicitly asked for my assistance." He simpers. When will the police understand that he would never walk into Scotland Yard of his own free will or without a good reason? He despises most of them, after all.
"I don't remember doing such a thing, not this week, at least," Greg intervenes, walking to the bickering couple.
"Indeed," Sherlock remarks nonchalantly.
"Who are you looking for, then?"
The detective shoots him a bored look before replying, "Anderson."
"Anderson? Listen, Sherlock, you cannot just come in here and go after him." Lestrade looks on the verge of losing his patience.
Holmes sneers. "After him? You got that wrong, Inspector—not a surprise, might I add. As much as I would like to punch him every time he simply breathes in, I am not here to start a fight."
"What a relief," Anderson's nasal voice echoes in the hall as he emerges from a corridor. "I didn't really count on you to show up," he says, approaching the small group.
"So, this is true? Did you really ask for his help?" Sally questions, bewildered.
He simply nods, and even Lestrade is shocked by that revelation.
"Why?"
"I was on forensics in a case of murder—" he starts before being unceremoniously interrupted by Sherlock.
"Cut to the chase, Anderson. Do you need me to track down the killer?"
"No. We already have him in custody."
"But?" Sherlock has spotted a crack in his tone.
"But he's not talking. He won't confess to the murder."
"It's not your job to get him to talk, Anderson," Greg intervenes, irritated.
"And I'm sure any police officer could do that in the interrogation room," Donovan adds haughtily, understanding for the first time the role that Sherlock Holmes is supposed to play.
"Not with this boy," Anderson contradicts her.
Sherlock's interest in the case ignites.
"Why? What's so special about him?"
Anderson gives him an ironic smile. "He is just like you."
Five minutes later, they are all standing behind the one-way glass through which they can look into the adjacent interrogation room where a boy is sitting behind a metal table.
"Let me get this straight; you've just arrested this boy on charges of murder based on circumstantial evidence?" Sherlock bursts out, disconcerted.
"It's not circumstantial. The police found him bent over the victim's body: Elisa Therton," Anderson justifies, but Sherlock cuts him short.
"According to what you've reported, Elisa was his mother. Of course, he was on her body. Empathy might not be my strong point, but I think I can figure out how human emotions work, to a certain extent. What else would you expect him to do, being completely indifferent to her corpse?"
"Honestly? Yes, but I'll explain why later." Anderson gives him a condescending look that makes Sherlock pale with pent-up anger.
"Anyway, we found the murder weapon in the house. The bullet inside the victim's chest matches the calibre of the gun. We don't even have to run ballistics on it; it's crystal clear."
"The killer might have used it to shoot the woman and left it behind not to arise suspicion," Holmes suggests, remaining unfazed by those apparently unfounded allegations.
"The gun is a property of the family, legally registered. It belonged to the father," Anderson disputes.
Sherlock's head jerks up. "Belonged?"
"The boy's father (and husband of the victim) died six years ago."
"So you took a wild guess and supposed that this teenage boy had the same flair for firearms as his old man and consequently used his father's gun to kill his mother? Anderson, every time you open your mouth, you inadvertently challenge Darwin's theory of evolution and the survival of the fittest."
Anderson flares his nostrils, livid.
"Look, Holmes, I didn't come to you to collect feedback on my work. It's not a mere conjecture. The boy had gunpowder traces on him: we've run tests on his hands and clothes. And we found this towel soaked with blood hidden inside his wardrobe." He hands him a plastic bag containing a stained-red towel.
Holmes gives it a closer look, then asks, "Did you test it to verify that it is the victim's blood?"
Anderson glowers at him.
"The lab is doing it as we speak. Whose else could it be?"
Sherlock sighs heavily and looks beyond the glass, staring at the boy. He must admit that the evidence is all against him.
"Does he have an alibi?"
"He said he was hunting in the woods," Anderson explains distrustfully.
Sherlock spins around, confusion painted all over his face.
"Woods? Hold on, where did this murder happen?"
Anderson barely whispers his answer, "In a small town in the countryside, not far from London."
"And why would you be on forensics on a case outside the city?" Sherlock widens his eyes at him, baffled.
Philip keeps his eyes down and murmurs, "Because that's my hometown. It's where I grew up, and when I heard about the tragedy, I rushed there to see what happened and I volunteered my expertise. My family knew both Elisa and her deceased husband. I just want to find out the truth."
"Does it include making it up?"
"Enough," Lestrade intervenes in a weary tone. "Sherlock, I'm sure that if Anderson came to you for consultation, he had a good reason to."
Holmes scoffs. "His only reason is despair. He knows he doesn't have a solid manslaughter case against that boy, and according to the law, you can only hold a murder suspect in custody for up to 96 hours, then you'll have to release him."
Lestrade gives him a sarcastic look.
"Thank you for reminding us. Now, will you help or not?"
"I will." He would never pass on the opportunity to throw it back in Anderson's face for the rest of his days.
"But before I question him, I need to know: what did you mean when you said he is just like me?" He addresses the forensic officer, who smirks and replies, "He is a sociopath."
Sherlock seems taken aback for a moment, then bursts out.
"Let me guess, this is also his motive, isn't it? He is a sociopath, so he must have killed his mother, right? Is that why you wanted my help? You need me to make him talk because you think I am some sort of kindred spirit?" He spits out through gritted teeth.
Philip shrugs. "Nobody got a single word out of him, except for his convenient alibi."
"Fine, but I want to talk to him alone," Sherlock bargains.
Lestrade scowls at him. "Sherlock, do I have to remind you that you're not a police officer?"
"And do I have to remind you, Detective Inspector, that I am your best chance to solve a case that you had no jurisdiction over and that your forensics officer claimed for himself?" He remarks conceitedly.
Greg sighs, then concedes, "You have five minutes."
Sherlock steps into the interrogation room and sits at the table across from the boy.
"My name is Sherlock Holmes." He looks at the personal report that Anderson gave him and reads the boy's name out loud. "Isaac, care to share anything with me?"
The teenager doesn't raise his gaze on his interlocutor and bluntly replies, "I'm against new people."
A corner of Sherlock's mouth bends in a smirk.
"I can relate. Let's make it quick, then. I heard you don't talk to cops."
"There's nothing relevant I have to tell them," Isaac answers in a low voice.
"Good, so you're talking to me now." Sherlock grins at the one-way mirror, knowing that behind the glass, everyone is watching them.
"You said it: I don't talk to cops," Isaac underlines.
Sherlock tilts his head, intrigued. "How did you know I wasn't one of them?"
The boy casts a rapid glance at him before looking away again.
"From the way you behave. All the officers that entered this room wanted something from me."
"And what makes you think I don't?"
"I'm sure you do. The point is, you are the first person who's not asking anything."
"I can gather information differently," Holmes explains, relaxing his back against the seatback. This is getting rather interesting.
"And I guess that's why you've been observing me since the moment you stepped in. What do you have so far?" Isaac finally looks into his eyes. He isn't terrified, as would be expected. There's no fear in his features, just melancholic fatigue.
"A clever boy and a rather interesting conversation."
"Why are you here?" Isaac asks, curious about that bizarre newcomer.
"Because I'm bored," Sherlock replies honestly. "Why are you here?"
"Because my mum was murdered, and your friends think I did it." His tone is flat, apathetic, uninterested in his fate.
'Friends' is a strong word, the detective mentally comments.
"And they will most definitely send you to jail for a very long time unless you are proven innocent."
"Is that what you're trying to do?"
"As much as I would love to prove them wrong, I'm just interested in solving a case. That's it. So, where were you between 9 and 10 this morning?" Sherlock kicks off with the standard questions.
"I already told them: I was hunting." His bored reply is muttered with indifference.
"Yeah, in the woods. A nice little place not quite crowded with witnesses. Nobody can corroborate your story," Sherlock points out. Isaac remains silent.
"Is this towel yours?" He tries again, placing the plastic bag on the table. The boy steals a glance at it and suppresses a shiver.
"Yes."
Holmes has caught his reaction and doesn't give up on the topic.
"Why is it dripping blood?"
Isaac doesn't reply; silence is his shield.
"Isaac, if this is related to your mother's death—"
"It's not," he interrupts him. "It's not her blood. You can test it."
"We are testing it. But you could help me save precious time." Sherlock's voice resonates sharper than he intended.
Isaac makes eye contact with him only for an instant, then looks away without a word.
The detective shakes his head, disappointed in his obstinate mutism.
"Why the hard way?"
"Who says this is the hard way?"
Holmes gazes at him and clenches a fist under the table. This boy is more challenging than he thought, but he has no intention of giving up. He tries to regain control of the situation and says casually, "Let's change the subject. Tell me about your father."
Isaac frowns in surprise. "What do you want to know?"
"I'll be honest: I'm completely in the dark about him. I've only been told that he died six years ago, so feel free to tell me whatever you want." He sits back in his chair and nonchalantly stretches his feet on the metal table, waiting for a story.
"He was a decent man, or so I believe. I was just nine when he died," Isaac replies.
"Were you two close?" Sherlock's voice is softer now.
The boy shrugs, staring upon vacancy.
"I guess so. He used to tell me bedtime stories, mostly pirates' adventures. I've always had trouble sleeping."
Sherlock holds back a smile at that mention, and for half a second his mind flies back in time, lost among his childhood memories full of cocked hats and imaginary vessels. Pirate stories were his favourite, too.
"Time's up, Sherlock." Lestrade's voice crackles from the speakers, bringing him back to reality and causing him to sit back straight.
He turns to the mirror and begs, "Just two more minutes." He whips around without giving Greg the time to protest and hunches over the table, looking intently at the teenager.
"Isaac, what happened to your father? How did he die?"
Isaac sighs. A blank look in his eyes signals he is not even in the room anymore; his mind is distant, six years back in the past, miles away from Scotland Yard.
He recounts, "One night he went out in the woods and never came back. Not that unusual. Sometimes he went for a solitary walk in the forest, alone at night: it was his happy place. But that time he completely disappeared. The police discovered a pool of his blood at the foot of a tree and signs of struggle all around the area, but nothing more. No indication of what had happened. His body was never found."
"This sounds like something you were told—a police report. I want to hear your side of the story. What do you remember of that night? You said you've always had trouble sleeping: were you awake when he got out of the house?" Sherlock presses him.
"I- I don't know," he mumbles, scared, haunted by ghosts.
"Focus, focus," Sherlock insists, slamming a hand on the table, making him flinch.
"Sherlock, enough," Lestrade warns from the speakers.
"Isaac, if you remember something, anything at all, you must tell me," Holmes says in a pleading tone. He is getting truly involved in the case now.
Isaac squints his eyes and buries his head in his hands.
"I had a dream that night. I dreamed I was looking out the window and saw a man coming out of the forest. He was wearing a grey coverall."
Sherlock straightens up, raising a brow at that answer.
"Was it your father?"
"I didn't see his face in my dream. That's it. I don't even know what it means." He lifts his watery eyes on him, and Sherlock is invaded by a weird sensation. Is it compassion?
He adjusts his coat collar up and takes a few steps backwards.
"It was probably a figment of your imagination, but it was worth a try." He turns to speak in the direction of the one-way mirror.
"I'm done here. Now I need to go to the crime scene, but I have to stop by my apartment first."
221B Baker Street
When Sherlock enters the flat, Giulia is studying in the living room. She lifts her head from the books and inquires, "Was it a good idea to go to Scotland Yard?"
"A terrible idea, but a rather intriguing case. I'm going to the crime scene now. Would you be interested?" He asks, almost without thought. Considering everything that happened to her ever since she started tagging along with the eccentric Baker Street duo, maybe that isn't the wisest proposal. Still, for some unknown reason, he wouldn't mind her company.
"I would, but unfortunately, I can't. I got to present a dissertation in front of an examining committee the day after tomorrow, and I have 200 pages to—"
Sherlock raises a hand in the air to stop her rambling.
"A simple no would have sufficed. John? Are you coming?" He shouts.
Watson comes out of the kitchen, sipping tea.
"Where?"
"Countryside. Crime scene," he replies telegraphically.
"I have some appointments at the clinic in the afternoon. But if you promise to bring me back by three, it's a yes for me." He puts down his mug and takes his jacket from the coat rack.
Giulia waves at them. "See you later. Happy hunting."