CHAPTER 30: IT'S ALL ABOUT CHEMISTRY
TRIGGER ALERT: mention of self-harm. No graphic nor detailed description, just a mere mention of it, but I thought it'd be fair of me to warn you, dear readers. Sending love to anybody who's struggling in their lives. If you want to talk, just message me: I'm always available.
Baker Street
A few hours later
"Why didn't you answer my calls? Where were you? Why doesn't anybody in this flat reply when I yell?"
As soon as Giulia walks into the living room of 221B, she is greeted by the barrage of questions coming from a troubled Sherlock. She rolls her eyes at him, sinks in John's armchair, and steals a glance at her watch: it's 6 pm.
"Truth be told, I assumed you would spend the night in the countryside, near the crime scene. Have you already solved the case? Anyway, I came home because I found 10 missed calls from you, eventually." She shoots him a concerned look then lets her eyes travel all over the place: Nothing is on fire or flooded and there's no visible danger around the flat.
"What's wrong?"
"You'd have known it sooner if you'd answered your phone," Sherlock snarls.
She throws her hands in the air, exasperated.
"For God's sake, I wasn't ignoring you. I simply couldn't answer: I was in the middle of my interview with the commission for my PhD, Sherlock—the one thing I have been talking about for the entire past week."
He waves a hand in the air dismissively. "I never listen to you when you are complaining."
"I wonder why I do, instead," she grumbles. "Why didn't you call John if it was so important?"
"Because he went straight to the clinic when we came back from the countryside, and he never picks up when he is at work," he whines. He hates being ignored, especially when the reason is John's mundane job as a doctor. Where's the excitement in that?
"Never? And what if something extremely serious happens, like if you were dying?"
He gives her a condescending look. "If I was dying, John wouldn't be my first call."
"Of course. You should call an ambulance first."
"What? No. The ambulance isn't even on my list." He chortles, amused at her simplistic way of thinking.
"Who would you call, then?"
"Scotland Yard, obviously."
"The police? When you are on your last breath?" She asks, surprised. Sherlock's low opinion of the cops has never been subtle.
"Sure. I would tell them exactly who is trying to kill me. With me gone, it would be too difficult for them to solve the case, and I don't want my murderer to walk away free." He wrinkles his nose at the idea of becoming a dusty cold case file on Lestrade's desk.
"What a shame. I really hoped I could get away with your murder," she jokes. At that mention, she notices the nearly imperceptible change in his expression. His eyes dart across the room as if he felt the need to check that there were no dangers around. Does he believe that someone out there is indeed getting away with murder?
She rests her elbows on her knees and leans forward to scrutinise him closer.
"Seriously, though, you are rarely so concerned and vexed, and you are even more bitter than usual against Lestrade and his men. What's wrong?"
He avoids her gaze and replies in a low voice, "This case at hand... Something keeps eluding me. I'm sure that the mysteries in that little town are connected, and I am positive that Fred Admiral is the link: he must have killed Adam Therton six years ago, and for some reason, this morning he decided to kill Elisa as well. But I have no hard evidence for the first murder, no real motive for his apparent outburst of rage that led to the second killing today, and I'm stuck with an airtight alibi that places him miles away from the crime scene at the time of Elisa's murder."
She processes all the information for a few seconds, then frowns.
"And what is my role supposed to be in all of this? Why did you call me ten times?"
Sherlock whips his head up like he was just reminded of something.
"Oh, right. Where is the key to the top drawer of the cabinet?" He gestures toward the wooden piece of furniture in the living room.
She gapes at him. Is that all? Ten missed calls during one of the most crucial steps towards her PhD only to have someone to vent out to and fetch him some stupid keys?
She sighs and passes a hand over her knackered face.
"In the fridge, next to the doorbell. I still wonder how the latter ended up there, for the record."
"It kept ringing," Sherlock tersely replies. "Who put the key there and why?"
She walks to the kitchen, explaining, "John did, assuming that since you hardly ever consume any food, it'd be easier to keep away from you the temptation of opening up the drawer and taking your Browning." Her voice drops an octave on the last word.
She grabs the key and steps closer to Sherlock, placing it in his open palm. As he closes his fingers around it, he grazes her hand. The mere touch of her fingers sends a stinging sensation through his fingertips, spreading quickly all over his body; a thousand needles seem to pierce his skin at once. He frowns and stares at his own hand, trying to process what has just happened. Correction: what has just happened to him, since she doesn't seem to have noticed or felt anything odd, which rules out the possibility that their bodies exchanged a little electrified shock. So why did he feel a burning sensation searing his skin when they touched? Was it just the sharp contrast between her hot skin and the frozen cold key placed in his hand?
He shakes his head to throw out any distracting thoughts and opens the drawer, taking out his gun. Giulia observes his movements; when his fingers wrap around the firearm, a shiver runs down her spine, and she quivers at that sight. She is still haunted by the dark memories of her almost attempted murder by his very hands inside the bank.
Sherlock notices her reaction and quickly puts it away, locking the drawer again. She is having a hard time processing her post-traumatic syndrome disorder: the last thing she needs is for him to trigger it back again, he reflects, being unusually thoughtful. He stares at her. That's understandable; everyone would be in shock, but he feels there is something else in her case. The image of him pointing a gun at her wasn't just reminding her of her brush with death at the bank. It must have awakened a previous overwhelming trauma, he concludes.
Why can't she just open up to him about her past? He is a sociopath, alright, and she wouldn't get any empathy or compassion from him. But he wants to know everything. He wants to know her.
She knits her brows at the far-away look in his eyes.
"Why did you need the gun, anyway?"
"I just hoped that by holding a weapon that's familiar to me, it would become clear why Isaac allegedly killed his mother with his father's handgun instead of his own shotgun, which he uses to hunt in the woods. It makes no logical sense to me. Another mystery inside an already mind-boggling case."
"Most people usually get to difficult answers when their mind is busy with something else. You should find a distraction," she suggests.
"I refuse to be equalised to most people. But I guess I could do something to prevent the atrophy of my brain. I'll do some anatomic experiments and I wouldn't mind having an assistant," he says suggestively, marching to the kitchen.
"That's it? You made me rush back home just to hold the magnifying lens for you?" She asks, bewildered.
"Are you going to help me or not?"
After ten minutes of experiments on the bloodied body parts coming from St. Barth's hospital, Giulia drops the tools that she was holding for Sherlock and places her hands flat on the table, gasping for air.
"I think I'm going to faint," she murmurs in a strained voice.
He doesn't even look up from the microscope and replies mechanically, "Nothing to worry about. Just mind not to smash your head against sharp edges or blunt objects."
She shoots him a death stare. "Sherlock, you've got to help me."
He catches the alarmed note in her voice and finally pays attention to her.
"What's going on?"
She gulps repeatedly, struggling to keep her eyes focused on the table that she is holding onto for dear life.
"I- I don't know. I guess I've never stared at gory limbs for so long. The sight of blood seems to affect me. I should have understood it the first time I went to a crime scene with you when I couldn't even enter the room where the corpse was."
"How can you say that you are about to faint?" Her self-diagnosis intrigues him.
"It has already happened to me, once. I can recognise the signs."
She blinks frantically, but nothing seems to dissolve the black edge framing and narrowing her visual field. Sherlock's voice keeps getting further away, and she feels a blanket of cold sweat enwrap her.
Sherlock analyses the erratic rhythm of her laboured breaths and takes her hand, guiding her to the living room. Oddly enough, he looks way more uncomfortable than Giulia who is on the verge of unconsciousness. He immediately realises what is causing him such awkwardness: his hand holding hers. It feels weird, or does it? It's not unnatural or anything; it's just that he is not used to such an intimate gesture. It should be comforting, yet his manners are robotic and clumsy.
"Take a seat. Rest your back on the armchair and breathe normally," he instructs as if he were teaching a lesson on first aid.
"It isn't working. Could you just talk to me, please?" She begs.
"You want me to talk? About what?"
"Anything, as long as you keep my mind distracted." She shuts her eyes, massaging her temples with clammy hands.
He jabbers on, "Did you know that Indium (atomic number 49) is a chemical element used to make touch screens, flat-screen TVs, and solar panels? That's because it can conduct electricity and create strong bonds with glass. Its name derives from the bright indigo line in its spectrum."
"Interesting choice of subject. No, I didn't know that."
He steals a glance at her. "Are you feeling any better?"
"Hydrogen," she replies flatly, keeping her eyes closed and drawing deep breaths.
He frowns, wondering if he misheard. "Pardon?"
"Hydrogen is my favourite chemical element," she says in a slightly firmer voice.
He cocks a brow at that peculiar opinion. Do people have favourite elements or is it just one of her quirks?
"How so?" He asks, intrigued.
"It can give both life and death. Have you ever thought about it? Two atoms of hydrogen bound to one atom of oxygen result in a molecule of water: H2O. Water: the foundation of life. And then there's the hydrogen bomb or thermonuclear weapon, of course. We created a weapon of mass destruction out of the very means that generate life. Aren't we obtuse?"
"Yes, most of you are."
She cracks her eyes open and peeps at him.
"Right. I forgot I was talking to the man who doesn't feel like he is part of humankind."
"I do, but only from an anthropological point of view," he spits out haughtily, then his voice softens as he asks, "How are you feeling?"
"Better. Thank you." She swallows hard and gives him a grateful smile. "After this, I'm going to put up a notice in the newspaper to find a proper assistant for your experiments," she jokes around, but at those words, something in Sherlock's mind clicks.
Notice in the newspaper. Her words echo in his subconscious, setting the gears of his brain into motion. Suddenly, it hits him: the London Gazette—the paper that John glimpsed in Mrs Admiral's purse. When she tripped and knocked over her handbag, spilling everything on the ground, John gave him a list of the contents, including the London Gazette. But why should it be relevant to the case?
An epiphany is on its way, but he can't catch up with the realisation just yet.
Giulia shoots a glance at his bewitched expression.
"What's wrong? Don't worry, I wasn't seriously suggesting that I will liquidate our fruitful business of slashing cadavers open."
"Liquidate. Yes!" He cries out, making Giulia jump in the armchair. He logs into John's computer with an ecstatic expression and starts a frantic search on the Internet.
"What are you doing?" Giulia hesitantly questions. And what was so remarkable about her idiotic joke?
"Scrolling through the latest issue of the London Gazette."
"Never heard of it. Is it a paper for the local news?"
"No, it's the UK's Official Public Record. Mrs Admiral, a delirious woman from the town of the crime scene, was carrying it in her purse," Sherlock replies, typing impossibly fast on the keyboard.
"And how could the Public Record possibly be of any interest to her?" She asks, scratching her head.
"I wondered the same. I found it quite odd at first, but I disregarded that detail, trying to focus on her health conditions. However, now I can't help but think that if she bought it, it means that she was looking for something, expecting to read something relevant to her. And I think I've just found the answer." He flashes a toothy smile and shows her the screen.
She stares at a notice about the bankruptcy of a Plumbers Company.
"Should I presume the woman is connected to this company? Was she employed there and lost her job because of the liquidation?"
"Way worse than that. She is the owner of the company. She inherited it—meaning that this morning she got the worst news ever: the imminent liquidation of her father's hard work. When we met her, she was experiencing some sort of drug-induced hallucinations, and while looking at John, she thought she saw her deceased father. By simply paying heed to her ravings, it wasn't too difficult to infer that financial strains were plaguing the company. When she thought she was talking to the ghost of her father, she apologised profusely and felt guilty for letting her dad down. She affirmed she was ready to do anything to save the company. What if murder was an option, too?"
"Are you saying that she might be the killer?"
"Maybe, but I still have nothing to back this theory up. No proof." His tone is discouraged. He had a feeling that he was getting closer to the solution, but it looks like he just hit another wall.
"How can I help?" She instinctively proposes.
"You just helped. Your ironic remark just sparked an idea in me. Do me a favour and keep talking: you're helping the stream of my thoughts. Now you are the one who has to do the talking for me. What were you saying earlier? Hydrogen, life, death..." He vaguely gestures to prompt her to pick up on her previous comments.
She chuckles. "I was just raving, I guess. Hydrogen is indeed my favourite element, but simply because it's the easiest one on the periodic table. Atomic number: 1. Atomic mass: 1. Position: top left. That's all I needed to know. I've never been too keen on chemistry. I was always scared of getting a chemical reaction wrong and being poisoned with some toxic substance."
At that moment, Sherlock understands what Giulia meant earlier about distractions. His brain was too focused on hunting down nebulous connections and another realisation strikes like thunder, forcing him into his mind palace.
Inside Sherlock's mind palace
Poisoned. Martha Admiral must have been poisoned rather than drunk or high. But how did it happen? And how does this detail connect her to the murder?
He opens a door in his mind palace, and he is on the crime scene again. He ignores the corpse in the living room as he feels driven to the garden. When he steps outside, a reproduction of the Thertons' family dog, the one that was found dead on the grass, runs to him, wagging his tail. He squats down to play with it: he would never admit it out loud, but he has always had a soft spot for dogs.
"Hey, buddy, what happened to you? How did you die?" He asks the dog, scratching behind his ears.
In response, the dog bites his cuff. Sherlock tries to yank it from its mouth and jokingly scolds it, "You'd better not chew it."
He stops dead as he finally connects all the dots. The dog didn't simply die of asphyxiation; it ingested a poisonous substance. And he knows exactly what that was.
Sherlock comes back to reality, springing to his feet and shouting, "Toxic! Yes, toxic to the human body, but lethal to a dog. Finally, all the pieces fit together." He claps his hands and twirls around the place, much to Giulia's amusement.
"What are you talking about? Did the delirious woman kill your case victim and a dog, too?" She is always horrified by how gloomy Sherlock's world is: murderers, psychopaths, lunatics of any kind. And yet, she can't help but feel a slightly morbid attraction to it. It… or him? Her brain teases her.
"I solved the case. Now I know how everything truly went down," Sherlock affirms, taking his long coat from the coat rack and urging her, "There's not a minute to lose. We need to hurry. Martha Admiral's life might be in danger."
Giulia recognises the name he pronounced a few minutes before.
"You mean the crazy woman who mistook John for her dead father?"
"Yes, except that she isn't crazy at all. At the time, I deduced she must have been high on drugs given her symptoms, but your little joke about chemical elements made me realise that my diagnosis was wrong: she was poisoned."
"Poisoned? My goodness, this is serious. We should call an ambulance and notify the police."
"Yes, in due time," he says, standing in the doorway and hinting at the stairs. He stares at Giulia as she hurriedly stands up and fumbles with her coat and scarf. This isn't a good idea. Deep down, he knows that involving her in his life, in his cases, has never been a good idea. He should stop her, leave her there, and go alone. That would be the wisest thing to do. It's the usual protective instinct that he always adopts towards his friends. He threw an American spy out the window multiple times when Mrs Hudson was attacked, for crying out loud. He would do anything to protect his friends.
So, why isn't he stopping Giulia? Common sense would suggest leaving her at home, safe and sound.
All of his considerations lead up to one thought: he is not stopping her because he wants her to come. He wants to keep her close. But that is a selfish, hazardous game. If anything was to happen to her...
He prevents himself from finishing that thought. There's no time for that. Still, he can't hold back one more realisation—something about himself that he hasn't come to terms with yet. Among all his noble concerns for the safety of another human being and the risks of living with him, the real reason he had tried hard to push Giulia away a few weeks ago, to cut her out of his life completely wasn't just to protect her. He wanted to protect himself, too.
To a sharp, ice-cold mind like his brother's, that would be considered a 'disadvantage'. But to an all-too-human Sherlock Holmes, it's much more than that. It's dangerous.
Giulia frowns at his torn expression. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
He breaks from his pensive contemplation and hisses at her approaching the switch, "Don't turn off the lights."
"Why?"
"Because your bodyguard outside will want to tag along, and I'm not in the mood for unnecessary passengers." Sherlock looks out the window at a man in dark clothes standing in the street, his eyes fixed on their front door. Then he cracks the window open, places a dusty gramophone next to it, and puts on a Bach vinyl record.
As the melancholic sound of a violin fills the air, resounding in the street below, he tells her, "We'll let him think that we are both at home while we sneak out through one of Mrs Hudson's windows overlooking an alley at the back of this building, where her car is parked."
She smirks at his getaway plan but objects, "If I try to get rid of my bodyguard, Mycroft will go nuts."
"I'm counting on that."
When they jump in Mrs Hudson's car, Giulia looks at him. "Where are we going?"
Sherlock turns on the engine and peels out.
"Back to the countryside. We need to get to Mrs Admiral as soon as possible, before either her symptoms lessen and eventually disappear, or intensify and lead to her death."
She shivers. "The first case scenario looks positive to me."
"It isn't. I need to verify my hypothesis; I need to check all signs of poisoning," he explains, darting along the road.
She knits her brows: she has spotted an uncommon note of uncertainty in his voice.
"Check? You never need to check anything. Why are you so insecure?"
"Please, I'm never insecure," he rebuts, then his tone loses his usual arrogance. "But this case has proved quite challenging. I thought I had the right answer all along, but could never get the whole picture. All these doubts have had a strange effect on me. The haunting feeling of unease, the impression that I was one step behind the whole time..."
He interrupts his self-pity spiral and casts a glance at Giulia: her head is leaning against the seat, her eyes peacefully closed. Has she dozed off?
"Are you even listening to me?" He asks, his voice low, afraid to disturb.
She nods slowly, keeping her eyes shut.
"Yeah. I've had a long day. I just need to rest my eyes for a bit." She tries to stifle a yawn, but he notices it.
"It's a long drive. Why don't you sleep for a bit? I won't try to wake you up with my monologues, I promise."
She opens her eyes and turns to him with a serious expression. "No, I don't want to leave you alone."
He shrugs. "I can survive. I've been alone before, a lot."
"And that's precisely why I won't let it happen again."
He takes his eyes off the road for a second to look back at her. What does she truly think of him? Why is she always by his side, no matter what? Is it just 'Florence Nightingale syndrome'? Is he just a hopeless person for her to save?
He focuses again on the dark streets.
"In this case, even though I'm obviously not a fan of pop culture, maybe some music will help you stay awake."
They reach for the radio at the same time; their fingers brush against each other before Sherlock can quickly withdraw his hand, placing it back on the wheel. That burning sensation again, a heat that spread through his chest up to his cheeks. What is wrong with him?
Giulia throws him a timid smile and fiddles with the commands until she settles for a delicate ballad. She relaxes in her seat and stretches her back.
He steals a glance at her and briskly inquires, "Aren't you tired of it all yet?"
She gives him a quizzical look in response. He doesn't meet her gaze but wonders, "How can an apparently rational human being such as yourself bear this lifestyle of ours?"
"Look, Sherlock, all these things that keep happening to us, all the cases, terrorists, violent deaths, my kidnapping… It's exhausting, that's true. But I was never made for a peaceful life."
"Will you ever tell me more about your life?"
This time, he turns around to fix his eyes on hers, and she is the one who looks away.
"I will. When I feel ready to talk about it, I promise I will."
She clears her throat and changes the subject.
"In the meantime, why don't you tell me why this case is so important to you? As much as it pains me to say it, this should be just another murder to you. You don't usually get so edgy."
"You don't understand: I don't care about the victim," he retorts in an utterly neutral tone.
"Then why were you going mad?"
"Because of that boy, Isaac. And because of what they are doing to him—the inhabitants of his hometown, Anderson and the other officers. I know for a fact that he has already suffered more than necessary. And I don't just mean the tragic loss of his parents. He suffers from a deep, insidious kind of pain: depression," he murmurs.
"How do you know?"
He cocks a brow. She should know the answer already. He notices everything; that's his gift and his curse.
"I might seem oblivious to other people's mental issues, but I'm very observant. When I went to the crime scene—his house, I noticed something apparently out of place in his bathroom: he had a razor."
"Isn't it normal? Many men shave in the morning," she points out.
"Isaac is fifteen, and he has a real kid's face. He won't need a razor for another year at least. This is why I need to check something. Take the wheel," he carelessly states before fumbling inside his pockets to get his phone.
She leaps to the steering wheel and grasps it, striving to keep the car moving straight ahead.
"Sherlock!"
He ignores her panicked reproach and makes a call as if it were the most natural thing to do.
"Lestrade? Did you get the lab results on that bloodstained towel you found in Isaac's wardrobe?" He makes a pause, seemingly giving his interlocutor time to reply, but then jumps in, "Don't tell me: it only half-matches Elisa Therton's DNA."
Giulia can distinctly hear a sigh on the other side of the line and a familiar hoarse voice saying, "Should I ask how you know that?"
"Irrelevant. But you got the wrong man. In every possible sense. Send a squad to the Admirals' house. And before you object:
- Yes, I am sure this time;
- No, I don't have the time to explain now;
- So yes, you'll have to trust me.
Just a leap of faith, Detective Inspector," Sherlock blurts out before ending the call.
He puts away the phone just in time to regain control of the wheel and guide the car back into its lane.
"What the hell? You can't just let go of the wheel while driving," Giulia screams, but he only gives her a careless shrug.
"What was that about? How is it possible that the DNA only half-matches Elisa's one? Whose blood is that?" She inquires, passing her hand on her sweaty forehead.
"Isaac's, her son. He cuts himself. Do you get why this case matters now? Everyone is treating him like some sort of joke. He's being framed for murder just because he is different. I won't allow this farce any longer because I know what it means. I'm a sociopath too, and I've been an outsider all my life. And let's face it, I didn't exactly turn out the best possible way. Nobody should experience that. I will not let them turn Isaac into a monster." His resolute words linger in the cabin for a while.
She gazes at him for a few seconds. There's no pity in her eyes. She isn't staring at a sociopath or a loner. Despite what he thinks of himself, she is just looking at a broken human being.
She whispers, "For what it's worth, I don't think you are a monster."
She would swear she saw a glimpse of a smile tugging at his lips. Though she cannot be sure now; it was just for an instant. Then he straightened his mouth in a flat line, forcing an indifferent expression. As if he tried to contain himself and control the instinctive reaction of his body. He probably does that all the time: his brain must always be in charge. No exterior signs can ever mirror what he hides within.
She glances at him. Yet his system is glitchy; he can't control his eyes. He would have to shut them close to prevent his green-blue eyes from revealing his mood, his sensations. She can read them sometimes, and that is why she is so daunted right now: he keeps his eyes fixed on the road, avoiding her gaze. What is he thinking? Has he realised that she doesn't judge him, never did, never will? Does he even care? Or is he thinking about the case again?
Work, just work, incessantly, day and night, only work in his mind. Does he ever think about something else, about someone else? Does he ever think about her?
That last question comes as a surprise to her. Why would she even wonder that? It's impossible, absurd. She knows it would cloud his judgement, his reasoning process—the thing he lives for. He could never grant anybody such power over his mind. No one will ever reign over his mind palace: that would be his ruin.
And she, on her part, should never even entertain such foolish thoughts. She knows better than that: she must keep the whole world at a distance, far away from her heart. She can't allow herself to give in to any kind of affection. Not anymore. Not after what happened the last time she loved somebody. She ended up annihilated. She is just learning to piece herself back together again.
She mentally tries to convince herself: She must pull the brakes now, stop whatever she is feeling, stop whatever might be and never should. She should just stop. Love will always destroy her; sentiment will murder her without mercy. She should stop, she keeps repeating. Then why isn't she? Why doesn't she pull away from him?
She peeks at Sherlock, and a sudden realisation dawns on her. He will be the death of her.
Author's note: Another domestic scene between Sherlock and Giulia, but this time it served the purpose of advancing the case (and their relationship, somehow).
I have a question for you, dear readers. Is the way I write the characters' inner thoughts and emotions understandable? Representing someone's mental processes can be quite challenging, and I highlighted it by using italics. Is it clear enough for you?
Thank you to anyone who is reading this story and commenting on it. You have no idea how happy it makes me feel.