CHAPTER 35: CALL ME, MAYBE
Two weeks later – Mid-February
It's been two weeks since Sherlock's release from the hospital, and things feel different at 221 Baker Street. For starters, it has taken John two full days to stop staring at Giulia whenever she walked into the flat. It wasn't an inquisitive gaze or an accusatory look, not at all. He was just looking at her, struggling to picture all the challenges she had encountered over the past year, trying to figure out how she must have felt after the explosion, how she had coped with her grief and the shattering discovery of being herself a target in the attack against her family. However, being an army man, John had dealt with loss and suffering before—more than he wanted to admit. And Giulia was secretly grateful for his politely detached demeanour towards damaged people that he had honed over the years on the field as an army doctor. At least, he never looked at her with the slightest hint of compassion. He could tell that the last thing she needed was the pity of her flatmates.
Still, she knew it would take John some time to digest the whole truth and the overdue account of her past. It turned out he needed precisely 48 hours of a spaced-out expression to overcome his surprise and put to rest any trust issues. Now, their relationship was going back to its friendly normalcy.
As for Sherlock, it was impossible to say how he had truly reacted to finding out the truth about her story. Giulia had barely seen him since he came back home. From the very moment he had stepped back into the flat, he had holed up in his room under the pretext of his convalescence, and she hadn't met him for almost a week, except for a chance encounter, late one night.
It was 4 a.m., and she had just woken up from a nightmare. She went looking for a glass of water in the kitchen and was walking head down when she bumped into Sherlock, who was crossing the threshold with a cup of tea. He had immediately deduced the reason she was up at such an hour but had tactfully avoided inquiring about her nightmares. He knew most of her demons by then.
It had taken Giulia a little longer to understand he was restlessly roaming in the middle of the night for the very same reason: Sherlock, too, was haunted by nightmares. It would have been an obvious conclusion for anyone else; he had been shot and almost died after all. Some kind of PTSD was to be expected. But he was Sherlock Holmes—the Prince of his mind palace, the Lord of pure cold reason. It was hard to imagine he would let his brain play tricks on him. And yet, as much as he ruled over the rational part of his mind, his subconscious still slipped from his grasp, painting the blackest dreams that polluted his every night. He never spoke a word about it, let alone with Giulia, but in that brief encounter on the kitchen threshold, she could read it on his face, in the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, and in the deep shadows of his hollowed-out cheeks.
There they were: two lost souls in the dead of the night, standing face to face, each one with their universe of monsters to run from. Each one alone. By choice, by a silent spell that would have taken so little to break. There was a moment of awkward silence, which had never happened between them. Over the months of cohabitation, they spent a lot of time together in the living room, neither of them uttering a single word for hours on end, and it never felt weird or unnatural. Around her, he felt comfortable enough to plunge into his mind palace without an explanation, knowing that she would understand and respect his quiet. Now there they stood, in the doorway, their breath caught in their throats as if they were both about to say something, yet no one dared to speak first. In the end, Giulia flashed him a crooked smile and excused herself, diving back downstairs and leaving Sherlock to his voluntary exile.
After that, he had reappeared slightly more often in the shared spaces, and the two of them had exchanged a couple of sentences, mostly about Sherlock's recovering health. Then, their conversations had trickled back to their habitual banter, yet something was missing. Neither of them ever raised the topic of what had happened in Sherlock's hospital room.
Almost happened, Giulia thinks to herself, walking into the empty living room in the morning, two weeks after Sherlock's return home. She hates those uncertain situations in which any balance seems precarious. It looks like they are walking a tightrope, and she can't help but wonder what would happen if she gathered all her courage to leap into the void. If she allows herself to fall for the sociopath, will her battered heart shatter once more?
She shakes her head, trying to get rid of all those what-ifs. She was never good at balancing probability in her math class. Why should she make estimates about her future just now?
She shoots a melancholic look at Sherlock's empty armchair. She wishes her flatmates were there to distract her and keep her company, but they got out early for one of Sherlock's medical appointments to check his healing wound. She usually appreciates some quiet alone time, but today it doesn't feel relaxing at all. If she was completely honest with herself, she would admit that the eerie shroud of thick fog that has been engulfing London since the crack of dawn sends shivers down her spine.
She walks to the window to glance outside; she can't even spot the outline of the buildings on the other side of the road through the mist. She grumbles and switches her laptop on to watch a comedy show. Whenever the world around her becomes too gloomy and depressing, she always hopes that a big, fat laugh will brighten her day. It doesn't magically erase all her fears and worries, but it's an effective placebo. She sprawls on the sofa and places the computer on the coffee table.
Ten minutes into the episode, she is gasping for air while wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. Then her phone rings. She grunts and presses the pause button before frowning at the lit phone screen: the number calling isn't among her contacts.
"Hello?"
"Good morning. This is Doctor Cab's personal assistant. Am I speaking to Mr Sherlock Holmes's secretary?" A polite male voice asks.
Why did she even answer? She mentally complains, stealing a longing look at her computer: she hates being interrupted while watching TV—it's a sacred moment.
"Good morning. I'm sorry, but I'm not Sherlock's secretary." She rolls her eyes, all too aware that the interlocutor can't see her.
"Oh, what a terrible mistake. I apologise for the blunder, Miss. Now I'll have to start over my search for the right number. Sorry again. Have a good day," he says in a mellow voice.
"Wait," she stops him before he can hang up, moved with compassion when she hears the agitated note in his voice. "I might not be his employee, but I know Mr Holmes. If you want to leave a message, I could pass the word."
"Really? That would be splendid. It's very nice of you," he rejoices. "Could you kindly tell Mr Holmes that Doctor Cab has some experimental remedies for his frequent ailments?"
She finds a piece of paper and a pen on the coffee table and quickly jots down the information.
"Yeah, sure," she mutters while her brain runs wild. What ailments? Sherlock never mentioned any illness or affliction. He doesn't even complain about his bullet wound.
"Excuse me, what did you say the doctor's name is again?" She asks while rolling the pen between her fingers.
"Neurologist Kim Cab. Just like a taxi." He chuckles at his own joke.
She gapes. Neurologist? What could Sherlock ever have to do with a neurologist?
"Could you provide me with more specific information on the conditions of Mr Holmes, please?" She ventures.
"I'm afraid I can't. Everything is protected by doctor-patient confidentiality. Sorry," the assistant replies apologetically.
"Right, of course. Anyway, I know Sherlock is quite messy, and I bet he didn't save Dr Cab's number. Would you be so kind as to give it to me so that he can call back later?"
"There's no need for that, darling. The doctor herself will show up soon. Thank you very much, Giulia," he distinctly pronounces and hangs up straight away.
She freezes as she hears the last word. How could he know her name?
She replays the phone call again and again in her head, recalling every sentence she said: she never stated her name. How was that possible?
A shiver runs down her spine as she shakes her head to clear her mind. She'd better get a hold of herself. She is just being paranoid.
She tries to think straight. There are a thousand reasons he could know her name… Alright, maybe not a thousand, but her frightened mind can still work something out. For example, he might have found her number in a phone book listing her name. Yet, the Secret Service would never let her number be a matter of public record, especially considering the secrecy surrounding her identity. Then how?
Before she has time to find a reasonable explanation for what has just happened, the doorbell rings. She stumbles down the stairs and clings to the railing with a sense of grim foreboding.
That's nonsense. She strives to convince herself that she is just getting carried away with a trifle.
She opens the door a crack and looks outside through the gap allowed by the bolt, but there's no one there. She lowers her eyes to the ground, spotting a package on the doormat. On the wrapping, she can clearly read Sherlock's name and address.
She cocks a brow. The bullet wound must be quite disabling for Sherlock if he resorted to shopping online, she thinks, taking the delivery inside.
When she closes the main door, she leans her back against it, studying the package with sheer curiosity. It is considerably heavy despite its relatively compact size. It looks like a box wrapped in some creased white paper; a black glove is hanging from it, tied to the box with a red thread. Weird.
She shrugs and strolls back upstairs. She places the packages on the coffee table and resumes the episode, but this time, not even the funny jokes on-screen help dispel a haunting sense of uneasiness.
Half an hour later, she hears the front door open again. Sherlock and John climb up the stairs, talking animatedly. When they enter the room, John puts an end to their conversation with a loud sigh and heads for the kitchen, carrying grocery bags. Giulia offers to help him while Sherlock plunges into his armchair to rest.
"John, may I ask you something?" She murmurs, keeping her voice down. He nods absent-mindedly.
"Does Sherlock have a specialist that checks on his brain?" She asks, earning a burst of laughter in return.
"Like what, a therapist? Him? He is the most reflective person I know, but also one of the most self-absorbed. He could never reflect on himself that way. I bet that the Holmes brothers aren't big fans of therapy. On our first encounter, Mycroft even suggested I fired my psychologist who had misdiagnosed the intermittent tremor I had in my hand," he recalls. Mycroft knows nothing about approaching a stranger. In fairness, though, neither does his little brother.
"I meant more like a neurologist," Giulia specifies.
"He would definitely need one if you ask me," John jokes. "But no, no way."
"Are you sure? Couldn't he be keeping something from us?" She asks, hinting at the time Sherlock had relapsed into drugs without them noticing.
"What are you two conspiring about?" Holmes intervenes from the living room upon hearing their muffled whispers. "By all means, feel free to fill me in: I'm dying of boredom," he shouts demandingly to draw their attention.
"Sherlock, do you have a doctor?" Giulia inquires abruptly, marching into the living room and placing her hands on her hips.
"Yes, and you know him pretty well." He flashes her a sarcastic smile and nods at John, who is now pouring him a cup of tea.
Watson grimaces at him. "I don't want to be your treating physician. You'll ruin my perfect score thanks to your reckless lifestyle."
"That's not what I meant. I've just received a strange call—" she starts explaining, but Sherlock interrupts her.
"Was it one of the fans I somehow attract thanks to John's little blog?"
"No, it seemed like a very professional assistant," she clarifies.
He frowns. "Assistant to whom?"
"Doctor Kim Cab, your neurologist, apparently." She glares at him, but he only throws a vacant look at her.
"Never heard of her. Besides, why would I be interacting with a neurologist? Does she have a case for me?"
"It would seem that you are her case," Giulia replies suggestively, looking daggers at him. Is he playing dumb with her?
Both men turn their heads to stare at her, and John asks, "What was the doctor talking about?"
"I wondered the same. By the way, I didn't talk to her directly. I've just been told to pass him the message that she has experimental remedies for Sherlock's frequent ailments," she quotes, reading her notes aloud. "Care to share what afflicts you?" Her inquisitive gaze scans the detective from head to toe.
"That I haven't had a proper case in more than a week, to begin with," he whines.
She doesn't play along and remains impassive. "I'm serious, Sherlock."
He shrugs unabashedly. "I told you: I don't know any Doctor Cab. It was probably a scam or an unfunny joke." He waves a hand in the air dismissively. "Why are you so fixated on this phantom doctor?"
Yeah, why is she? She asks herself the same question, shrugging off the uncomfortable feeling of being spied on.
"The person I spoke with seemed pretty real to me," she snaps back, re-living the disquieting sensation of an icy chill creeping up her spine. And he knew things he wasn't supposed to know.
"If it was important, they will call back. Now, onto more interesting matters. What's this?" Sherlock points at the small package on the coffee table.
She sighs. She will get nothing else out of him. To be fair, he is reacting so indifferently that she isn't even sure he has anything to hide. He didn't bat an eyelid; he didn't flinch nor look surprised. Maybe, just maybe, she could give him the benefit of the doubt.
"It was delivered a few minutes before you came home. It's for you, but it isn't signed. A secret admirer, perhaps?" She teases him.
He takes the small box in his hands and analyses the glove attached to it.
John raises an ironic brow at the uncommon ornament.
"What is that even supposed to mean? Did the sender run out of cards?"
Sherlock smirks. I'd rather say the message is quite clear: someone has thrown down the gauntlet."
Watson scoffs. "Right, I forgot you are likely to receive gifts from dangerous lunatics. Should we x-ray it to ensure it's not a bomb?"
Sherlock shakes his head confidently.
"No need. It wouldn't make any sense. Nobody would challenge an adversary only to kill them instantly. It would take away all the fun. But let's examine the package before opening it."
Giulia interprets his intentions and fetches his fingerprint dusting kit. After a few minutes of attentive dusting and observing, Sherlock draws his conclusions with a deep furrow between his eyebrows.
"No fingerprints, and no traces of any kind. The sender went to great lengths not to leave any clues, but they certainly got my attention."
"Do you recognise the handwriting?" Giulia asks, hinting at Sherlock's name and address written in irregular characters on the wrapping paper.
"The letters are all crooked. Might be an alcoholic?" John's tentative deduction is welcomed with a sneer from Sherlock.
"You assume that it's an imperfection, but it's a precaution. The sender clearly wrote the address with their non-dominant hand to give us as little information as possible."
John rubs his chin. "So, we know nothing at all?"
"I wouldn't say that. The address has been written with a fountain pen. If the sender was left-handed, their left hand would have brushed over the fresh ink while writing, thus leaving a slight smudge next to the letters. Given the absence of such traces, we can infer that the sender, who therefore wrote the immaculate address with their right hand to throw us off, is originally left-handed."
Giulia trails a finger on the rugged wrapping.
"The paper looks as if someone spilt some water on it and then let it dry off; that would explain all the wrinkles. I'd say that we could be dealing with someone clumsy," she trails off pensively.
"You don't sound too convinced, though." Holmes encourages her reasoning: she is onto a promising lead.
"I simply think that if they accidentally wetted the wrapping paper, they would change it."
"Unless they couldn't, assuming they were in heavy rain when they shipped the package. Maybe the wrapping got damp when it was too late to replace it," John conjectures.
Holmes rubs his hands together with a smug smile and finally takes the reins of the discussion with a condescending tone.
"Thanks for participating, folks. Your deductions are enthralling, but way off base. The sender voluntarily immersed the paper in water. Look at the ink: it didn't melt or fade."
"So the address must have been written after the paper had already dried out," Giulia concludes.
Sherlock nods. "It was a deliberate choice. They were sending a message, but I'll have to run some chemical tests on it to unveil the clue. Alright, game over. Time to find out what the content is," he announces, unwrapping the box.
He delicately lifts the lid to reveal a small marble statue. It represents a young woman holding a bunch of grapes in her hands. A flossy veil and cloak are draping around her body. Her graceful figure is standing barefoot on a miniature pedestal.
"What is that and how could that represent a challenge to you?" Giulia inquires, tilting her head to the side. She doesn't know what she was expecting, but nothing in that figurine gives off a threatening or challenging vibe. The sculpture looks rather lovely, actually.
"Maybe someone didn't like our skull's head with earphones on and suggested a more classical piece of furniture for our flat," Sherlock jokes to deflect attention from his total absorption with the mysterious figurine. He is so focused on it that he becomes oblivious to the world around him while Giulia's question resounds in his mind: Why would someone challenge him by sending a marble statue? Is it to be interpreted as a warning?
The three of them are so pensive and concentrated on studying that foreign object that they all simultaneously jump in their seats when Giulia's phone rings. She takes it from her pocket and stares wide-eyed at the screen: it is the same unknown number.
Giulia freezes as a wave of panic washes over her. She hasn't told her flatmates all the details of her phone call with Dr Cab's assistant. She unlocks her phone with trembling hands, puts it on speaker, and aggressively questions, "How do you know my name?"
The person on the other side of the line seems taken aback and takes a couple of seconds to respond.
"I don't. Who is this?"
She frowns. It isn't the same voice as before. This one sounds slightly more high-pitched and far more annoyed and arrogant. Definitely not the kind yet creepy gentleman that had called previously.
"I'm not too inclined to share my personal details with strangers. Who are you?" She rebuts with hostility, to the surprise of both her friends.
"This is Detective Inspector Dimmock of Scotland Yard. And you'd better drop that attitude and state your full name, ma'am," the squeaky voice orders.
John and Sherlock exchange a bewildered look: they know Dimmock. They had the displeasure of conducting a joint investigation with him about the murders of banker Eddie Van Coon and journalist Brian Lukis some time ago. Needless to say, it wasn't a pleasant experience for anyone.
Her tone immediately changes as she brings a hand to her mouth, mortified.
"I'm so sorry, Detective Inspector. My name is Giulia Ferrini. I never imagined I was talking to a police officer. May I know why you are calling my number?"
"To verify who the owner of this number is. While we are at it, I'll seize the chance and ask you to present yourself at New Scotland Yard for a police interview as soon as possible," Dimmock articulates in an authoritative voice.
Her jaw drops in shock. "Can I ask why? What is this interrogation about?"
"Because you received a call from the same number that I'm currently using approximately 45 minutes ago. That was the whole point of me phoning you from this device: to find out your identity," he replies, peeved. He is clearly not too keen on having to explain himself.
"Pardon me, Detective Inspector, but I'm confused: Does receiving a call from an unknown number make me an accessory to a crime of some sort?" Giulia inquires sheepishly, trying her hardest to hide a note of annoyance. When will Scotland Yard stop pinning felonies on her?
"That is to be verified," the Inspector replies curtly. "But it does make you the last call made by a person before meeting their death."
His words hover in the air. The atmosphere in the living room has turned suddenly cold as if a blanket of morning frost had precipitated in the flat.
This means one thing: that kind and agitated assistant that she talked to is now dead, Giulia quickly reflects. How? Why? He sounded so polite, so full of life... And they spoke on the phone less than an hour ago. What happened?
As John and Giulia are too stunned to react, Sherlock's brain generates a rapid-fire succession of thoughts while he gathers all the valuable data, stripping them of the biased assumptions of the police force.
Known facts so far:
- About 45 minutes ago, someone phoned Giulia using the same device from which Dimmock is now calling her.
- Giulia's number was not saved as a contact on the phone; otherwise, Dimmock wouldn't have needed to call her again to discover the identity of the receiver of that last call.
- Someone has died.
- The police are involved.
In his mind, a logical sequence of conclusions unfolds linearly:
· First conclusion: The most likely reason that a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard is aware of a death that occurred less than one hour ago is if he is standing beside the corpse at that very moment.
· Second conclusion: he found a phone on the dead person's body.
· Third conclusion: he browsed through it in search of answers, and his most profitable lead consisted of the recent calls list.
· Fourth conclusion, logically derived from the previous one: the police are out of their depth.
· Final conclusion: he has just found his next case.
Sherlock jumps up from his armchair and snatches the phone from the hands of a still-shocked Giulia. He takes the caller off-speaker and brings the phone up to his ear.
"Detective Inspector Dimmock, this is Sherlock Holmes. I was a consultant during your investigation about the homicide of a banker, and I helped you discover a Chinese smuggling ring operating here in London right under your nose. Do you remember me?"
The person on the other side clears his throat, clearly uneasy with that change in the interlocutor. Then he sarcastically comments, "How could I ever forget? Why am I talking to you all of a sudden?"
"Because you need me."
"And what are you basing such a deduction on?" The D.I. retorts, mocking Sherlock's methods.
"The very telling fact that one of your first actions was making this random phone call—more of a shot in the dark, really. It's clear that the police have just discovered a corpse and have little to no clue about the how and why of this death. In all probability, you are currently standing next to a person who died under mysterious circumstances."
"How do you kn—" he starts but is cut off by Sherlock's quick reply.
"It's obvious; I'm fairly sure that proper procedure would prescribe you to get in contact with the next of kin, and yet, the first person you phoned was the last outgoing call on the victim's phone, on the assumption that it was your best lead. This shows that you have next to nothing to work on. Still, it's clear that you are holding in your hand the victim's phone at this very moment. Nowadays, smartphones store our whole world: they contain every insignificant detail about people's lives. You could have flicked through photos, calendar, agenda, and social media profiles. Yet, if you decided to call an unsaved number on the recent call list (after all, you had to inquire about this number's owner), the patently obvious inference is that you couldn't find anything else on the deceased. I bet that the device you are using is a burner phone. Am I correct, Detective Inspector?"
Sherlock hears him gasp before he can force out in a whisper, "Yes."
He nods proudly. "A burner phone usually shows the need for secrecy, possibly coupled with malicious or criminal intent. You see, you have a mysteriously deceased person, a phone with no leads other than a call made over the past hour, and an awful lot of unanswered questions about what happened. So yes, you need my help," he patronises him.
Nothing but silence coming from the other side of the line. Five seconds later, a loud sigh precedes what sounds like a declaration of surrender. "Alright, I'm listening. What do you want, Mr Holmes?"
"Let me come to the crime scene and examine the body. I'll shed some light on the deep darkness surrounding your investigation," Sherlock quickly replies.
"Why should I concede it?" Dimmock snaps back disdainfully.
"Because I'll bring a treat: Giulia, the woman who is allegedly the last person to have heard from the victim before their death, will come with me. You will be able to interrogate her without even having to go back to your office. What do you say, Dimmock? Do we have a deal?"
John and Giulia have been staring and frowning at the detective for the entire duration of that surreal conversation. They can't hear the muttered reply to his offer, but Sherlock's grin from ear to ear speaks for itself. He hangs up and almost runs to the door, stopping only to take his long coat, while his friends blink at him, trying to make sense of the events that occurred in the last five minutes.
"If you keep goggling at me like that, your eyeballs will pop out of their sockets and roll on the floor," he taunts them.
Giulia reacts first, standing up and turning to him. "Where are we going?"
"To the riverbank. Dimmock has just given me the address of the crime scene," he replies telegraphically.
John chimes in. "Sherlock, you can't work a case right now. You are still convalescent, and you don't have your doctor's clearance for going back to your intense lifestyle yet."
"Then examine me, Doctor, and give me your blessing, so we can finally get down to business." He rolls his eyes at his professional inflexibility. "After all, you've seen me far worse off." He opens his arms and slowly turns around to undergo a medical examination under the watchful eye of his friend.
John grumbles in surrender. "Given your ridiculously low standards, I have to admit that you are as healthy as ever."
"Marvellous. Off we go," Sherlock says cheerfully, dashing along the stairs.
Sitting in a cab heading to the crime scene, Giulia nervously drums her fingers on her knees, then breaks the silence.
"You don't really think I have anything to do with this death, do you?" She asks tentatively.
John turns to her with a timid smile.
"Even though we are still grasping the truth about your past and all the mysteries surrounding your previous life, we know you aren't a killer. You're just a rather unlucky woman. Why is it every time you are accused of something, we're not around to vouch for you?"
She shrugs, giving him a faint smile.
"I suppose I tend to find trouble." She looks out the window of the speeding car, and her smile fades away. Yet, she has the impression that trouble found her this time.
"Trouble-maker or finder, a question remains," Sherlock intervenes. "Why did someone die right after talking to you?"
Author's note: I would like to thank once again each and every one of you readers for reading this story and commenting on it. I know that the beginning of this case is still nebulous, but I promise things will become slightly clearer in the next chapter.