CHAPTER 47: SECURITY BREACH
221B BAKER STREET
The next day
The next afternoon Giulia and Sherlock are sitting in the living room at 221B, while John is in his bedroom. Sherlock hasn't breathed a word since the previous night at the theatre. He didn't even acknowledge Lestrade when he came to the flat to give him the medical report regarding the night the tenor suffered from an insulin overdose, one month before his death. Sherlock had silently taken the report from the inspector's hands without a sound. After a thorough reading that took him only five minutes, he had tossed the folder in a corner of the flat and flopped down on the sofa with an exasperated groan. No comment.
Today, while reading in the living room, Giulia has been stealing preoccupied glances at him throughout the day. He looks as if he is miles away from everything, locked in his mind palace, a vexed frown permanently sitting on his face.
Now she is slouching in John's armchair while typing furiously on her phone. She suddenly grumbles annoyed at the screen and stands up to walk to the window. She glances at Sherlock, who is staring at the two marble statues placed on the coffee table, piercing them with his fiery gaze.
"Are you still waiting for them to give you the name of the killer?" She mocks him, looking beyond the glass into the cold dusk.
He looks away from the figurines and closes his eyes, resting his chin on his hands.
"I couldn't care less about the murderer. I want to know how the tenor was killed. If it wasn't atmospheric pressure due to water depth that made his lungs burst, then what?"
She shakes her head despairingly. There's a killer out there, and all he cares about is finding some answers that could reassure him about his infallible anatomical knowledge.
"Speaking of atmospheric phenomena," she takes the hint to change the subject, "it must be freezing outside. I'll invite him in for a warm cup of tea," she says, heading for the door.
"Who? Are you looking at a tramp on the pavement?" Sherlock asks, cracking just one eye open.
"No, my bodyguard." She takes her purse and coat from the rack before going downstairs.
A few minutes later, Giulia re-emerges, followed by a tall, strapping man. Sherlock observes the two of them taking off their coats and hanging them on the coat rack. Giulia disappears into the kitchen to put the kettle on, and the guard rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to compensate for the sudden temperature variation from outdoors. Then he walks to the centre of the living room, stands in front of the yellow smiley face painted on the wall and riddled with bullets, and comments drily, "Glad to finally see where all the shots I hear you fire in this house end up."
Sherlock doesn't even bother to lift his eyes on him. "And what are your thoughts on that?"
"Impressive marksmanship: right in the eyes. But in my opinion, smiley faces should never be targets. I'd interpret it as a sign of luck, actually. Did you know that the first typographic emoticon representing a smiley face appeared in the poem To Fortune by Robert Herrick? That should say a lot, right? It's proof that a smiley face is a good omen," he jokes amicably.
"Fascinating," Sherlock remarks in the most unfazed tone possible. "Are you going to sit down or would you rather wait for a direct order, Southern boy?"
The guard furrows his brows, momentarily taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"Born and raised in Texas or New Mexico? I was never good at telling those dialects apart," Sherlock specifies nonchalantly.
The bodyguard grins at him and drops on the couch.
"Austin, Texas. Your brother was more precise when we first met, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock rolls up his eyes and ramps up his deductions. "Which brings me to the question: How does Mycroft do that? Hiring a Navy Seal, I mean."
Giulia comes out of the kitchen and hands the man a steaming cup of tea, addressing her flatmate, "How can you tell he was a Navy Seal?"
"There's a golden pin on the lapel of his coat, a very distinctive symbol: the U.S. Navy Special Warfare Insignia, also known as the Seal Trident. It represents an eagle grasping on three objects: an anchor, a trident, and a pistol." He points his finger at the coat rack where the guard hung his jacket just some minutes before.
The bodyguard stretches his right hand out politely. "Correct. Lieutenant Jake Halliman, nice to meet you."
Sherlock shakes his hand absent-mindedly and says, "You obviously know my name already. I'll refrain from the small talk; I'm more interested in your story. You are a distrustful man. It might result from the tragedies that turned your life upside down. You were deployed in Iraq where you regrettably lost a comrade-in-arms—more specifically, a close friend, in the line of duty. That would be enough to make a man wary and mad at the world, but I'm afraid you have been unlucky in the romantic domain, too."
"Sherlock, you might want to stop there," Giulia warns him reproachfully, as Jake clenches his jaw at that remark and sits stiffly, torturing his hands.
Holmes ignores her cautious advice and keeps blabbing on. "I'd say that the recent divorce from your wife was hard for you. You burned all your bridges; an easy task, considering you didn't even have kids together. What caused the break-up? Did she cheat on you while you were fighting for your country away from home? You're still upset about it, signalling it wasn't a voluntary decision, more likely an unavoidable choice," he rubs it in.
Jake Halliman cracks his knuckles and fingers in an accustomed cooling-down gesture. He inhales and exhales a couple of times to control the shudders of rage shaking his body, then cracks a smile at Sherlock.
"Your brother was right about you. He said you're brilliant but lack judgement. "
"My brother never called me brilliant, not once," he retorts peevishly.
"Maybe not to your face, Mr Holmes." Jake raises his cup of tea to take a sip and gives Giulia a grateful nod of his head for her kindness.
At that mention, Sherlock averts his gaze and brings a hand over his mouth to hide the hint of a warm smile creeping up his lips, then asks casually, "What about my poor judgement?"
"You were carelessly irritating a Navy Seal, a member of one of the most highly trained special forces of the US Navy. You don't exactly strike me as a very restrained and respectful man," the Lieutenant snaps back. Hardly a difficult deduction.
"Correction: I behaved obnoxiously towards a Navy Seal who has clearly learnt to manage his anger," Sherlock specifies, hinting at the cracking-knuckles technique and breathing exercises that the bodyguard has just used to remain calm.
Jake lets out a deep laugh and jokes around, "If I punched in the face every man who ever teased me, I'd be a boxing champion by now." He finishes his tea, relaxes in his seat, and challenges him, "So, are you going to tell me how you deduced all that information about me? I know you're dying to."
Sherlock doesn't blink and starts talking in a rapid-fire manner.
"I could read your distrustful character in the way you hung your coat on the rack; you kept an eye on me at all times and twisted your torso only slightly to avoid turning your back completely on a stranger. Also, when you raised your arms in that movement, I glimpsed a gun tucked in the waistband of your trousers. Although, you already have your service weapon in the holster under your left armpit—which, for the record, tells me you are right-handed since you must extract it with your right hand, ready to shoot. Observations: You carry an additional firearm, and you never leave people out of your sight. Conclusion: distrustful tendencies."
"What about my time in Iraq and my loss on the battleground?" Jake inquires in a low, grieved voice.
Upon hearing the pain in his tone, Sherlock wrinkles his nose, immediately regretting his tactlessness. What is happening to him? Is he truly becoming more human?
He bites on his lip to keep his mind grounded and disperse that feeling of uneasiness, then he explains in a detached way, "As I said, I deduced you were Navy from your eagle pin, but I also noticed something peculiar related to the Seals. When you rolled up the sleeves of your shirt to compensate for the heat in this flat, you exposed a tattoo on your forearm. It's a bone frog, quite common to honour a fellow Seal fallen on the field. I assume you're not the sentimental type that would do that just for anyone, so the deceased must have been a close friend. There's also a word below it, a location to be exact: it's a village in Iraq. I can only guess it's where he died. That's how I knew about your tours in that country."
"As if I could ever forget that place," Jake murmurs, bowing his head, overwhelmed by a wave of sudden grief. "That experience left me with severe post-traumatic stress disorder."
"To me, you seem to cope considerably well with the trauma, given your efficient anger management techniques," Sherlock remarks, suddenly interested in the conversation. If that man sitting across from him could overcome the scars of such a traumatic experience, there is hope for his PTSD, too.
Jake Halliman shoots him a bitter smile. "I might have successfully managed my issues in everyday life, but the deepest scars are in the work field. My friend lost his life during a raid in the dazzling light of a sunny day; ever since then, I can't fire a weapon in bright environments. My hands quiver, and I can't shoot straight. I can work efficiently only in the dark, preferably in the complete absence of light."
"This is why you have been assigned to the night shift," Giulia concludes, and Jake nods at her.
"As soon as you turn off the lights, you have nothing to fear." He winks at her.
Sherlock clears his throat loudly, scowling at the guard's familiarity. Then he continues flaunting his deductions.
"Still, your job wasn't the only thing that exacted a toll on your peace. Your love life wasn't easy, either."
Jake cocks a brow at him. "You can say that. How did you get that?"
"When we shook hands, I noticed the tan line of a wedding band on your finger. You have been in this grey, sunless city for a few months now, and it hasn't completely vanished yet: recent divorce, then. How do I know it was painful and you're still shaken about it? When I was teasing you, you rubbed your thumb on the spot where the ring used to be. It was a subconscious leftover of the times you used to find comfort in the mere touch of the symbol of your eternal love. I suppose you must have been quite torn over the decision of even taking your ring off, showing you aren't over the split yet."
"You said he doesn't have any children: How did you know?" Giulia chimes in, and Sherlock lifts a brow as if it were the most obvious conclusion. "He flew all the way across the ocean from the US as soon as his marriage was over. Had he had kids to share custody of, he wouldn't have moved so far away from home."
Giulia nods proudly at him. "You did well. You got almost everything right."
Sherlock's head snaps up. "What did I get wrong?"
"I'm a widower, Mr Holmes," Jake intervenes. "My wife died in a car accident two years ago. You were right about one thing regarding the end of my marriage, though: I kept my wedding ring for quite some time before I could finally bring myself to accept the reality," he explains in a hushed tone.
Sherlock remains silent for a few seconds, savouring his partial defeat. There is always something he gets wrong.
Suddenly, he looks at Giulia. "Wait, how did you know?"
She shrugs and relaxes in John's armchair. "I read his file. I asked Mycroft to pass me some information on my security detail. I was curious. Oh, this reminds me: Happy birthday, Jake." She smiles fondly at him, and he thanks her timidly.
"Hold on, I've got an idea," she exclaims, taking a ticket out of her pocket and handing it to him. "Here, a little present for you. I intended to take a ride on the London Eye tonight, but my plans got cancelled so you can have my spot."
He refuses the kind offer with a wave of his hand.
"Thanks, but I really can't. I'm on duty, and I can't leave my post." He expressively points at her. Her safety is his duty.
"Come on. It's your birthday, and I'm not in the line of fire now: you're allowed to have the night off and explore the city. Don't worry about Mycroft Holmes, I'll deal with him." She winks at him playfully.
Jake is still reluctant. "You're very thoughtful, but it's my job, Miss Ferrini. I can't disregard it."
"It's Giulia to you," she replies before faking a serious face. "And I insist. If you don't comply with my request, I'll complain to your superiors."
"As you wish," he surrenders and stands up to take the ticket from her hand. "But remember: whatever you may need, there are always agents ready to assist you in the neighbourhood." He looks right into her eyes, without hiding his zeal and concern.
She laughs. "I don't doubt that."
He takes his coat and stands on the threshold for a few seconds, conflicted. Before descending the stairs, he turns around to flash her a thankful smile that tells her about the dark place he has been in recently and how little accustomed he is to such acts of kindness.
When the door closes behind the guard, Sherlock stares at Giulia with a steely gaze. What is she doing? Why was she so familiar and affectionate with a bodyguard? According to her backstory, she went down that road already. She told him and John that she used to be very close with her former bodyguard at the Consulate, in Latin America—the guard who kept her hidden after the explosion and handed her over to the MI6 for protection. From what little she said about him, it was clear that her old mentor was special to her. She had trusted him with her life, but she had also implied it was more than a simple working relationship.
Sherlock remembers it distinctly: she said they got too close and called it 'a mistake'. He couldn't forget it. Her account of those events stuck with him ever since that day at the hospital. It's not like he stored it away in his mind palace like any other piece of potentially useful information. That wasn't just a random fact memorised by his brain; it was a fixed idea bugging him under the surface.
It wasn't just the mere story of that bodyguard that gnawed at him, though. He strongly despised the feeling of uneasiness he felt whenever he thought back to her sad face in his hospital room when she reluctantly announced that her bodyguard and she had to part ways soon after she arrived in London, without ever specifying the reason. And he didn't need the full story to see that she said goodbye with a heavy heart. Even though he would never admit it to himself, this was eating him up inside.
He blurts out arrogantly, "I thought you knew better than to grow fond of another bodyguard of yours. After all, your past experiences should have taught you that this kind of partnership always ends painfully for you."
A hurt look cuts across her face. She confided her backstory to him, and now he is using it as leverage against her. How dare he be so insensitive!
"What do you care? I thought you were alien to all human emotions. Should I believe that Sherlock Holmes has given in to jealousy?" She taunts him.
He spits out a bit too emphatically, "Don't be ridiculous. I just wanted to warn you against... inconvenient weakness," he hesitates at the end of the sentence, cursing his awkwardness. Why can't he talk about feelings without sounding like a case-hardened machine?
"Thank you for your concern, but I can assure you there's no need for that. I know that love can be a dangerous poison—I've tasted it myself. And when I got poisoned by heartbreak, the only person who helped me was precisely my old bodyguard, Thomas. He saved my life and restored my faith in humanity. And in the end, I couldn't even grant him what he dreamed of. I couldn't be the person he wanted me to be..." she trails off.
Sherlock arches a brow at her, bewildered. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Giulia hastens to say before swallowing hard, trying to conceal the lump in her throat. "What I meant is that I have good reasons for trusting my bodyguards and letting them breach some rules, once in a while. In hindsight, asking Thomas to break protocol on that horrible night at the Consulate saved me."
Sherlock listens to her words carefully. She is referring to the explosion that changed her existence forever, but whenever she approaches the subject, it's always a fleeting, elusive mention. Then she shuts up completely and shuts the whole world out, him included.
He wishes it wasn't the case. He wishes she felt free to open up to him. Why doesn't she reveal her whole story? For how long will she keep playing hide-and-seek with him?
He sighs and nods to the door recently closed by the bodyguard. "Why did you do that?"
She shrugs. "Jake is going through a lot. I just wanted to help him out, cheer him up a bit."
He shakes his head. Sure, giving away her ticket was a generous act, but this is not what he is asking about.
"No, I mean, why didn't you stop me from deducing the hell out of him?"
She smirks. "Oh, for the very same reason. I wanted to help you out and cheer you up."
Sherlock narrows his eyes at her, puzzled.
"You stayed there and listened to my deductions even if you knew everything about him already, and you just intervened occasionally to prevent me from enraging him or hurting his feelings out of your pure compassion and common sense."
"Of which you have none," she adds in a reprimanding tone.
"Correct. But I still don't get it. Why did you let me pull my usual tricks if you had already read his file and didn't need any of that information?"
She fixes her eyes on his. "You weren't doing the show-off for me. You've been slumping and needed to be reminded that you could still trust your reasoning process and your capabilities. It's funny; you can always deduce everything about everyone, yet you never understood that I've always believed in you, Sherlock Holmes, more than you do yourself."
Author's Note: I didn't forget that there is a murder to be solved and justice to be served, but I needed to convey the idea of Sherlock being in a stalemate. Also, I am setting the scene for some revelations on Giulia's backstory. Please remember that there are no filler chapters, and everything will turn up again in the future...