CHAPTER 48: (IN)DECENT PROPOSAL
Sherlock gazes back at Giulia standing on the other side of the room, then affirms in his deep voice, "If you believe so much in me, how come you never told me the full version of your story?"
She recoils instinctively at his question and he realises his rough manners. He leans forward in his armchair, trying to bridge the gap between the two of them. They aren't more than four meters apart, but a whole unspoken world is separating them.
As the granitic expression on his face relaxes slowly, he speaks again. This time, his voice is softer, almost gentle, "Where were you eloping to before your life crumbled to pieces, Giulia?"
She bites down her lower lip, torn between the burning desire to share her secrets with another living soul and the need to protect herself. She knows all too well that the more you give away about yourself, the more vulnerable you become to the people who own your secrets.
Sherlock reads her internal struggle on her features and adds, "If you want to keep your secrets, I promise I won't ask again. Just say it, and I won't bring it up anymore. But should you ever feel like trusting me, please tell me your story. I'm afraid that without your help, I will never truly understand."
She retorts harshly, "You don't always have to understand everything, Sherlock."
He looks away, frowning. "I do."
"Why? Why is it so important to you?" She presses him, and he lifts his eyes on her. For an instant, she can see it: he is letting down all his walls and striving to be as honest with himself as possible.
"Because when I understand how things work, the world becomes slightly less frightening," he murmurs.
"You might be wrong there. There is nothing scarier than finding out how things really are. You can lull in doubt and not be hurt by certainty, but once you learn how the world works and what your role in it is, you can't unlearn the truth. You can only live with it and let it eat you alive."
Sherlock inhales sharply and flares his nostrils. He is not letting go. He can tell that she wishes nothing more than to share her burden with someone else. All it takes is a little nudge and a leap of faith.
He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward some more.
"Giulia, there is nothing about you I could ever wish I never learnt. But you, what is it you hope you could unlearn? Who broke your heart the night in which you lost everything?"
She casts a look at Sherlock: his icy facade, his inscrutable mind, his uncharted heart. At that moment, she notices a sparkle in his eyes that wasn't there a few months ago. He used to investigate her past for thirst for knowledge and fear of a threat, but tonight he is asking out of genuine concern for her fate.
At last, she surrenders and starts recounting, "I told you and John that my father had engaged in a war against a powerful Mafia family operating in our consular district. He wanted to tear down their dirty business and was quite succeeding at it. I was on his side, but then I made a colossal mistake: I fell in love with the son of that Mafia family, Luca. I'll skip the boring details, and I'll just say that we loved each other and started dating in secret. No one in our families could know that. It was dishonourable to both of us and extremely dangerous."
Was it real love? In hindsight, she couldn't tell anymore. It sure felt like the most heartfelt, burning sensation of all. It was mostly passion, but she truly cared for him. She knew it was wrong, and not only because of external circumstances. It always felt wrong. She fell hard, and before she knew it, they had become inseparable. It was an addiction, and despite being fully aware of all the risks and dangers, she had no intention of sobering up. The higher the stakes, the more intensely their flame burned.
"A modern version of Romeo and Juliet," Sherlock makes a pun with her name to lessen the tension.
She flashes him a faint smile and stands up, pacing the room.
"In every way, indeed, since it ended in tragedy. On the day of the explosion, just a few hours before Hell broke loose, Luca stubbornly insisted on seeing me after dinner. He encouraged me to slip out of the consulate and meet at our secret hideout. He said it was important. He wanted me to come that very night—it couldn't wait. I did as he asked, and when my bodyguard Thomas found me sneaking out, I begged him not to stop me and let me go. He trusted me, so he obliged, despite his orders. I was on my way to my secret date when the explosion burst out. In a fraction of a second, I lost everything: my parents died, my house was on fire, I was believed dead. But what is more, at the moment, when I was staring into the flames engulfing my house, I realised that my love was toxic, and I had just been poisoned by it. In that instant, I understood why Luca had insisted so much: he knew," she articulates slowly, then suddenly slams her fist on the dining table with full force. Sherlock jumps in his seat, startled. He wasn't expecting her furious reaction.
"He knew," she repeats, placing both hands on the wooden surface, delicately this time. She leans on the table and pants as the assaults of agonising memories threaten to suffocate her.
Sherlock feels his own body standing up and marching to her as if he wasn't in complete control of his legs. A mysterious force coming from within is pushing him out of his shell, leading him closer to her grief-stricken soul. Giulia is letting down all her barriers and is desperately fighting to keep a lid on the outpouring of her emotions. He can read all of that in her agitated gestures.
He wishes he could do something for her, anything to make her forget that pain, to make her happy again. His instinct makes him stand from his solitary seat and move closer to her. But what next? What can he do now that he is standing awkwardly just a few feet away? What would a normal person do? How would anybody else try to comfort her?
He takes one more step forward until he is right by her side in front of the table. He places his hand on top of hers, tenderly and without hesitation. He draws one logical conclusion.
"This is the reason you were an intended target together with your parents that night, isn't it? The mafia family wanted you dead too because they must have found out about you two and thought you had seduced their son—the heir and soon-to-be boss of the clan."
She doesn't answer nor utter a sound; she simply keeps her head bowed down.
He finally realises one last detail. "But that isn't all. You don't think you were just an additional prey. You feel responsible for your parents' death, don't you?"
She nods slightly. "If I hadn't been involved with Luca, maybe they would have let my parents be."
Sherlock frowns at her lack of logic. "You've just said it: your father was creating problems for their business. He was dismantling their criminal network. He basically had a bull's eye on his forehead," he says, disregarding all basic rules of tact.
"Alright, but maybe they would just try to scare him away. If it wasn't for me, maybe they would have only stopped at the usual death threats and never taken action. But they still needed to take me out, so they eradicated the problem entirely."
He takes both of her hands in his to comfort her.
"Giulia, you can't blame yourself for the explosion of a bomb planted by someone else."
She raises her watery eyes on him, replying in a choked voice, "But I will, until proven otherwise. I'll keep living with my demons until I can have the final proof."
Sherlock has a sudden realisation and goggles at her.
"This is why you are so determined to get to the bottom of your story, isn't it? You've been cooperating with the Secret Service all this time because you need to find the responsible. You aren't only seeking justice for your family; you want to confront whoever did that. The only person who could answer your questions is the person behind the explosion. You need to know if your parents were the real target, or if they just became collateral victims of the revenge against you."
She chews on her lips nervously, signalling that he just scored the final deduction about her, then she speaks in a resolute voice, "As far as the instigator knows, the plan worked. Everyone in that family thinks I'm dead—Luca included since I never made it to our meeting. I never confronted him. He knew about the attack, he knew the consulate would blow up, he knew I had to die, and he tried to save me. But it also means that he knew my parents would die too and did nothing. He didn't warn me, he didn't let me save them. He acted selfishly, and that was wrong. He wanted to save me but ended up killing every spark of romantic feelings I had ever felt or would ever feel again."
Her hands slip out of his grip, and she takes some steps backwards.
"So, thank you again for your kind suggestion about my too-friendly interaction with my bodyguard earlier, but do me a favour: deduce me all you want, but never assume that romantic feelings are my weakness. The night of the explosion, I sang a requiem for my broken heart, then buried its fragments in my empty grave."
She brings the cups of tea to the kitchen and starts doing the dishes as a racket of voices booms inside her head. Buried her heart… That's a noble lie. She wishes it was real, though. She wishes her heart was gone for good, but it isn't. She can hear it pounding at that very moment; she can listen to her aching heart screaming against her brain, protesting that absurd statement. It is not dead. Buried? Yes, maybe. But not dead.
She dives her hands under icy water to regain some control. How many lies! Or rather, half-truths. The story she just told is incomplete. The real reason she thinks she might not be capable of letting herself love again and abandon herself to someone else anymore isn't just because of Luca.
There has been someone else after that… There could have been, anyway, had her heart cooperated. Still, just because she didn't bring her faulty heart back to life for someone else many months before, it doesn't mean her heart cannot work anymore. Just because she couldn't bring herself to fall for Thomas...
She stops there. She forces her brain to break off the stream of thoughts leading to him, to the person she has been avoiding thinking about for the past months, ever since she moved to Baker Street. Since she pronounced his name a couple of minutes before, a tightness in her chest has been suffocating her.
Thomas: her former bodyguard. One of the most important men in her life, and she just pushed him away. She had no choice; he fell for her, but she didn't love him back, so she lost him forever. She simply couldn't bring herself to love him, and she hated herself for that. She loathed herself for breaking his heart on her very first night in London. She had just arrived in that city ready to begin her new life, and he had met her to offer an entirely new prospect—a future she didn't dare to imagine... She couldn't possibly, not with him. Yet, he would be the perfect man, the right one. So why didn't she love him? Why did she always fall for the worst possible person in her life?
Giulia wipes off a solitary tear with the back of her hand and takes a deep breath, coming to her senses.
The sorrow of the past stays in the past. The happiness of today is not promised for tomorrow, she whispers to herself. This is her golden survival rule against the resurfacing of painful memories. It works for everything: her parents' death, Luca's betrayal, her rejection of Thomas' feelings and the loss of his friendship. The sorrow of the past stays in the past...
She heads back to the living room and plunges on the sofa, stealing a glance at Sherlock. A part of her thinks he was right about warning her against affection: caring is an unforgivable weakness. Another part of her being, though, hopes that he is, in fact, wrong and that he will come to realise it soon enough.
Giulia shifts her gaze to the coffee table and breaks the ice with a new topic.
"Two tickets for the exhibition A Night with the Stars at the Hickman Gallery. Now we know where John is taking his date tonight."
Sherlock looks confused at her. "A date? What are you talking about?"
He is bewildered. Does she really want to start a random conversation with him now?
"It wasn't difficult to guess. John has been texting a lot lately, definitely more frequently than usual, often smiling at the screen. Second clue: he has changed his aftershave. Actually, he shaved this very morning, and when he came home from work one hour ago (slightly earlier than normal), he went straight into the shower. He told me not to count him for dinner, so he is clearly having a date at the museum tonight." She points at the tickets in front of them.
Sherlock looks baffled at her quick recovery from a painful stroll down memory lane but plays along. He nods at her deductions and sits back in his armchair, resting his chin on his folded hands.
"Why would he choose such a place, in your opinion?"
"Because with women, John likes to play it safe. A museum is a pretty convenient location for two people who have just started dating; the works on display provide several conversation starters while also allowing for some contemplative moments. It can easily mask those little pauses of awkward silence that are quite inevitable between two who are just getting to know each other. But there's more. Apparently, he chose an astronomic exposition: quite a smart move, considering that most people think starry nights are a romantic setting."
"And you disagree?" He draws his tentative inference from her choice of words.
She shrugs. "To be accurate, considering light speed and distance of the observable celestial bodies, when we gaze at the night sky, we are technically just looking at the way things were in the past, many years ago. Trivially, stargazing is the same as reading a history book. I love history, but I certainly don't find it romantic."
He raises a brow. "Interesting. Do you have any more of your maverick thoughts about romanticism?" He teases her.
"I detest receiving flowers. I find that the Christian association of red roses with martyrdom clashes a bit with the sentimental value usually associated with them. Wouldn't you agree?" She sneers sarcastically, then adds, "Not to mention that another traditional romantic gesture—giving a woman a diamond ring to seal the engagement—dates back to a De Beers Company's advertisement in the '40s. A powerful diamond mining corporation coined the phrase 'A diamond is forever', and now every time we see a diamond, wedding bells start playing in our heads. Great marketing strategy, though," she says, relaxing her back against the cushions.
She isn't against romanticism per se. She simply never thought she would conform to romantic traditions. She can't even take a compliment without replying with a snarky comment to defuse the tension, let alone be flirted with properly.
Sherlock remains silent for a few minutes, admiring her peculiar ideas, then says, "All very fascinating. You were wrong about one thing, though. Those tickets aren't for John's date. They are mine."
Her eyes widen in surprise. "Sorry, it was an instinctive connection. I thought you weren't keen on astronomy."
"I am not. Some months ago, I solved a case involving the Hickman Gallery. I proved that what looked like a long-lost Vermeer was, in fact, a fake. The director hasn't ceased to invite me to the premiere of every exhibition ever since." He takes a breath to ponder an idea and clears his throat. "I don't usually attend such events, but would you like to go?"
She gapes, speechless. "Wait, what?"
"You don't have to look so intimidated," he snaps back, frowning at her astonished face. "I was just proposing—suggesting..." he stumbles on the words.
"I'd love to," she cuts him short, saving him from embarrassment. "I simply wasn't expecting it from you."
Especially not tonight, she thinks and shoots a glance at John's calendar on the table. Speaking of romanticism, Sherlock probably ignores that today isn't just any mid-February day.
"You've never asked me to come with you to anything else but a crime scene. Why me?" She asks.
He pretends to reflect on that question. "Let me think: you have no plans for the evening since you so courteously ceded your London Eye ticket to your bodyguard. It's not difficult to deduce you were supposed to go there with a friend of yours that cancelled on you at the last minute. This explains why you were so vexed when you received a text earlier; you were clearly ready to go out, as proved by your makeup and purse."
She looks around the room with confusion in her eyes, then protests, "I don't have a purse here."
"Precisely my point. It was here in the living room together with your coat, meaning you were ready to go out. When your friend called it off with a text, you took it downstairs and put it back into your closet when descending to summon your guardian angel. Last clue: you haven't arranged any meal for dinner, and you are far too organised to forget about it. So, I'm pretty sure your current plans for the night are watching TV shows on your computer with a bag of microwaved popcorn."
He stands up and takes the tickets from the coffee table.
"However, I have two tickets for an exhibition about the universe. I might not be too fond of the solar system, but I know for a fact that you are—given the astronomical lecture you graced me with a few minutes ago. And if I remember correctly, you once helped John with a crossword puzzle by providing the right definition for a star in a constellation, a while back. That's not general knowledge: it's a sign of interest," he concludes.
She widens her eyes, impressed. How can he remember such a tiny detail about her? It happened months ago when she had just moved to Baker Street.
"I admit I find the night sky and the infinite number of galaxies quite fascinating, scientifically speaking," she confesses with a timid smile.
"Point proven. I'll give you twenty minutes," he states, looking at his watch.
"Twenty minutes for what?"
His eyes travel along her body from head to toe, then he gives her an eloquent look.
"To get changed into something slightly more elegant. This is not a jeans-and-hoodie kind of event."
She sighs and goes down the stairs, yelling, "Don't be late."
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock knocks on the door of 221C like clockwork. The door swings open, and his eyes widen when he catches a view of Giulia dressed in a ruby-red gown cascading down to her feet, its hem almost brushing against the floor.
She raises her gaze on him and gapes: he is wearing a midnight black tuxedo that makes his figure look even taller and more statuesque.
He frowns at her astounded expression. "Is there something wrong?"
She grins. "I have never seen you in a tie."
"Don't get used to it. Shall we go?" He suggests, nodding at the main door.
"In a minute." She hurries back into her flat to take her coat. At the last moment, she opens a drawer, takes the gun that Sherlock gave her for Christmas, and puts it in her purse.
He rolls his eyes and jokes, "You know, most women usually bring a simple pepper spray when going out with a man."
"I'm not most women and you aren't just any man. You attract troubles like magnets."
He gallantly offers her his arm, and they get to the street to hail a cab.
"Your dress is… appropriate," he forces out, uncertain about the word choice. "I mean, you look good," he tries again, swallowing hard, embarrassed. "By the way, when I suggested you should find an elegant outfit, I meant the whole of it, footwear included." He gives her a stern look.
"You don't know what shoes I'm wearing; the dress is too long, you can't see them," she objects.
"And I can't hear them, either, meaning you aren't wearing high heels. Although, that wasn't a difficult deduction considering your height is unchanged," he replies with a smug smile while delicately lifting one edge of her gown to reveal her sneakers underneath.
She shrugs with an innocent smile.
"I like to be comfortable, and we are going to a museum where we will stand for hours, walking from one installation to the other. I don't want to come back home with sore feet and backache. This exhibition was your idea, now deal with it. You're stuck with me tonight, Mr Holmes." She winks at him.
Author's note: I would like to thank all the Guests/anonymous users who review my story and to whom Fanfiction prevents me from replying privately. Mr. clever and Guest, thank you very much for your support and appreciation.
mr. clever, thank you for your theory: it is very compelling and you might be onto something, but I cannot reveal more. I don't want to spoil the surprise of the final revelation. Just be patient: it will come soon enough...
Thank you to all my readers! You are growing in number and affection and I couldn't be happier.