CHAPTER 54: REWRITING HISTORY
They are so focused on staring at the black screen with bated breath that they don't realise that Moriarty's face has reappeared on the other monitor. Only when he claps loudly do their heads simultaneously whip around and stare at his gleeful sneer.
"Congratulations. You got that right."
John flies into a rage, barking, "What happened to Greg? Show us."
At that moment, the second screen powers on once again to show a disoriented Greg coughing spasmodically and wrinkling his nose. He is still in a fugue state, but he seems to react more actively to his surroundings. They all sigh in relief.
"He will survive, thanks to you. I simply opened the window in his room. The air was getting heavy." Jim's sadistic joke is welcomed by death stares.
Sherlock struggles to control his mounting fury. "Were you really going to kill him with laughing gas?"
"Not as effective as a bullet, but you've gotta admit that's funnier," Jim emphasises with a sarcastic smirk. "Now, please walk out and proceed down the corridor. You will find another room waiting for you." His words are followed by the click of the automatic lock when the door of the room springs open.
John looks viciously at the screen, without budging. "What makes you think we feel like playing anymore?"
Jim looks down on him, and a gleam of cruelty shoots across his dark eyes.
"After seeing what my incentives comprise, do you really think you are in a bargaining position, Doctor Watson?" Moriarty cocks a brow at him. "You remember the men that were chasing after you in the parking lot, don't you? I'm afraid you're going to meet them again, but don't worry, they aren't authorised to harm you... Unless you unwisely choose to defy me and try a daring escape."
He fakes a yawn, before explaining, "I have positioned them along the corridors of the theatre: there's nowhere to go. But I'm sure I won't need to use such brutish ways with you. After all, Sherlock Holmes would never quit the game. He is so convinced he can beat me that he will go all the way," he says in a taunting tone.
John takes a couple of steps towards the door but Moriarty calls him back, causing him to half-turn with a hate-filled grimace.
Jim smiles in return. "If you don't mind, please leave on the table the gun that's on your person."
Watson takes Giulia's gun that he had tucked back in the waistband of his jeans and checks the almost empty magazine, before grunting, "There's only so much threat I can pose with just one bullet."
"I disagree. One bullet can do a lot of damage. So you'll leave the gun behind now. I promise to take good care of it and give it back at the end of the game."
John rolls his eyes and places it next to the marble figurine on the small table, then turns towards his friend and shoots him a concerned look, whispering, "Sherlock, this has already gone too far. How are we gonna get out of this?"
Holmes clears his throat to buy some time to gather his ideas.
"We obviously can't rely on the police; we've just freed Lestrade, while Donovan and Anderson just don't care about me at all. If I were to go missing, they'd wait a month before starting a search," he whispers back, joking to mask the hopelessness of the situation.
John presses him. "What about your brother, then?"
Sherlock fishes his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, and his lips twitch anxiously at the sight of the empty screen: no signal.
"I contacted him before getting here, but I don't know if he ever got my messages. Since we stepped into the theatre, my phone lost any connection to the outside world," he announces flatly. He is trying to hide his anguish behind his infamous icy façade, but he is not certain how much longer he can keep it up.
"So did mine," Giulia confirms in a squeaky voice. She hates that she sounds so terrified. All her life she has been taught to keep her composure and cool head, to face difficulties with determination and calmness. Yet, no etiquette lessons or training has ever prepared her for the visceral fear that this maniac criminal is instilling in her. The most petrifying aspect of that lethal game, she reflects, is not knowing what further horrors await next. With Moriarty as the puppet master, is there a line that cannot be crossed?
"He must be jamming the signal," Sherlock concludes.
"We'll have to think about an alternative way to get free, then," John says, stepping reluctantly out of the room.
Sherlock follows him in the hallway and raises a brow at him.
"What do you think I've been trying to do ever since we got into this bloody theatre?"
Watson stops and turns around to face him, a granitic gaze in his eyes.
"Honestly? I'm not sure if you're staying because you're held at gunpoint or simply because you want to," he spits out in anger; Jim's words still echo in his mind.
Holmes gapes at his harsh accusation before rolling up his eyes in annoyance.
"Oh, please. Are you really listening to Moriarty now? He's playing with your head, John."
One of the armed men standing in the corridor motions menacingly at them with his rifle, signalling to keep walking.
John steps forward, replying cuttingly, "My head or yours? I think he might be half right. You are curious and crazy enough to want to play this game. You've always been eager to find out if you can measure up to him."
It takes Sherlock all his self-control not to shout at his friend. How can he be so blind and obtuse?
"This is not a game anymore. Don't get me wrong, solving intricate murders was entertaining. Racking my brain to solve the conundrum of the tenor's homicide was a blast. Playing cat and mouse in the parking lot while solving brainteasers was Christmas, I'll give you that, but all of this stopped being amusing several minutes ago," he rebuts.
When they get in front of an open door at the end of the corridor, he comes to a halt and grips John's arm, forcing him to turn around and look him in the eyes. His words come out more scathing than intended.
"Just so I know, do you think I enjoyed myself in that room, fighting for Lestrade's life? What kind of monster do you believe I am?"
His firm voice almost falters on that hideous word: monster. He has been given many names over the years—freak, psychopath, madman. Yet all those nicknames are always used to qualify a human being. But a monster... That's a creature of a completely different nature. And it makes him inexplicably sad.
John stares back and slowly shakes his head. "I don't believe anything. I know you like the back of my hand, and I just know that you get off on it. It's what keeps the blood pumping in your veins."
Sherlock arches a mocking brow. "It's what keeps your blood pumping, too."
"Yes," John confirms, before adding, "But not when there are human lives at stake. Look me in the eye, and in all honesty, try to deny that when you positioned the third roller, completing the code, a part of you wasn't thinking about Lestrade at all. You were just curious to know if you got the combination right."
Sherlock clenches his fists and takes a step forward, towering over his friend. An offended look blazes in his eyes, but he keeps quiet.
John shows his tight-lipped, livid smile. "Don't bother answering that. It doesn't matter anymore. Congrats, you won the first round."
He walks away but stops for an instant. "Oh, and you also got a bonus: your friend is still alive," he finishes in a deprecating tone, crossing the threshold.
Moriarty's voice booms through the speakers. "Look at that, troubles in Heaven. Please proceed to the second room: I don't have enough cameras in the corridor, and I want to witness you fight. This is getting intriguing."
Sherlock remains frozen in the hallway. He can't understand why John is so furious at him. He solved the riddle and saved Lestrade, after all. Was he supposed to do it differently? Was John expecting him to snivel pathetically and beg Moriarty to spare the Inspector's life instead? What is he reproaching him for?
Giulia is about to walk past him when he leans in to murmur in her ear, "What's gotten into him?"
She glances at John through the open door, then flashes an empathetic smile to Sherlock.
"Give him a break. The last half an hour hasn't been easy for anyone."
"Agreed, but you aren't going to lecture me on my absence of PDA," he says, then tilts his head slightly. "Are you?"
"No. I'm just saying that having someone dear in the crosshairs added an unexpected toll on the game. Maybe John just wasn't ready for that emotional involvement."
God knows she wasn't.
She is about to turn around to enter the room when Sherlock places a hand on her left shoulder, stopping her and making her turn around.
"Don't you get it? That's precisely Moriarty's plan. We should keep a cool head at all times."
She presses her lips together and squints at him as if she were looking for something within him.
"Yeah, and it's scary to see how easy it comes to you. Sometimes I truly wonder how you can keep yourself so distant," she hesitates on the last word, lifting her eyes to meet his.
He eludes her gaze and stares into the void, murmuring, "It's a survival strategy. Moriarty hopes to mislead me, distract me."
She instinctively places her right hand on his hand resting on her shoulder, and gives it a tender squeeze, looking for his eyes.
"Sherlock, caring about your friends' fate isn't a distraction."
He stares right back at her when he spells out, "To me, it is."
Their eyes lock for a second as they study one another. Neither of them is talking about that specific situation. Giulia cares: she has always cared about everything and everyone, and that's the reason she is right there, at that moment. She came with him and for him, and she'll stay by his side all the way until the end. On the other hand, Sherlock is apparently there for the very opposite reason: he is careless of all the lethal danger.
She turns around silently and is about to step into the next room when his warning reaches her ears, and the warm breath of his whisper seems to caress her neck. "Don't lose your cool head."
This time, she doesn't turn around but stands still on the threshold, whispering back, "Don't lose your human side."
He frowns at her comment. Giulia can peek beyond his façade. She knows he is moved by something else than mere logic. She can see it; she has seen it on many occasions already. She knows he is much more human than he would be ready to admit.
As soon as they get into the second room, Sherlock immediately assesses his surroundings. The room is as empty as the first one, and just like the previous space, there are screens on the wall: one to the right and another in front of them. The main difference is the presence of three levers on the opposite wall, right under one of the turned-off monitors. At the top of each of the three sticks, there is the shape of a miniature weapon: a gun, a dagger, and a grenade. He doesn't know what it means, but it doesn't bode well.
Unlike him, his friends' attention is drawn to the centre of the room, where yet another marble figurine is placed on the floor. An elegant woman is holding an open parchment scroll in one hand and a set of tablets in the other. Giulia studies it briefly before affirming, "That should be Clio, the Muse of History."
Sherlock nods at her as the lateral screen switches on, and Moriarty smiles proudly at her.
"Remarkable knowledge of Greek mythology, Miss Giulia. I, on the contrary, used to be quite fond of history when I was a boy."
John scoffs. "Let me guess; you hoped you would go down in history as the greatest criminal ever?"
Jim looks at him with genuine curiosity. "You make it sound like an insult, but isn't it the highest achievement that a human being can ever wish for, being remembered?"
"But at what cost?" Giulia bursts out.
"Any cost."
Moriarty drives his eyes on her horrified face and bares his teeth in a sinister grin.
"You could be an absolute angel but never accomplish anything extraordinary, while I could be the greatest dictator of all time. Still, history will only remember one of us—the one who stood out, no matter why. Being remembered, that's all that counts."
"Being remembered," John echoes him, faking deep contemplation. "To make it more meaningful, though, you should die first. I can help you with that." He glares at him.
"You're right, Doctor Watson. Death is the key. In the end, history is just a long account of the dead."
He pauses to ponder an idea, then smirks. "It's funny; people usually dream of spring weddings. I think I'd rather settle for a spring funeral. Wouldn't it be poetic? Dying right when nature is coming back to life."
"Don't count on me to bring fresh blossoms to your grave." John clenches his jaw, struggling to control his anger.
Moriarty smiles at him, as always unperturbed.
"Luckily, you won't need compassion right now, but I hope you have a good historical memory for this round."
At his words, Sherlock's head springs up. "What do we have to do?"
"Someone's eager to play." Jim rubs his hands together in anticipation. "Very well. Let's begin."
The other monitor in the room switches on with a click, displaying a distressed woman whose desperate cries for help are silenced by the absence of any audio. They stare in horror, immediately recognising the next victim: pathologist Molly Hooper.
The screen shows Molly from the waist up; she is tied to a pole and is trying to wriggle free convulsively, getting more scared with each jerky movement.
Sherlock has turned into a pillar of salt on the verge of crumbling down. He can't keep his eyes off that sickening spectacle. He grinds his teeth, furious at himself for not being able to shake off that irrational feeling of anxiety.
After several seconds, he turns away from the screen and takes a deep breath to steady his nerves, then fixes his eyes on his nemesis. His voice resounds deeper when he asks, "Why Molly? What is her connection to history?"
Jim's expression softens into an almost commiserating grimace.
"You don't get it, do you? I chose Molly for this round because history never changes for her. Every day she wakes up hoping a case will draw you to her morgue, daydreaming that you will finally look at her with new eyes and realise how much she cares for you. She wishes that one day you will care for her too, even though deep down she knows it will never happen. She is doomed to relive the same anguish day in and day out. History repeats itself."
Giulia listens to the explanation, dumbfounded. She doesn't know Molly too well. She only asked for her expertise and help once, when they analysed together Sherlock's possessions to look for drugs, many months before. Then Molly celebrated Christmas with them at Baker Street, and finally, they met again just a couple of days ago for the nun's autopsy, at the beginning of that roller coaster of mysteries. Only now does she realise they have never truly had a proper heart-to-heart chat.
She whispers to John, "What is Moriarty talking about? Is Molly into Sherlock?"
John arches his brow in an eloquent expression. "I'm not Cupid, but even a blind person would see that she has feelings for this emotionless machine." He points at Holmes. "He never acknowledged her feelings, though, and she was never vocal about it either. The closest she ever got to revealing her affection was the Christmas before last, when she got him a present and he inadvertently humiliated her in front of all our friends."
Giulia frowns and lowers her voice. "So he doesn't have a clue?"
John shrugs. "Or he simply doesn't care. Who knows?"
Giulia looks at the monitor showing the panic-stricken pathologist. Even though the two of them have apparently fallen for the same unemotional man, she can't bring herself to be jealous of Molly. The truth is she pities her and her unrequited feelings. Most of all, she sympathises with her. Every time Sherlock tried to keep her at bay, he hurt her deeply. She never admitted it, not even to herself, but Sherlock's indifference has been one of her greatest fears lately.
"You have already crushed Doctor Hooper's heart. Now the question is: would her loss at least chip yours? Are you ready to play with her life?" Jim asks ominously.
Sherlock narrows his eyes at him until they are nothing more than two slits.
"I swear if you harm her..." He hisses through gritted teeth.
The criminal mastermind lifts one hand to his chest, putting up the most inculpable expression he is capable of. "Me? I'm not the one doing the hurting. Look at her, Sherlock."
Holmes steals a glance at the screen and finds himself unable to look away.
"I bet you've never truly noticed her before. Interesting: the man who always observes everything is the most unaware of everyone around. Dear Sherlock, you are the one who's been hurting her for the longest time. Your indifference has been killing her. In her little lab, she is so desperate for you to spare a glance at her. Well, I guess she has your undivided attention now." A cruel smile creeps on his lips.
"What's the threat to her life? Are we supposed to guess it again?" John takes the reins of the discussion since the detective doesn't appear to be thinking lucidly at the moment.
"Of course, and this round is significantly easier. Unfortunately, history has never been kind to women. And Doctor Hooper would have made for the perfect victim of misogynistic mistrust, at other times. With her extensive knowledge of medicine, her retired life at the margin of society, unmarried, socially awkward, she would have been called a ..." Moriarty pauses to let them complete the sentence.
John considers those remarks for a couple of seconds, and all colour drains from his face. A single word escapes his lips, "Witch."
Sherlock and Giulia turn their heads to him, and he points at the screen, mumbling, "She is not simply tied to a pole. She is standing at a stake."
"Excellent deduction, Doctor Watson," Moriarty compliments him and widens the camera frame to show Molly standing on a pyre of hay and deadwood. A few feet away, a burning torch is being mechanically lowered towards the bonfire. It gets closer and closer with each passing second.
Sherlock tries to convince himself that all the chills running down his spine are nothing more than a figment of his imagination. He strives to regain his composure by clenching and releasing his fists.
"Earlier, you said that death is the key, so I'm assuming it was a hint of the next riddle we must solve. And since fire is clearly the threat against Molly, I guess the weapons symbolised by those three levers are supposed to refer to someone else's death," he argues, trying to sound as dispassionate as possible.
"Correct. But whose death, Sherlock?" Jim teases him. "This is what you have to find out. When you've made up your mind, you pull the lever."
Holmes lowers his eyes on the machine on the wall and the miniature weapons (a gun, a dagger, and a grenade), imagining all the different scenarios, then gives voice to his worst nightmare.
"And if it's the wrong lever, the torch won't stop and will fall onto the pyre, lighting it up."
Moriarty nods complacently. "Glad that the rules are clear. You have ten minutes. You'd better start reasoning; things are heating up for Molly Hooper." And with one last predatory grin, his face fades out from the screen.
"Wait!" Sherlock shouts, a note of despair tainting his voice.
Giulia raises a brow at him. She has never heard such an urgent tone from him, not even in the direst situations (of which there have been quite a few, over the past months).
"Wait," he repeats, stepping toward the monitor, where the outline of Moriarty's face gets more defined again: Jim looks genuinely surprised.
"Given the theme of this round and all your babbling about history, I reckon that the main clue is probably an important historical figure, and we must find out who that person was and how they died, but you haven't given us any information. How are we supposed to identify the right person and connect them to one lever?" Sherlock protests.
Jim tilts his head, almost confused.
"Mr Holmes, did something get you distracted? I gave you some hints, already. But fine," he concedes, "I'll provide you with some more clues. The person in question was a man quite obsessed with Germany. He was the leader of the armed forces and was so ambitious that he even tried to conquer Britain. I'd say we could almost consider him an emperor. Quite the historical character, undoubtedly, but who are we talking about? You have seven minutes."
"Seven? You said we had ten," John objects. Even if Sherlock has known Molly the longest, she is his friend, too.
"That was before Sherlock asked for extra help. I don't grant anything for free. Six minutes and fifty seconds to go. Tick tock." Jim's voice dies out while the monitor switches off.
They stare in horror at the burning torch speeding up its descent towards the pyre.
Sherlock turns his back to the disturbing scene and looks at his flatmates.
"We don't even have to discuss it, do we?"
John cocks an interrogative brow in response, so Sherlock says, "Alright, I admit that without those additional sentences, our guess would have been entirely arbitrary. However, after Moriarty's extra clues, there should be no doubt whatsoever. It's plainly obvious that the man is Adolf Hitler."
"Nothing is ever obvious in this game," Watson argues.
At those words, Giulia's eyes widen in realisation, and she comments, "Hitler is a reasonable option, but—"
"It makes perfect sense," Sherlock talks over her. "First hint: a man obsessed with Germany. Check."
As he speaks, he casts a glance at the screen showing the pathologist. His gaze focuses on Molly's terrified eyes glued on the burning torch. He would swear to see the fluttering flame reflected in her pupils. Or is it all in his mind?
"Moriarty said something about being the leader of the armed forces," John recalls. After a five-second silence, he turns to his unresponsive friend. "Are you even listening to me?"
Sherlock forces his eyes off the monitor, striving to focus on John's words.
"Erm, yes." He regains his original train of thought. "After becoming Chancellor and head of the State, Hitler appointed himself Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces and the Army. So, we can tick another box. Third clue: the ambition to conquer Britain. You are both cultured people; I don't have to dive into a full account of Operation Sea Lion and the Battle of Britain during WW2, right? We need to hurry up," he says, stealing another nervous gaze at the screen.
Even if he can't hear Molly's screams, he can judge the intensity of her shrieks by the tension in her extended throat, the redness on her cheeks, and the frantic movements of her gaping mouth. He has always been the observant person who notices and registers the slightest details, but right now, he wishes he hadn't just memorised her expression of pure agony.
John follows his gaze and gestures for him to go on, keeping him grounded. Sherlock takes a deep breath and concludes his reasoning.
"Finally, Moriarty said that our person of interest could almost be considered an emperor. Since the English translation for Reich is empire, I can see how Hitler's position as the leader of the Third Reich would ideally make him an emperor. Any questions?" He asks rhetorically, taking some steps towards the levers, but Giulia's trembling voice stops him in his tracks.
"Actually, yes. How can you be sure? Hitler isn't the only possible match."
Sherlock does a double-take. What is she implying? Is she questioning his solution?
He shoots her a sceptical look. "You have a better idea?"
She doesn't flinch but simply replies, "Julius Caesar."
John furrows his brow at her answer, disoriented. "I'm afraid I'm not following."
"Caesar was obsessed with Germany—or rather with the territories that back then the Romans called Germania. He repeatedly engaged in military campaigns against the Germans to expand his conquests during the war in Gaul (corresponding to modern France)," Giulia calmly explains. "Caesar also led two military expeditions to the land then known as Britannia, trying to conquer it. So, he fits the first two clues. Last, he was never proclaimed emperor since the Roman empire was officially established only years later, but he held the Latin title of Imperator, in the sense of military commander, as it was the usual meaning in his political time. He complies with all the requirements," she insists.
"I must admit that Giulia's explanation makes perfect sense, too." John rubs his forehead where beads of cold sweat are pooling. Why are they constantly running against the clock?
"Sure, she got some history facts right. But come on," Sherlock exclaims dismissively. "Hitler is obviously the right answer."
Giulia takes a step forward, confronting his stubbornness.
"What if it's too obvious? Listen, I agree with you: Hitler ticks all the boxes. But when John said that nothing is ever obvious in this game, I started second-guessing the blatancy of your answer."
"You started second-guessing me," he hisses harshly, and his words echo in the bare room. His expression is adamant, offended.
She scowls at him. "It's not about you."
"Stop it, you two! There's no time to fight," John interjects, stealing a worried look at the descending torch. It is now dangerously close to the pyre.
"You two have been focusing on the most recent hints, but Moriarty said he had already given us some clues. Let's try to retrace his initial words and see if those hints unmistakably lead us to one of the two options."
Sherlock's mind sets rapidly into motion. "When talking about his glory dreams for history books, Jim mentioned the greatest dictator of all time. Caesar couldn't have been a dictator; Rome was a Republic at the time. Whereas my answer still stands: Hitler, ladies and gentlemen. It's self-explanatory, isn't it?" He argues contemptuously.
He doesn't even know why he sounds so defensive, but the minute Giulia presented her alternative, his throat tightened, giving him a choking feeling at the prospect of someone else doubting his cleverness. He isn't used to being challenged; everyone just trusts him blindly.
Giulia's eyes sparkle upon hearing his explanation. "Rome was indeed a Republic. But if we think of the epithet dictator as a Latin noun, it is precisely the title that Caesar assumed after the civil war: Dictator Perpetuo, meaning dictator for life."
"Bloody hell." John throws a punch at the wall. "It doesn't help us. Did Jim say anything else?" He urges them, his eyes darting from one to the other.
"Spring funeral," Sherlock and Giulia exclaim at the same time and exchange bewildered looks.
Sherlock talks first. "Hitler committed suicide on 30 April 1945—gunshot to the head. It would make for a spring death or funeral. Considering the cause of death, I'd say that it points to the lever with a gun on top." His prideful smile dies off instantly as a sudden realisation dawns on him. "Although..."
"Although," Giulia takes over, "the same goes for Julius Caesar. He was assassinated on the Ides of March (the 15th) in a conspiracy plot in the Senate of Rome, where he was stabbed twenty-three times. I think we should pull the lever with the dagger," she suggests.
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. "Technically, it happened a few days before the spring equinox, so I'm not entirely sure we can consider it as—"
"Sherlock!" John's desperate scream plucks him from his futile thoughts. "We don't have time for astronomical considerations on the cycles of the seasons. We need a final answer. Now. Who is it, Hitler or Caesar?"
Sherlock's eyes land once more on the monitor showing Molly; he lingers on her spasmodic movements against the ropes and her mute cries for help. He bites down on his lower lip and steps forward resolutely.
"I stand by my opinion that Hitler is the solution to this riddle. It makes the most sense. I'm pulling the gun-shaped lever," he affirms, placing his hand on the tool and taking a deep breath.
Moriarty appears on the screen again, his face even bigger as he leans forward to better contemplate the scene.
"Twenty seconds left," he announces before staring at the detective. "Are you certain of your answer, Sherlock? Are you really so confident of your abilities, or are you simply unable to accept that a woman could warn you and provide a different answer? Can history be rewritten?"
"I might be arrogant, but I'm not a misogynist. And I'm not afraid to be beaten," Sherlock declares, tightening his grasp on the lever. And yet his palm is sweaty, his fingers are quivering. Why is he so hesitant?
"This is not what he just said..." Giulia mutters, widening her eyes while an epiphany clarifies the meaning of the last comment of their torturer.
At the very last second, she leaps forward, stretching her arm out; her hand clutches the lever with a dagger on top, and she yanks it down before Sherlock can lower the stick with the gun. The impetus of her lunge flings her forward, and she lands sprawled on the floor at the foot of the speechless detective. Muffling a groan of pain for her maladroit landing, she raises her apologetic gaze on him, and for an instant, she can see a shade of betrayal passing in his gaze.
Then, Sherlock turns his neck painfully slow and forces himself to check out Molly's fate. His heart skips a beat when his eyes lock on the flaming torch. Its inexorable descent comes to a sudden halt, and the jet of a fire extinguisher intervenes to put it out. It's over. Molly is safe.
Giulia reads the relieved look in his eyes and eventually allows herself to watch as well. A sigh of relief empties her lungs, and she stands up, but her wobbly legs fail her. John's prompt intervention prevents her from hitting the floor once again. He wraps an arm around her waist for support, helping her to her feet.
"Are you alright?" He asks, concerned.
She strains to give him a grateful smile, her lips still shaking from the adrenaline rush.
He frowns. "You were right. How did you know yours was the correct answer?"
"Moriarty said it," Giulia replies laconically, then satisfies his curiosity.
"Sherlock thought Jim was taunting him with the possibility that a woman could beat him, but those weren't his exact words. He said, warned by a woman, and I remembered something from my Latin studies. Legend has it that the night before Caesar's murder, his wife Calpurnia dreamed that she was holding in her arms the dead body of her husband. She tried to warn him in the morning and begged him to stay home and avoid the Senate. She didn't manage to convince him, though, and we all know how it ended. When Moriarty mentioned the chance to rewrite history, I understood what he truly meant. If a woman's warning were heard, history could be rewritten. It didn't end up in tragedy this time."
"Thank you," John whispers and unexpectedly hugs her.
She is taken aback and remains still, her arms along her sides, as he squeezes her lightly, full of gratitude, before letting her go.
"If it weren't for you..." His voice becomes hoarse, and he trails off. There's no need to finish the sentence; they can all imagine the rest of his unsaid words.
Moriarty applauds from the screen. "You three have been magnificent. I couldn't have dreamed of a better trio to perform this show. I can't wait to see more of you. Chop chop. Off to a new room, now," he encourages them, opening the automatic door.
John doesn't even protest. He knows it's pointless. He braces himself for new torture and goes out into the corridor. Giulia adjusts her wrinkled dress and follows him.
As she passes by Sherlock, his feeble words barely reach her ear. "I don't know what to say."
She stops but doesn't turn in his direction, keeping her eyes fixed on the open door.
"There's nothing to be said. Save your breath for the next challenge."
She takes one step forward when Sherlock's cold hand latches onto her wrist.
"Wait, Giulia. I'm sorry, okay?"
Her head whips back. An apology from Sherlock is one of the rarest phenomena on Earth.
He clears his throat, biting his tongue. "I'm sorry I didn't trust you. I got cocky. I thought I had all the answers and nearly killed Molly. I should have listened to you instead."
She scoffs. He got it all wrong. Again.
"You don't understand. It has nothing to do with me or you. It's about other people. You were playing with Molly's life on the line. This makes me upset: how can you ignore what truly is at stake in this game? We're talking about actual human lives. Why don't you care?"
He doesn't meet her gaze but bows his head down. "Because when I do, someone is likely to get hurt."
"I don't get it."
"That's what distracted me earlier. I looked at Molly's desperate eyes and I got scared." He rolls up his eyes in self-recrimination. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes—the show-off—got scared. This is why I rushed the solution and blindly believed in the quickest, easiest explanation. I wished mine could be the right answer because I wanted to put an end to that horrible challenge. I couldn't bear to see her so frightened and lost. And it affected me. Before entering this room, you asked me how I can always keep my distance, and here's my answer: I have no choice," he says as a statement of surrender. "It's the only way I can keep a clear head and think straight. Emotions cloud my judgement and expose me to all sorts of risks and mistakes, as you've just witnessed."
She stares at him for a long moment. "Sherlock, we are all terrified here. But that's the point: you are not alone. I'm not asking you to impulsively follow my lead because Heaven knows I'm never sure of my own answers. Do you have the slightest idea of how uncertain I was when I lowered that lever? I was taking on myself the responsibility of someone else's life," she raises her voice to mask the quiver in her tone.
"Why did you do that if you weren't sure?"
"Because I wasn't listening to my fears but only to my brain. And I realised mine was indeed the most logical solution, given Moriarty's clues and crazy rules of his game."
She frees her wrist from his grip and is about to step out of the room, but turns around on the threshold to face him again and murmurs, "For the record, that is something I've learned from you."
He stares at her silhouette vanishing in the dark corridor and closes his eyes, tormented by his inner demons. If he behaves too coldly, John will assume he is a heartless monster. If he gets too carried away with foreign emotions, he risks having people killed. He feels like Jim is pulling the rug from under his feet. This game isn't fun anymore.
Author's note: Dear readers, thank you for your endless patience. I apologise for the long hiatus. I hope to make it up to you with this long update. About that, would you prefer shorter chapters? I am always open to your suggestions about the format of this story.
One more question: as you can see, I'm trying to explore the emotional side of the characters. Do you think that some heartfelt moments sit well with the usual brainy riddles and twists? I can't wait to hear from you.
Your grateful author.