CHAPTER 55: FALSE STEP
As soon as Giulia crosses the threshold of Molly's room and steps into the corridor, her eyes fill with tears and she doubles over, burying her face into her quivering hands. It takes her all her self-control not to sob uncontrollably. She has been fighting these tears for so long, but she doesn't want Sherlock to hear her. She doesn't even want him to see her cry. After all, Sherlock was adamant about shooing her away from his mental weaknesses, so why should she let him peek at her emotional vulnerabilities?
She realises he might step into the corridor at any moment, and she straightens up rapidly, placing a hand on a wall for support. As she walks down the corridor, she rubs the back of her hand under her eyes and vaguely stares at her fingers now smudged with her makeup. It would seem that in this crazy game, all the masks are coming off. And she isn't sure anymore whether she will like what she finds at the end.
Left alone in the silent room, the detective lowers his eyes on his left hand still placed on the gun-shaped handle; he immediately retracts it as if he had just touched a burning ember. He instinctively brushes the tips of his fingers against his shirt, where the bandage covers his gunshot scar. It is nothing more than a conditioned reflex by now: he feels no pain anymore. He knows that the soothing gesture is just a sign of his post-traumatic stress disorder. As much as his body has been fully restored, his mind hasn't healed yet, and this game has cracked open all his mental wounds, threatening to leave him with even more trauma.
He walks slowly towards the door, thinking back at Giulia's determined gaze as she leapt through the air to save Molly's life. It wasn't the first time he had seen that fierce look in her eyes. She had the same expression when she drove him desperately to the hospital when he got shot. The terror in her eyes was the same, as was the fortitude. She is much stronger than anyone, even him, gives her credit for.
The next conclusion flows naturally across his mind. She doesn't need anyone to help her do anything. She doesn't even need anyone to support her while she walks through hell with her head held high. She doesn't need anyone, period. But she does want something… someone. She wants someone to stand by her side, take her hand, and jump with her into the void, facing whatever challenge lies ahead. And no, it can't be just anybody. It must be him.
He walks out of the room with a steady gait. It's time he took his place in her life, for her and himself.
Giulia is halfway down the corridor. As she hears Sherlock's footsteps behind her, his words echo in her mind. I'm not afraid to be beaten, that's what he said in his hideously patronising tone.
Now she knows he was just trying to hide his insecurities, his fear of not being right. Yet, she cannot help but wonder what the hidden meaning of that sentence was. Did he imply he wasn't afraid of being beaten by just anyone or was it intended for her specifically? Behind his narcissistic tendencies, he has always acknowledged someone else's wit. For instance, he is fully aware of his brother's capabilities, and he has never shied away from addressing a compliment to John when he feels his efforts deserve it. Hell, he would applaud Moriarty for his brilliance at that very moment. Yet with her, he has always been stingy with his praise, as if by acknowledging her intelligence, he would be compelled to admit she hasn't only enamoured his heart but also charmed his mind. What an outrage.
She closes her eyes for a second and sighs, thinking, But isn't it what everyone looks for in life: a deep, thorough connection of body and mind?
She opens her eyes again. Everyone but him, apparently.
She reaches the end of the corridor and passes through the doorway into a dim-lit room, followed suit by the detective.
John turns to her and upon seeing her watery eyes, he shoots her a worried look, arching his brow and shifting his gaze to the man standing behind her. He doesn't have to voice his question because she can see it written on his wrinkled forehead: Did he make you cry?
She internally smiles at his display of protectiveness but simply shakes her head and dismisses his concern with a wave of her hand.
At that moment, Jim's voice booms through the room, "Now that you are all here, I'm happy to introduce you to a new round of our game."
Just below a lit screen projecting his cruel face, a string of neon lights brightens up another marble figurine. They study the graceful movement of a young woman lifting a hem of her long dress with her left hand, as she balances on tiptoes. In her right hand, she is holding an instrument resembling a lyre.
"Judging by the dancing motion, I'd say she might be Terpsichore, the Muse of Dance," Giulia speculates.
She isn't addressing anyone in particular. However, since John has barely followed their deductions on the previous statues, the only one who could corroborate her theory is the one person from whom she isn't interested in hearing a syllable, at this time.
"Agreed," Sherlock curtly comments with a nod. He isn't sure he is entitled to express any remark on her conjectures anymore—and for the most opinionated man in London, this says a lot.
"What are you going to do, Mr Moriarty? Dance your next victim to death?" Giulia taunts him.
Jim holds her gaze as a corner of his lips twitches in a vicious smirk.
"Look at you, Giulia, taking the wheel of this sinking ship," he tantalises her apparent confidence. "Don't get me wrong, I'm all for women's empowerment. But trust me when I say that you will need to cooperate with your playmates on this one."
At that moment, some lights switch on, making the room shine in a rainbow of colours. They are in the rehearsal studio of the theatre; a bunch of musical instruments and music staves are piled up in a corner. By the looks of it, Jim has been redecorating the hall, though. They raise their brows at the unexpected view; in sharp contrast with the previous bare and bleak rooms, this studio has much more colour and brightness. Most of the floor in front of them appears to be raised by some inches compared to the level of the ground on which they are standing at the entrance of the room.
The truly surprising detail, though, is that the surface has been decorated with tiles representing a bunch of colourful drawings. They immediately recognise the Indian flag scattered on rectangular slabs here and there, several panes painted with the Greek letters α and δ in a vivid font, some others with the sketch of a golf club, and a few images of a hotel signboard. Then they spot some more tiles with the picture of a calendar, the Academy Award statuette on a few more, as well as drawings of a gym weight and a baseball cap with the embroidered letters N and Y. Finally, the stylised images of two people dancing in red and black clothes, some illustrations of a liquor bottle, and generic designs of an army uniform are dispersed on the remaining tiles. The entire floor is covered in painted panes arranged into an incoherent mosaic.
Sherlock studies the rest of the room, disoriented. At the far end of the music studio, posters with the letters L – R – L – R are placed on top of four blinking lights glistening in the distance like the safe promise of a lighthouse. Yet, the very function of a lighthouse is to warn about the dangers ahead, he reflects grimly.
He turns his head to the screen on the sidewall showing Moriarty's face and sarcastically says, "I'm not sure the orchestra would appreciate the way you refurbished their rehearsal room."
Jim gives him a smug smile. "And imagine how horrified they'd be if someone died in here."
Sherlock's poker face drops in an instant as another screen turns on: the anguished face of Mrs Hudson appears on the monitor.
"Not her, please!" John cries out, running to the screen.
Unlike Molly, there isn't any visible or immediate danger. However, Mrs Hudson is experiencing convulsions and tremors. Her agonised features reveal she must be in unbearable pain.
Giulia's breath becomes laboured at that dreadful view. She adores Mrs Hudson; that warm-hearted woman welcomed her under her roof without hesitation, providing her with affection and caring advice whenever the cohabitation with her flatmates became rocky. She won't let anyone hurt the kindest woman she has ever met. She simply cannot afford to lose another mother figure: her heart couldn't take it.
"What do we have to do?" Her flinty voice echoes in the room. She is prepared to do whatever it takes to save her.
Moriarty looks down on her from the screen. "You should be familiar with the procedure by now. At first, you need to identify the threat to her life, then you might attempt to prevent her early demise."
"How?" John yells.
"It's quite easy: by pushing the right button."
One lightbulb switches on to illuminate three big buttons on the opposite wall at the far end of the room, next to the series of blinking lights. On each button, there is a stylised design: a bone on the first, a red drop on the second, and a brain on the third.
"Provide me with the right answer, and I will put an end to her suffering." Jim shrugs with the same detachment of a waiter taking orders at a restaurant.
"How long do we have this time?" Watson spits out through his teeth.
"I changed things slightly. No countdown at this round. There's no rush; even though I guess you'll be quite eager to put your lovely landlady out of her misery. You should be careful, though. So, take your time…" he stops mid-sentence to smile seraphically before correcting himself, "Or rather, you should keep it. You must get everything absolutely right. There's no place for missteps." His smile turns into an ominous smirk on the last word, right before the monitor powers off.
"First things first, let's assess Mrs Hudson's conditions," Sherlock proposes mechanically; he has switched into his cold-solving mode. He cares about her, a lot, but he is determined not to make the same mistake twice.
John points at the screen showing their landlady and lists all the signs she exhibits.
"Convulsions, muscle spasms, itching, from what we can see. Those symptoms might be consistent with the neurotrophic activities of some drugs."
"Good. Then it's quite clear she is experiencing some mental effects. I'd go with the brain button," Giulia quickly suggests.
"It would make sense," Sherlock concedes before contradicting her. "But we should also consider the possibility that the buttons are about the treatment she would need, not the cause of her pain. To choose the correct button, we need to figure out what is afflicting her to better identify the antidote. All clues will be relevant."
John points at the screen. "There's a plate full of bread and cereal grains in a corner of her room. Maybe it implies an allergic reaction to the wheat? Or celiac disease, perhaps? Though I have never known Mrs Hudson to be intolerant to cereals or gluten," he considers professionally, unable to take his eyes off the poor woman.
"She isn't," Sherlock confirms. "Besides, her signs don't resemble intolerance symptoms. I'm more inclined to rule it as food poisoning."
Giulia shoots a confused look at him. "If that's the case, and we assume Moriarty put poison in her food, how can we figure out precisely what substance is causing her confusional state? I don't know how many poisons would affect the central nervous system, provoking spasms and convulsions, but I imagine the list wouldn't be too short. How are we expected to narrow it down to just one?"
Sherlock folds his hands under his chin in his signature praying position and turns to Watson, murmuring, "She's right. The only clue we have is that bowl of rye bread. Potentially, all flavourless poisons could be disguised in it."
At his words, John's head whips up and he goggles at him. "What did you just say about the bread?"
Holmes arches a brow at his dazed expression. "You mean the fact it doesn't help us in the slightest?"
"No. You called it rye bread," he whispers as his mind frantically pursues after a thought.
"It's obvious. Just take a closer look at it," Sherlock points at the screen, then begins to complain, "If you fools just learned to be a tiny bit more observant—"
"I don't need to be observant," John cuts him short. "I have you. You notice everything, but you don't know everything," he admonishes him with a patronising smirk.
His friend tilts his head, more interested in the hidden insinuation than offended by his criticism. "What do you mean?"
"We got it wrong. It's not food poisoning—not exactly. Mrs Hudson is suffering from ergotism, which is the effect of ergot poisoning. Rye ergot is a fungus usually found on cereal grains and grasses, especially rye. That's why Jim put that clue in the room. If ingested, the alkaloids of the fungus can cause severe pathological syndromes and induce vasoconstriction that results in violent burning sensations in the limbs. It can lead to muscle spasms, convulsions, and shooting pain of distal organs, possibly building up to gangrene." John shows off his medical knowledge.
"Now, look at her," he knocks a knuckle on the monitor as his trained eye x-rays Mrs Husdon. "She is having painful seizures, tremors, and convulsions, not to mention the mental effect of dizziness."
Sherlock stares at the screen for long seconds; the signs that John just highlighted now appear unmistakable. His diagnosis is spot-on.
"And I suppose death can also be a consequence of ergotism."
Watson silently nods, stealing a worried look at their landlady's agony.
"Then how do we save her, doctor?" Sherlock presses him, his voice edged in ill-concealed fear.
John takes a deep breath, striving to analyse the situation from a clinical point of view.
"As I said, the main and most threatening effect of ergotism is the dry gangrene due to vasoconstriction. If Mrs Hudson has been poisoned by ergot fungi, the immediate remedy would be any kind of vasodilator medication. It is all about blood circulation, so the button with a blood droplet is the right answer. And we need to push it now," he affirms, sprinting forward.
Sherlock frowns, getting a distinct feeling that something is off. It was too easy. They are missing something. There must be more to that riddle, to the entire room. Otherwise, why would Jim even take the trouble of redecorating the floor?
He freezes. The floor…
"Wait!" He cries out a second too late.
John has just stepped onto one of the first tiles when a dart materialises out of nowhere and flies right into his left calf. He loses his balance and stumbles backwards, falling on his back as a wail of pain escapes from his lips. He latches his hands around his injured leg and applies pressure, trying to stop the blood spurting out of the flesh wound.
"John!" Giulia screams and rushes to his side. Without a second thought, she quickly tears off the edge of her dress and hands it to him to wrap it around the gash on his calf.
Sherlock runs to them, trying to determine the severity of the injury. The wound will make it difficult for John to walk, but he is already working on stopping the blood loss, so he shouldn't be in any grave danger.
"What the hell just happened?" Watson moans through his teeth, tending to his self-medication.
Sherlock stares ahead, an entranced expression on his face. "The floor is some sort of pressure table. You've just walked on one of the wrong tiles, apparently," he says, earning bewildered looks from both of them.
"Pressure table? How does that work?" Giulia asks.
"If you look closely, you'll be able to see that most of the floor ahead of us appears to be slightly elevated as compared to where we are currently standing. Jim must have built it as a huge platform sensitive to pressure, meaning that we can only touch some specific parts of it without having arrows shot at us, or whatever unpleasantries he has prepared. There is only one right path that leads to the end of the room," he methodically explains.
She gapes. "Are you really saying we can't just rush to the other side of the room and push the button?"
"That would be too easy, wouldn't it?" He sighs. "And this is also the reason Moriarty painted the floor with these ridiculous drawings. We can only step on some specific tiles, and we must figure out which ones, somehow."
"And if we get it wrong…" Giulia trails off, casting a horrified glance at John's bleeding leg.
At that moment, a sudden epiphany hits Sherlock as Jim's words resound in his head.
"Moriarty tried to warn us. He said, and I quote: There's no place for missteps. Once again, he hid a clue in his words."
"Very kind of him to always be so forthcoming," she sarcastically says. "But how are we supposed to find out the right path? Should we jump from India to Delta, then maybe step on Hotel and proceed to Alpha or maybe the Oscar award?" She groans exasperated, randomly naming some designs.
John, who wasn't following her gaze but was busy patching up his wound, jerks his head up, dumbfounded.
"Why are you using the phonetic alphabet?"
"I was just describing the drawings on the squares." She points at the painted floor.
John squints his eyes at the sequence of colourful designs until pure realisation lights up his face. "Those aren't simple drawings: each of them represents individual letters according to the NATO phonetic alphabet." He gestures at the images on the ground. "The Indian flag indicates India, which is the codeword assigned to the letter I."
Giulia scans the surface and comments, "It's the same method used for spelling, right? Like having the Greek letters α and δ stand for A and D."
John nods, and Sherlock intervenes, "So the stylised hotel sign symbolises the letter H, and I'd bet the sketch of an army uniform is the codeword for U."
They try to map out the entire floor and Giulia says, "Based on the alphabet, I believe the drawing of a New York Yankees baseball cap stands for Yankee for Y."
John gets on his knees to look ahead while pointing at the tiles. "The golf club must indicate Golf for G. The depicted calendar is open on the November month page, so November for N. The Academy Award statuette must stand for Oscar for O."
"What about the gym weight?" Giulia asks.
"It must be a symbol for Kilo, therefore K."
"With a leap of imagination, I'd say that the two people dancing while wearing red and black clothes might be tango dancers, hence Tango for T," Sherlock says.
"Lastly, the amber liquor bottle probably represents Whiskey for W," John completes.
"IADHUYGNOKTW," Sherlock recapitulates. "But it's just a bunch of meaningless letters. Even if we rearrange them in alphabetical order, ADGHIKNOTUWY still doesn't make any sense."
Giulia crouches down in front of John to support him as he tightens the improvised bandage and mutters, "And yet, the alphabetical order is the only logical sequence. Otherwise, how else would Moriarty communicate the correct order that we should follow when stepping on the painted tiles to reach the other side?"
Suddenly, the room seems to get slightly darker as the blinking lights at the bottom of the hall go off for ten seconds. When they flash again at irregular intervals, John raises his eyes from his leg, finally understanding one last piece of that eccentric puzzle.
"That's it. It's about communication. This whole bloody room is about the same thing: giving instructions through different methods of communication."
Giulia tilts her head to the side, confused. "We've already deduced that the drawings on the floor are a way of spelling some letters of the alphabet."
John grimaces as a rush of memories from his time as an army doctor comes back to the surface. It feels like all the memories from that bygone era that he had locked away in the recesses of his mind are flooding back in. No matter how hard he tried to readjust to civilian life, he is and will always be a soldier at heart; especially now, with human lives on the line, the fighter within longs for the battle.
"Yes, but there's another effective way of communicating the alphabet: the Morse code," he affirms, staring ahead.
Sherlock follows his gaze to the opposite wall and opens his eyes wide in realisation.
"The blinking lights. They aren't just a decorating item for ambience, are they?" he jests, pleasantly impressed by John's witty connection and the undeniable benefits of his military experience.
Watson shakes his head. "I'm pretty sure their flickering on loop produces the right combination of letters, and therefore of tiles to step onto. That's why they've just stopped gleaming for a while; they had reached the end of the sequence and resumed it again from the start. Now, we just have to wait for them to turn off before the next repetition. As soon as they start flashing again from the beginning, we can follow the right order. But I want to test my theory first," he pronounces, signalling Giulia to fetch him a musical staff and a pencil from the music stands stacked up in the corner.
Seating clumsily on the floor stained in his blood, he briefly studies the distant blinking: the four lights glimmer in a sequence from the first to the last, giving him time to decipher four letters at each turn, before proceeding with four more letters.
He jots down sixteen letters, then takes a break to look for the corresponding objects depicted on the floor, and frowns.
"It makes no sense. I was expecting an unequivocal path forward, but that's not the case. At first, the sequence seems to signal to move a few steps forward, but then it goes back again, then to the side, then it insists on some adjacent tiles."
Sherlock processes that information as his eyes are drawn to the marble figurine, and a logical conclusion dawns on him.
"It's a dance," he mumbles.
John looks at him in disbelief. "What?"
"Just think about it: all the clues are clear now. First, the statue of Terpsichore, the Muse of Dance Second, the references that were hidden in Jim's words. He said: Take your time, or rather, you should keep it. He made it clear he wasn't talking about the countdown, though, but rhythm and musical tempo. The only way to get to the other side of the room to press the button and save Mrs Hudson is by dancing."
Giulia shoots him a perplexed look. "It's consistent with Moriarty's lunatic modus operandi, yet there's still one missing link. In all previous rounds, the Greek muse was always connected to the designated victim and the cause of death or threat. Then how does dancing relate to Mrs Hudson?"
Holmes shuts his eyes and lets out a deep sigh, murmuring, "Oh, Mrs Hudson, you should have made a better attempt at burying your past."
His flatmates are speechless as he rapidly reveals something they could have never imagined: apparently, their kind and caring landlady used to be an exotic dancer when her husband, Mr Hudson, was the much-feared boss of a drug cartel in the Caribbean region.
John's jaw drops. "Is it for real?"
Sherlock shrugs. "Of course. Why else do you think she suffers from such hip pain nowadays?"
"I'd rather I didn't know, honestly."
"What about the connection to the threat against her life—the ergot poisoning?" Giulia asks.
Sherlock pauses for a second and brings his hands up to his temples to look for the answer inside the rooms of his mind palace. Less than twenty seconds later, he rolls up his eyes and hisses toward the turned-off screen, "Oh, sick psycho…"
He turns to Giulia to explain, "Historically, poisoning incidents due to the consumption of bread prepared with ergot-infected rye were common in the Middle Ages. More specifically, ergotism is believed to be the cause of one of the most inexplicable epidemic outbreaks that occurred in July 1518, in the city of Strasbourg—the so-called 'dancing plague'. According to some historical accounts, after a woman began to dance and twist fervently in the city, between 50 and 400 people joined in, suddenly struck by an uncontrollable urge to dance. There was no explanation for the absurd phenomenon, but that hysteric dancing marathon caused many to collapse from exhaustion, even suffering strokes and heart attacks. Historical sources disagree on whether the residents of Strasbourg ultimately danced to their deaths, and what the number of fatalities might be, but this whole story, (which sounds more like an imaginative legend) is well documented in local chronicles. And it wasn't an isolated episode in Europe; similar dancing manias happened in Switzerland, Germany, and Holland. It is still unknown what might have triggered such a 'dancing plague'. The most reasonable explanation is that the combination of disease and famine affecting Strasbourg at the time sparked a mass-induced hysteria, fuelled by religious superstition. However, other historical theories claim that the hallucinations and spasms were caused by the accidental ingestion of ergot fungi growing on rye and cereals."
He suddenly remembers a phrase Giulia pronounced earlier and grimaces.
"In the end, you were right. Moriarty is indeed planning on dancing his next victim to death."
"I meant it as a joke," she retorts.
"But he doesn't," Sherlock bleakly remarks, shifting his gaze to the screen showing Mrs Hudson convulsing spasmodically.
"It's endearing to see you have stored in your mind any historical fact that 98% of the people ignore," John's irony interrupts his history lecture. "But we better get a move on. Mrs Hudson's conditions are worsening fast."
Sherlock nods, lowering his gaze to the painted floor. "She will be fine as soon as Jim provides her with some anticonvulsants and medications stimulating blood circulation, as you said. All I have to do is perform the right choreography until I reach the button with the blood droplet."
John takes one more glance at the letters that he noted down on the musical staff and scratches his head.
"In this case, I hope you are a decent acrobat; there are four blinking lights signalling several letters at the same time. You'll need to press four tiles at once. Are you planning on proceeding on all fours?" He taunts him.
Sherlock stares at the far end of the room and squints at the posters with the letters L – R – L – R placed above every light. It's all so obvious now. How could he be so slow?
"Left foot, right foot, then again left foot, right foot," he realises, pointing a finger toward the intermittent lights blinking the Morse code. "That's the meaning of the letters on the corresponding lights. One person alone can't do it. It's for two."
Then he turns towards Giulia and gives her a crooked smile, stretching out his hand. "May I have this dance?"
She goggles at him and takes a step backwards, terrified. "I… I can't dance. Why me?"
He shoots an eloquent look at their friend doubled over in pain on the floor. "Because Doctor Watson is temporarily down. Besides, I'm not sure he'd be much better a dancer than you."
She looks down at John. Sherlock is right; he is in no condition to even stand straight, let alone dance. She is the only one who can tread on that lethal platform with him. Yet, it doesn't mean she is remotely qualified.
She shakes her head as a wave of shock passes over her body. "Sherlock, I can't do it."
He takes a step forward, coming closer, and his voice softens, "Of course you can. We'll get to the other side together. We've already danced together at the exhibition just some hours ago. Remember?"
She stares at him. He is right again. In that chaos of emotions and riddles, she lost track of time. She can barely believe they attended the astronomic exhibition at the beginning of that very night.
Images of the two of them dancing in the majestic hall of the Hickman Gallery flash inside her mind, and a warm sensation fills her shaken-up nerves. She loved every single instant of that brief dance with him. Although, what he is asking of her right now has nothing to do with that romantic moment. It's a matter of life and death now.
"That was different. We were dancing just for the fun of it at the museum. Nobody's life was on the line. It didn't mean anything," she protests.
Sherlock fixes his eyes on hers and breathes out in a whisper, "It did."
He takes one more step forward, standing a few inches away from her.
"Listen, I know that right now I am probably the last person you'd like to dance with, and you want nothing to do with me after what just happened with Molly, but I can't do it alone. And I know you want to save Mrs Hudson at least as much as I do."
Bloody manipulator.
Before she can open her mouth to object out loud, he continues, "In rescuing Molly, you've just shown you'd do anything to save a life, even standing up to me." He smiles feebly at her. Very few people would dare to do as much.
He becomes serious again. "Now, I'm asking you to do something even more difficult."
She shoots him an interrogative look. "What's that?"
"Trusting me. We can do it," he affirms and stretches out his hand, trying again.
She holds his gaze for a few seconds, pondering his proposal. Then she steps forward and takes his hand.
Author's note: Dear readers, I've finally found the time to update this story. However, as I realised this chapter was getting insanely long, I split this whimsical round into two chapters. The second part will be published shortly. I hope that this will make the reading easier and possibly more enticing. Thank you for your patience. As always, I'd be more than happy to hear your thoughts and feedback.
P.s. The story about the dancing plague in Strasbourg is 100% authentic. I did some research on it and tried to summarise it for the purpose of this round without turning my fanfiction into a historical essay. I hope you don't mind.