CHAPTER 62: EAT YOUR HEART OUT

Giulia raises her watery eyes on Sherlock and smiles at him faintly through the tears. She wishes she could express how infinitely grateful she is to him, to both of them, but the words are failing her now.

Sherlock reads the weariness in her eyes and instinctively stretches out a hand.

"How about we get out of here? I'm not particularly fond of this room." He grimaces, stealing a glance around.

She nods and latches her hand to his, letting him guide her towards the exit door as John precedes them out of the room.

While John painfully limps his way through a maintenance passageway a few steps ahead, Giulia asks Sherlock, "Regardless of the end result, when I had to choose what to do... Do you think I should have let him die?"

No pain or regret in her voice, just candid curiosity. She couldn't ask the question then, so she's asking it now.

"I don't think he was worth changing your system of beliefs and core values."

Giulia glances at him and reads between the lines of his honest and diplomatic answer. "But you wanted to kill him."

"Absolutely and without hesitation. For what he did to you."

She sighs and the heartache that she had to quash when she first learned of Thomas's betrayal spreads through her chest, morphing into blind, pointless anger.

"I still can't believe he betrayed me. He used to mean the world to me, and in his twisted revenge for my rejection, he decided to wreck my new life. Oh, I was so stupid! I felt so guilty after I turned him down. For days while I was adjusting to my crazy life in Baker Street, I kept thinking about him, feeling sorry for him. And he was already conniving with my greatest enemy. I feel like an idiot."

"You can't blame yourself," Sherlock rationally objects.

"I just wish I'd seen it coming, but I could've never imagined he would do such a thing to me. We were very close."

He cocks a brow just for a second. "I gathered."

They keep walking silently along another corridor, and then Giulia asks, "How do I recover from this?"

"Just like you've done every single time before: by fighting your way out with fierce determination and a healthy dose of trust issues."

She bends her lips in a sour smile. "As if I needed any more reasons to be a damaged human being."

Sherlock stops dead in the corridor, heedless of Moriarty's henchmen waiting for them at every intersection. He fixes his gaze on her eyes.

"You're not damaged, Giulia. You're a survivor. I don't even know where you find the strength to keep going through this game right now, after everything you've just discovered about your previous life." For once, he doesn't hide his admiration. His voice lowers to a whisper, "By the way, I'm sincerely sorry for the way you had to find out about your family's fate and the plot at the Consulate."

She squeezes his hand, blushing slightly under the dim lights of the passage—she had almost forgotten their fingers were still interlocked, it just feels so natural.

"Thanks, but despite it being utterly heartwrenching, I do think this was the only way I could bear to learn the truth. It was better to hear it all from Moriarty's mouth—the perpetrator, than read about his involvement in my family's tragedy in an MI6 report. I embarked on the investigation because I wanted to find out the truth behind the attack at the Consulate and now I have it. I've had the final confirmation that my father was always the designated victim and I just became an additional problem to get rid of. Moriarty plotted to dispose of both of us in one go: killing two birds with one stone."

Sherlock stares at her and sees something change in her gaze as if someone just put out a flame that was burning behind her eyes.

She bows her head and murmurs, "As horrible as it is, knowing the whole truth is all I ever wanted, all I was looking for. I've imagined this moment countless times, and I anticipated all sorts of emotions, but I never thought I would feel... empty."

One of the henchmen moves menacingly towards them, signalling them to keep moving. Giulia lets her hand slip off of Sherlock's grip and walks ahead of him. He keeps pace with her and leans forward to say, "I'm not an expert on human emotions, but you've just come out of a soul-sucking round. It's normal to feel drained."

She shakes her head and keeps her gaze straight ahead as they reach John waiting for them at the end of a narrow corridor.

"It's not that. It's because I'm done running and chasing. There's nowhere for me to escape: Moriarty, my persecutor, is here, is everywhere. And there's nothing more to chase after, for the very same reason: he is here, with all the answers. It all comes down tonight. No more running, no more chasing, no more fighting, no more feeling. Empty."

John, who has caught only this last part of their exchange, retorts, "There's still a game to play."

She nods pensively. "That's all it is now: just a game. I don't expect any more big revelations."

No one comments further. As silence falls on them, their ears prick up when they hear classical music coming from beyond the ajar door in front of them.

"That's new, and it's creepily cheerful," John says, looking at Sherlock. "What is it? Do you recognise the melody?"

He nods and replies curtly, "Sonata n.1 for piano by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart."

"Next time, instead of ambience music, I'd rather Moriarty turned the heat on; it's freezing here," Giulia complains and wraps her arms around her torso to keep warm.

Sherlock looks at her; the adrenaline of their dance together and the excitement and danger of playing literally with fire have rapidly worn off, leaving room for a chilling fear. They all know the game is nearing its end, and this is far from comforting.

He takes off his tuxedo jacket and without a word, lets it glide on her shuddering shoulders. A thankful smile creeps up her lips as she slides her arms into the too-long sleeves.

John insists, anxious, "Why the music, Sherlock?"

"I'm afraid we're about to find out," he says, walking past him and pushing the door open.

When they enter the room, they are surprised to find the red velvet curtain of the theatre stage hiding the entire wall in front of them. It doesn't take them long to deduce that this new room must resemble the previous one, and the curtain is concealing a glass wall beyond which another unlucky guest is fighting for their life. Another puppet of that lunatic show.

Their eyes linger briefly over a screen and a numeric keypad on the wall, then they focus on a large table at the centre of the room. Behind the usual marble statue, there are three objects on the wooden surface: the astronomic image of a galaxy, a Nautilus shell, and a vase containing a sunflower.

Sherlock walks to the table, ignores the rest of the items, and takes the figurine in his hands, carefully turning it on all sides. A wreath of myrtle and roses crowns the head of the slim woman carved in stone while her delicate fingers are wrapped around a Cithara (an ancient Greek musical instrument resembling a lyre), her strumming movement forever frozen in the marble.

Sherlock lifts his expectant gaze on Giulia, giving her precedence, but she timidly shakes her head.

"I know there aren't many Muses left, by now, but I'm not too familiar with her emblem. Any help?"

"It's Erato, the Muse of Love poetry," he says, narrowing his eyes at the statue in his hands. Why. Why love poetry? What does it mean?

His brain chases after those elusive questions as he puts the figurine back down. He closes his eyes for a second, and the only sound he can perceive is the hammering of his heart. The last round was all about Giulia, but that was an exception. He knows the whole game is ultimately meant for him, including this new round revolving around the love theme. The unthinkable question haunting him now is, Who could ever love him?

At that moment, the screen switches on, showing Moriarty's menacing face.

"Erato," he echoes the detective, letting that name roll on his tongue, savouring every syllable. "The phonetic link with eros is all too obvious, isn't it? Love and poetry: now, that's one spicy form of art." He flashes them a salacious smile.

As soon as he appeared on the monitor, Sherlock took an instinctive step forward, shielding Giulia with his own body. He hasn't even realised that his movement resulted from his subconscious connection between her and the theme of the round.

To his surprise, though, Giulia places a hand on his arm to push him gently aside and walks up to the screen with a challenging expression.

"Hey, Jim?"

Moriarty's eyes widen in surprise and curiosity. "Jim? Are we on a first-name basis now?"

She shrugs. "We have so much history between us, and we have so many mutual friends that it seems trivial to keep hiding from one another, right?" She taunts him. She's done hiding. There's no need to conceal her identity anymore. She pauses when a sudden realisation strikes her.

"It was you," she says. "You knew my identity, and you revealed it to my flatmates in a devious manipulation by sending that anonymous email to Sherlock's Inbox. You sent the attachment of the newspaper article about the explosion at the Consulate. It was you, wasn't it?"

John and Sherlock exchange bewildered looks; they hadn't made the connection yet.

"Aren't you a clever girl? I should have turned you into my flatmate. As you already know, the MI6 tried their best to delete all the online information about you, erasing you from existence entirely. They probably would have succeeded if it weren't for a certain sneaky agent," he alludes, as the emotional wounds from the previous round are still bleeding.

"That crucial article was courtesy of Thomas Wellington, of course. I haven't released him from the theatre yet; I can't take the chance that he decides to finally play the hero and gathers backup to come to your rescue. He'll have to wait until the end of the game, just like all the other guests. This means you've still got time to change your mind about his survival."

She rolls her eyes, brushing off his offer. "There's something I need to know. When you found out that I was still alive, why didn't you try to kill me again here in London?"

Jim's smirk gives way to a disappointed grimace. "I thought it was obvious. I told you during our first round: I was the one who sent you to live in Baker Street."

"That place can be hellish sometimes, I'll give you that, but I wouldn't compare it to death," she replies sarcastically.

"Giulia, why would I want to kill you? After all, everyone in the Mafia family thought you were dead. I was the only one who knew the truth, but I had no intention of disclosing it to anybody. It was my turn to have some fun. Here in London, I had an ongoing game with Sherlock, and I figured you could play a part in it, too. I needed you alive to be the star of my game. I regret nothing." He gives her a satisfied smile. Her performance tonight has been extraordinary. "You are quite clever, and I noticed that clever women tend to play with Sherlock's head. And not just his head," he adds suggestively.

Sherlock frowns imperceptibly. Clever women? What is he insinuat—

He doesn't get to finish his thought because the ruffled theatre curtain opens in front of them, revealing a huge glass mirror, like the previous room. Beyond the glass, a pair of familiar scarlet lips curve in a smug smile at the sight of the detective.

Sherlock freezes, and a whisper escapes his mouth, "The Woman."

John and Giulia stare dumbfounded at the scene before their eyes; a woman wearing a slinky white dress is strapped to a metal armchair, just like the hostage of the previous round. Unlike the shock and distress displayed by Thomas, though, this woman appears rather pleased to see the people in front of her.

Correction, Giulia objects inside her mind, She seems pleased to see Sherlock.

Giulia turns her head from one man to the other, studying their faces; it's clear they have both recognised her. She leans forward to whisper to John, "The woman? Why the article? Is she remarkable somehow?"

"In every way."

The answer came from Sherlock. He didn't take his eyes off the chained woman, but his ears didn't miss her questions.

Giulia raises her eyebrows at him. Oh, yeah? How so?

However, she would rather have him provide more details than be seen as a beg. She is dying to know why this woman is (or at least was) important to Sherlock. Even more, she is desperate to find out why Moriarty deemed it fit to place her in the room dedicated to love. Still, she is resisting the temptation to fire away all her questions.

Three pairs of eyes fix on that undeniably attractive lady to assess her situation; she is restrained, exactly like the bodyguard. And just like Thomas, there is no visible threat to her life. However, her room is not completely empty. Moriarty left a clue for them: a food bag with the printed name of Pacific Reef Fish Restaurant.

Watson studies the bag before giving it a derisory look. "That must be quite a niche kind of cuisine in London."

Sherlock shrugs. "You know Miss Adler, John. She has always had an expensive and refined taste."

John examines the woman; his medically trained eye can see beyond the confident facade that she is putting up, and he notices she appears dizzy and weak. She is opening and clenching her fists as if to probe the sensitivity in her fingers.

"Something tells me that her choice of food was strongly suggested, in this case. What do you think: food poisoning again, like with Mrs Hudson?"

Sherlock nods. "So it would seem."

"And just like with Mrs Hudson, I suppose the toxic substance is far from common or obvious. The threat against her life must be specific to the theme of this room," Giulia intervenes, striving to provide logical and useful answers.

"Someone is desperate to prove their worth," Jim teases her. "Correct, Giulia. That's also the first part of the riddle. You must tell me exactly what is likely to kill Miss Adler," he glances at his watch, "in the next hour, approximately, judging by the time passed since she ate. I'd hurry if I were you. The longer she goes without treatment, the fewer the chances of survival. It's a pretty nasty toxin."

Sherlock turns towards Watson. "John, what's your medical opinion?"

"My medical opinion?"

"Yes, come on. Tropical fish: what kind of food poisoning would it cause?"

John gives him a side glance and argues, "I was an Army Doctor. What makes you think I know the answer?"

"Because you did with the ergot poisoning," Sherlock points out as his patience wears thin. Why can't his friend just cooperate?

"That was easier. There aren't many food-borne illnesses linked to cereals; it was an elimination process," he retorts. "Whereas in this case, there are several types of fish poisoning caused by over 400 species of fish. How exactly do you expect me to narrow it down to one?"

While the two men size each other up, Giulia steps in.

"Let's not forget that in all previous rounds, there was always a connection to the victim. I mean, the hostage," she corrects herself, and Jim smirks at her lapsus. Does she subconsciously wish for the demise of that unexpected rival?

"So, who is this?" Giulia reluctantly asks, pointing a finger at the woman. Despite her desire to show utter indifference, she needs answers, if only to help solve the round.

"She was initially a problem for us to solve, courtesy of Mycroft. Then she became a... erm, client, sort of. Then an enemy, and finally a ghost," John stumbles on his words. "Her name is Irene Adler, and I can't believe she's alive."

After a second, he gapes at Sherlock. "You. You saved her." It's not a question, more like a dazzled statement.

"Of course I did," Sherlock replies indifferently. Then he raises his gaze on the woman. "Miss Adler, I thought I had already intervened to prevent your death."

She flashes him a foxy smile, but the tingling around her mouth makes the corner of her lips quiver. She swallows hard before replying, "And I thought I was done getting into trouble because of you, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock grimaces as his eyes study her shackles. "This time, I am not responsible for that."

"But you will be responsible for her survival," Moriarty chimes in.

Sherlock sighs before turning his face to the monitor, feigning a bored look.

"What makes you think I'd be so eager to save her?"

Jim pouts, almost softened by that pathetic attempt.

"Please, let's not insult each other's intelligence, shall we? Last time, you flew all the way to Pakistan and infiltrated into a terrorist cell just to save her life. This little round will require significantly less effort. And don't forget you're still playing against me. Aren't you up for a riddle?"

Sherlock frowns. He can't deny that he went to great lengths to save The Woman in the past. It's merely a logical conclusion that he'd do anything in his power to save her in this round as well. But he is not sure that Moriarty's strategy of teasing his ego will work on him for much longer. He is already paying a terrible price for this game, and the thrill of a battle of wits just isn't worth it anymore. He has ceased to be a player; he is a little more than a hostage himself now.

"I think I've solved enough riddles for tonight," he rebuts.

"Enough for a lifetime," John mutters under his breath.

Once again, it is Giulia who provides the voice of reason. "Anyway, the game is still on, right? We need to find out what Miss Adler might have ingested to save her life. Moriarty won't provide us with any additional information on how to solve this round unless we figure out what the riddle itself is first. Come on, what's the link to this room? How is she connected to the love theme?" She asks, and her voice comes out more scornful than intended.

She mentally curses her inquisitory tone, but her purpose is noble; the Greek Muse Erato can direct them towards a clearer threat, helping them solve the round. The fact that she is dying to know Miss Adler's role in Sherlock's life doesn't affect her line of questioning in the slightest, she tries (and fails) to convince herself.

"Uhm, do you want to do the explaining?" John awkwardly looks at Sherlock. He has waited for ages for an account of the events of that day, after Sherlock had connected a mysterious string of numbers and letters to a flight to Baltimore, in under eight seconds. John never knew what happened to Irene's camera phone that night; he simply assumed that Sherlock must have figured out her password and handed all the blackmail material to Mycroft. And yet, his friend never breathed a word about that case again. They only mentioned Irene once, several months later, when John had lied to him about her fate. As it turns out, it wasn't a lie at all. Irene Adler is very much alive. Just maybe not for long.

Sherlock clears his throat and puts two fingers in his shirt collar to loosen it up a bit. Then, he reveals the showdown in which he defeated the dominatrix. He briefly describes her deception and short-lived success in thwarting the MI6 plans to mislead some terrorists and have them target a plane full of corpses. He barely mentions that eventually, he turned the tables and nailed her. He doesn't meet anyone's eyes as he tells the story in a flat, inexpressive tone. He didn't hesitate to break Irene's heart back then, but he feels somehow compassionate now. Oh, how much he has changed.

He concludes in a sarcastic voice, "Suffice to say that Miss Adler was about to walk away with the whole world in her pocket—well, with some pretty expensive agreements with the MI6 and the CIA, at least. She almost got it all."

"But you stopped her. How?" Giulia asks. She is still missing the final link.

"By exploiting her weakness. She made a mistake; she got too close," Sherlock laconically replies.

"Too close to what?"

"Me."

Giulia lowers her eyes to the ground. This is it. If he eventually destroyed her by using her vulnerability and if her vulnerability was him, the ultimate connection to the Love theme can only be that Irene Adler fell for Sherlock.

She groans. Is it just a version of the enemies-to-lovers trope? Dull.

"If I recall correctly, I gave you the final proof that love is a dangerous disadvantage," Irene quotes the cruel words that Sherlock had pronounced that night. She takes some shallow breaths as her cunning eyes dart from the detective to Giulia.

"And after everything you put me through, it's quite ironic to see that you ignored your own warning."

Giulia, who missed the allusive look Irene cast upon her, gapes at that comment. Wait, what? Sherlock ignoring that warning about sentiment could only mean that he gave in to love.

She turns to him to ask the one question that has been twirling in her mind for several minutes.

"Did you love her?"

He furrows his brow, confused. Where did she get that from?

"Let's not exaggerate. I appreciated her intelligence and quick wit."

"Right. I doubt you'd be romantic enough to say, 'My heart stopped when she looked at me'." Giulia theatrically places her hand over her chest, faking a passionate sigh.

As soon as his brain registers her words, Sherlock widens his eyes in realisation. "Oh, my…"

He turns sharply towards the glass, examines the food bag on the floor, then shuts his eyes and grunts, "For goodness' sake, Jim. Can you just keep things simple for once?"

While everyone's perplexed faces focus on him, he opens his eyes again. This time, he stares intently at Irene's body.

She arches a brow at his piercing gaze and jests with a lustful smirk. "What are you looking at, Mr Holmes? I thought I had already shown you all of myself."

He meets her eyes for the briefest moment, recalling her naked appearance in her house in Belgravia. Back then, the absence of clothing made it impossible for him to deduce even the slightest bit of information about her. Right now, though, he wishes she were more exposed—it would make things easier.

"Indeed, even more than necessary. But I'm not checking you out right now. I'm looking for your symptoms," he clarifies, as his eyes travel up and down her body.

"Symptoms of what?" John questions.

"Maitotoxin poisoning."

Giulia furrows a brow. "Maito-what?"

Sherlock doesn't even turn towards her but keeps his eyes fixed on Irene while he explains, "Maitotoxin is one of the most lethal marine toxins. It can cause ciguatera fish poisoning after eating contaminated shellfish. Maitotoxin is produced by a small marine organism that can be found around coral reefs in tropical and subtropical waters, most commonly in the Indian and Pacific Oceans." He points at the name of the restaurant on the food bag: 'Pacific Reef Fish Restaurant'. Bingo.

He squints his eyes at the chained woman, who cannot stand still, wriggling against the restraints. It doesn't look like she is trying to break free, though; it rather seems that her body can't bear to come in contact with the cold metal of the chair, as if it were incandescent. Beads of sweat are rapidly forming on her forehead and temples, dripping along her neck.

He lists methodically, "She is showing some symptoms consistent with maitotoxin poisoning. Let's start with the neurological effects: muscle aches, dizziness and weakness, numbness in mouth and lips, tingling and itchiness of extremities; we all have seen her struggle even with short sentences and observed her clench and release her fists. Not to mention thermal sense inversion; Miss Adler is sweating copiously even though it's freezing in this room, as Giulia would probably confirm." He tilts his head towards Giulia, who is wrapped up in his jacket. He stifles a cold shiver under the light fabric of his white shirt before going on.

"I'm fairly confident that she is experiencing an unusual pain response called cold allodynia—it's the burning sensation she must feel whenever her bare skin comes in contact with the cold metal of the armchair. And she has difficulty breathing. The onset of symptoms may vary with the amount of toxic fish eaten, but stating by the timing Moriarty gave us, she is now reaching the critical stage," he concludes in a sombre voice.

Then he addresses her directly. "Miss Adler, I can observe and deduce almost everything that's wrong with your body, but I still need your cooperation to check if there's any abnormal behaviour in one of your muscles."

Irene painfully lifts her head to meet his eyes with a challenging expression. It gives her a sense of twisted satisfaction that Sherlock Holmes still can't read her thoroughly.

"Which one?" Her slurred speech is barely more than a whisper.

"Your heart."

Giulia looks down, as her muscles tense up. He can't see it for himself: how appropriate.

Irene scrunches her face to fight against shooting abdominal cramps and murmurs, "Unlike the last time we met, when you so rudely underlined that my pulse was elevated in your presence, right now I have quite a slow heart rate. Don't take it personally, though." She forces her sarcastic remark out of her teeth.

John observes the scene attentively, then goggles at his flatmate as shreds of medical information about marine toxins come to his mind.

"Of course. Maitotoxin is indeed one of the most potent marine substances, and it is a cardiotoxin."

Giulia gives him a questioning look. "I still don't understand. If maitotoxin poisoning is the threat to her life, how is it connected to the love theme of this round?"

"By a perverted mental association," Sherlock says. "The toxin can cause cardiovascular difficulties, such as hypotension, hypertension, or rhythm disorders. By her admission, Miss Adler is suffering from bradycardia. In this case, her heart rate will get slower and slower…" He pauses and looks straight into Irene's eyes.

"Until the toxin in her blood flow literally stops her heart."