CHAPTER 71: THE AFTERMATH OF THE STORM
Four days later, things are slowly going back to normal, and preparations for a small house party are in full swing. It was Giulia's idea, of course, and she invited all their closest friends. Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson accepted enthusiastically, hoping to shake off the dreadful after-effects of their traumatic experiences. They still don't know the whole truth about what happened inside the theatre. They only know they were abducted and almost asphyxiated/burned alive/poisoned by Moriarty, and they were told that their friends' intervention saved them, but can't imagine to what lengths Sherlock, John, and Giulia went for them. They ignore the story of the Muses' rounds and Moriarty's mad game, and that's for the best.
As for Mycroft, he politely declined the invitation on the pretext of a persisting hangover from his carbon dioxide poisoning. Giulia knew it was just a gracious excuse, as he would never attend such a party, but she didn't insist.
When she first pitched the idea of the party at Baker Street, even John had jumped on board. With his bandaged leg, there was little he could do during the day anyway, and he was getting bored. After publishing on his blog the accounts of the two murders of the nun and the tenor, he had tried to tell the events at the National Theatre as well, but with all the omissions to protect Giulia's backstory and their friends' identities, his text appeared so heavily redacted that it hardly made any sense. In the end, he had resolved to keep the whole thing quiet. The world would never learn about the show that had gone down that night on the most terrifying stage and how the characters had barely made it out alive. The greatest averted tragedy no one will ever know.
The only unknown variable was Sherlock. He hadn't come home since the night at the theatre when he left the scene and vanished. He had been in contact but never showed up at Baker Street.
On the day of the party, while Giulia is busy baking in the kitchen, Sherlock appears unexpectedly on the threshold, making her jump. She lifts her head to look at him: he is clean-shaven, but his hair is ruffled. Under his coat, which he must have retrieved from the Hickman Gallery, he has a shirt too big for him and is still wearing the trousers of his tuxedo.
Giulia smiles imperceptibly when she notices that. When the police drove her home from the theatre, she still had his tuxedo jacket wrapped around her body. She refused to strip off that armour: too afraid of feeling naked and vulnerable without it, scared to come undone if only she unbuttoned it. She ended up sleeping in it, then sent it to the dry cleaners, and neatly put it on a hanger behind his bedroom door. Back to its rightful owner.
"Oh, you're finally back. Hi," Giulia mumbles, dazed. Only now that he is standing in front of her, just a few feet away, she realises how much she's missed him.
"I was getting worried about you."
He averts his eyes, incapable of holding her gaze, so full of affection and concern and questions and, behind it all, a dab of anger.
"Why? I texted John every day to let him know I was fine but very busy."
She lowers her eyes. "I know."
She knows he texted him. She messaged Sherlock constantly but never got a reply.
He walks down the corridor without further comments, but she chases after him.
"Just so you know, we're having a little party tonight."
He turns around to face her, confused. "What for?"
"To celebrate that we are all still alive. It's gonna be a moment of conviviality with everyone to put this awful experience behind us."
He rolls up his eyes. "Dull. Where's John?" he asks, looking around the empty flat.
"Downstairs, at Mrs Hudson's. Helping her with the roast beef."
"But he can't cook."
"Yeah, well, that's not really the point, is it? She's still quite shaken up and can't stand the idea of being alone for too long."
If she intended it as a jab at him and his vanishing act in times of need, he doesn't show signs of remarking on it.
"Anyway, it would be nice if you—"
"I'll check on her from time to time, don't worry," he cuts her short.
She bites her tongue: not exactly what she meant, but still a small victory against his self-imposed inhumanity.
"Great. And regarding the party—"
"I'll be there," he interrupts her again.
'There', as in 'the living room'. Hardly an exertion, she reflects. But she doesn't let it put her off, and takes a deep breath, mustering the courage for what she wants to say next.
"Good. I also wondered if you and me… erm, if we could talk about—" but he slams the bathroom door in her face, and it feels like he is shutting her out in every way. One moment later, she hears water running in the shower, a roaring stream to cancel all the noise from outside, all the words he doesn't give her a chance to say.
She drags her feet back to the kitchen and goes back to baking.
Half an hour later, Sherlock re-emerges all freshened up and with new clothes.
Giulia smiles at him. "Feeling better?"
"Definitely."
"Great. I wondered if we could talk—"
"Not now," he cuts her off. "I'm going out." He takes his coat from the coat rack and slips it on in one swift moment.
"But you've just come back," she protests.
"Apparently, we have a party to host." His reply is edged in tartness and doesn't allow for comebacks: he bolts down the stairs, disappearing into the dusk.
He comes back one hour later, only a few minutes before the guests arrive.
Throughout the night, Giulia can't take her eyes off him. She tries to distract herself, goofing around with Lestrade, lending her ears to Mollie's latest recounts from the morgue, and giving a helping hand to Mrs Hudson with the food and to John to ensure all glasses stay consistently full.
Yet her eyes invariably travel back to Sherlock, his presence acting as an enormous magnet on her fragile mind. She can't help but wonder what he thinks, what he has been thinking for the past four days, and if his thoughts resemble hers at all.
At one point during the party, when he goes into the kitchen to get some more plates, she follows him, keeping her voice down.
"Sherlock, can we talk for a moment?"
"I believe it's impolite to ignore our guests," he replies curtly and motions to walk out of the kitchen, but Giulia lunges forward and slams the door, making everyone in the living room jump.
She lifts her head to face him, her eyes flaming with rage and brimming with choked-back tears.
"Why did you leave?"
He feigns a clueless expression and justifies himself. "I just went to the shop to buy some wine."
She doesn't let him off the hook. Not this time.
"No, why did you leave the National Theatre and didn't come back for days, until a couple of hours ago?"
"I went to Mycroft's. He was a bit perturbed after his round with Moriarty and I..." he hesitates. "I wanted to be there for him."
She nods. That's a pretty noble intention, but she knows it's just a half-truth. Mycroft's momentary weakness didn't last more than twenty-four hours. Then the man himself had showed up at Baker Street to talk with her. It had started as a business meeting to discuss Moriarty and the consequences of that night, but it had slowly developed into a slightly more personal talk. It was just the two of them then: John was at the doctor's and Sherlock was still AWOL.
Flashback to two days before (meaning two days after the events at the theatre),
when Mycroft came over to Baker Street to talk with Giulia
She offered him a cup of tea and he took a seat in Sherlock's armchair, keeping his back dead straight, poised.
"How are you, Mycroft?" Giulia broke the ice in every sense.
"Very original opening. What is it going to be next, a comment on the weather?" he said with a sarcastic grimace.
"I would never dare to do small talk with you. I truly want to know: how are you doing?" she spoke with tenderness.
"Still walking the Earth. So I would say all is good, were it not for the annoying presence haunting my house."
She cocked a brow. "Are you talking about Victorian ghosts or your younger brother?"
He sighed: at that moment, she knew he'd already had enough of his brother. So why had Sherlock stayed there? Why had he chosen not to come back home, back to her?
"He is a nightmare to live with. As you know."
"Have you two talked about what happened?"
Mycroft caught her allusion and shook his head. "My brother and I, we don't have that kind of relationship."
Giulia nodded and remained silent, searching for the right words. "He might not have told you, but he is glad you're alive. I could read it in his eyes at the theatre—his fear and relief. Despite what you tried to convince him of since you were kids, he cares about you."
Mycroft kept quiet for a handful of seconds. He knew she was right, but he wasn't sure how to react to that. After all, he had always maintained that caring wasn't an advantage.
"I've come to realise that he cares about a few people in his life, against his better judgement."
"I don't think it's a matter of judgement," she rebutted.
"And that's the issue. Sherlock and I can only function properly in a world of pure, cold reason: no distractions, no sentiment. When we lower our guard, when our fallible human nature kicks in, we slip and make mistakes. And people get hurt, in all sorts of ways. This is why sometimes the only option we have to protect who we care about is to pull away."
Giulia narrowed her eyes at him. "What are you implying, Mycroft? That he hasn't returned to Baker Street to protect me?" she spit out angrily.
He stared at her and her frustration, and if she didn't know any better, she would swear to spot a glimmer of sincere affection in his eyes.
"I don't think he can protect you anymore. And that's what he thinks as well. Too far gone."
She held his gaze and read between the lines. As a bitter realisation dawned on her, her heart sank: If Sherlock thought he couldn't protect her anymore and Mycroft agreed, that only meant one thing.
"We're not talking about feelings anymore, are we? This is about the new safety protocols for me and my future, isn't it right?"
Mycroft flashed her a crooked smile. He had always appreciated how shrewd she was. It saved time and uncomfortable conversations.
Giulia deciphered the unspoken words behind his tight-lipped smile.
"Is this the part where I tell you I don't like any of it and disagree entirely, and you find the most polite way to tell me this isn't your problem because this is the only feasible solution?"
Mycroft sighed. As perceptive as always.
"Indeed. Your opposition is noted but ineffective, I am afraid."
He stood up, straightened his jacket, and stretched his hand out to her. She went to shake it, but he took her hand up to his mouth instead and kissed it gallantly.
"However, never doubt that it will always be my pleasure to have you as my problem, Giulia."
End of the flashback
Back to the kitchen in Baker Street during the house party
Giulia clears her throat and crosses the arms on her chest, still stopping Sherlock from heading back to the living room.
"Okay, let me try again. Why did you leave after we were rescued at the National Theatre?"
He shrugs. "I just wanted to get out of there."
"Why?" she insists.
"I needed to think."
"And you didn't assume that maybe I needed you?" she almost shouts, and she wishes she hadn't because the crack in her voice became perfectly audible.
"Why would you need me? I had just saved your life. End of the story."
She bites down on her lips, desperately holding back tears. "Is this how it ends?"
He opens his arms in surrender. "What were you expecting? That's how it always ends in my life. With a case closed." He nudges her aside, opens the door, and marches out of the kitchen.
"And with your heart closed as well," she murmurs at the empty threshold.
Giulia closes her eyes and takes some shallow breaths, while something snaps within her: the last thread tying her to that place.
When she opens her eyes again, she feels like a misplaced character inside the wrong story. She looks around the kitchen as if it wasn't the room where she spent time every day for the last seven months, cooking for herself and her flatmates and suppressing dry heaves at the sight of Sherlock's gory body parts scattered around. She doesn't belong there anymore.
She walks back to the living room feeling detached from her surroundings, the party, and the people. They are slipping out of reach, or maybe she is the one drifting away.
She takes a glass and clinks a teaspoon to the side; the tinkle catches everybody's attention as the chatter dies out.
"I'd like to make a toast," she announces, raising her glass, and everyone imitates her. "Here's to the past that made us who we are today. It will haunt us until we're ready to face it and move on."
She turns her eyes around the room, taking in everybody's face. "I haunted my past myself because I was still holding onto what I used to have. I didn't know how to let go. But now I'm done chasing." Her smile turns sour on her mouth, so she raises her glass higher and clears her throat. "And here's to the present that brought us together, to this place and moment, because there's nowhere else I'd rather be right now, and I'm incredibly grateful for all of you."
She takes a deep breath before concluding, "Finally, here's to the future because I feel like I finally got one, and I'm not scared anymore. Here's to Tomorrow which will bring about a new adventure. May it be a good one. Cheers."