CHAPTER 72: THE END OF THE LINE
Author's note: Dear readers, we have reached the end of the line.
Before diving into the last chapter, I'd like to thank James Birdsong and Soirr for their recent reviews (you've signed in as guests so I can't reply directly to you, but thank you so much). Hope you enjoy this too!
The following day
Giulia is standing on Greenwich Pier, waiting for the water taxi that will take her away from that city of wonders and dangers. Icy gusts of wind coming from the river ruffle her hair as if inviting her to take her leave. It's time, but she'll never be ready.
She stares at the dark water of the Thames at daybreak while one word whirls in her mind endlessly. Coward. She sneaked out of 221C at the crack of dawn on the sly. Not a word, no note, no farewell.
After the party last night, she went downstairs, packed a getaway bag as Mycroft had instructed her, and spent a sleepless night waiting for the sun to rise on the day when she would have to leave that life behind.
That's what she is doing right now: she is leaving. Without saying goodbye to two of the most important people in her life. Coward.
Tears streak her cheeks and she bends down to fish a tissue out of her bag as a familiar voice asks behind her back, "Where do you think you're going?"
Giulia freezes, shocked. She turns around slowly to face two men walking up the pier towards her. One is leaning against a cane.
"What are you doing here?" she blurts out.
John raises his free hand innocently, the other is holding his old cane that he dusted off to help recover from his recent leg injury.
"Don't worry. We won't try to stop you. We just wanted to say goodbye properly." He lingers on the last word and tilts his head to the side, the shadow of a stern reproach on his face.
She sighs and steps forward until she is just a couple of feet away from them: three silhouettes standing against the dark flow of the Thames and London's skyline in the dawning light.
"So you figured it out, huh?"
"That your seemingly endless string of toasts last night was, in fact, your goodbye? Clear as day," Sherlock replies unfazed.
John arches a brow at him. It hadn't appeared so obvious to him actually, and he was surprised to hear Sherlock say as much the previous night after everyone had left and Giulia had descended to her flat.
"I can't believe you were about to leave without a word. After everything we've been through, I think we deserve at least a goodbye." John feigns an offended tone. "If only for manners, you know," he adds jokingly to lessen the tension, and his disapproval melts away in a half-smile.
"You're right. I'm sorry. I just thought it'd be easier for everyone, especially me."
He nods and opens his arms, letting Giulia sink into his embrace, and her tears resume streaming uncontrollably down her face.
She hugs him tightly and whispers against his shoulder, "I'll miss you like crazy, John."
"Suitable choice of words, given our lifestyle," he jokes and rubs her back. "I'll miss you, too. But we'll meet again, okay? I'm sure we'll find a way of getting into trouble together one more time."
She pulls away a little to look him in the eyes. "Do you promise?"
"Of course. You're not getting rid of us that easily. This is just a time-out."
Giulia sniffles and squeezes him tighter, before loosening her grip on him and breaking away from his warm hug. She dabs her eyes with a tissue and John straightens his back, as they both regain their composure: the soldier and the survivor, both brave and gentle, strong and vulnerable at once.
John clears his throat and asks, "Where are you going next? New York, Madrid, Berlin?"
She gazes at the horizon. "Not sure."
"Got it. You can't tell us," he infers from her tone of voice. After several months of living together, he got to know her better than he imagined.
She nods. "Classified information."
"Secret services?"
"Witness protection system."
"I see. You're with the National Crime Agency, now. I suppose Mycroft is no longer responsible for your safety, then." Watson glances at Sherlock for an instant, wondering if he knows, if he has anything to do with it.
"He has more important business," Giulia says, earning an eye roll from Sherlock who keeps his obstinate silence.
John realises he is standing in the way of a private moment and blows on his hands to keep warm.
"Well, it's getting cold out here. I'll go back home now and leave you kids to it."
He leans in to peck her on the cheek, murmuring, "Bye, Giulia. Take care of yourself."
She smiles and whispers, "You do the same, Doctor Watson."
He turns around and wobbles away, leaning on his old cane.
Sherlock stares straight ahead at the river.
"Are you going to be okay?" he asks out of the blue.
Giulia turns to him, a half-surprised/half-confused expression on her face. "You never asked that before."
"I never needed to. You were with me, under my protection."
She gives him a side glance. "I'd rather say, under your target. But yeah, I'll be just fine. I'll try to start over once again."
They stay silent for a while, pointlessly trying to prolong that moment.
"Giulia, I want to apologise about yesterday. The reason I shut you out and didn't want to talk to you was because I couldn't. I still can't. There's something I need to tell you…" he flounders. "I want to... But…"
She faces him and places a hand on the lapel of his coat, searching for his eyes. "Sherlock, it's me. You don't have to try so hard."
He averts his gaze, his words barely more than a whisper. "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of the weight that words carry, of the brittleness of human relationships. How do you people do this all the time: tell others how you feel? It's like a confession to murder—there are permanent consequences. Aren't you all terrified of how it could turn out?"
"Yes. Welcome to the club. The possibility of people reacting badly is pretty scary."
He shakes his head. "To be honest, I'm more afraid of the opposite. What happens if people react well? What next? That's the terrifying part. Everything is going to change. It all becomes too delicate, made of crystal feelings and emotions. And I fear that if I make a misstep, it will all crumble to the ground."
She smiles softly at him. "You know, Sherlock, this is probably your worst flaw: you don't give human beings enough credit. Yes, we are fragile, moody, and vulnerable. But we are capable of stronger, firmer, more durable feelings, too. And with me," she blushes slightly, "it's not a house of cards. Whatever you are going to say or not say—your choice—it won't sweep it away. It's me. It's us."
They lock eyes for a second, then he turns his head to the side.
"I'm sorry. I'm not good at this. I've never done it. With anyone."
"Done what?"
"Tell the people in my life how I feel." He paces around. "I never told John how grateful I am for the warmth of his friendship, for his not-so-endless patience, and for his stubbornness in putting up with me regardless of all the times I have or I will hurt him. He saved my life countless times and in so many ways, and I never even blurted a faint thank you to him."
He chews his lips, battling with himself and his insufferable human nature. "I never told Mrs Hudson that she is the only reason I haven't starved to death on several occasions over my permanence at Baker Street. I can't bring myself to tell her that she was never my housekeeper, because I've always considered her family."
He lets his thoughts run freely now. "I never told Molly how thankful I am for the selfless help she always granted me, for all the times she blindly trusted my morally dubious methods in the morgue, and for her stoic resilience in front of my rudeness."
He kicks a pebble in the water. "I never told Lestrade that I think very highly of him, despite my constant insults at his intelligence or diligence. I might not be a Scotland Yard fan, but I think he is a good man who I can rely on, and that's the greatest compliment I could give and he'll probably never hear it from me."
Giulia smirks. If only she had recorded him, his friends would look at him with different eyes. But for some reason, that's precisely what he wants to avoid.
"Finally, there is a long list of things I never told Mycroft, but maybe it's for the best."
She stares at him and he surrenders.
"He knows almost everything already. All our unspoken words are always hanging there in the chasm between us. We've had a strange connection ever since we were young. He can read my thoughts by just glancing at me, and I can do the same with him. But it's not deducing—that's a thing we do with everyone else. In our case, it's…" He hesitates on the word, "understanding, and that's infinitely worse because it's just between the two of us."
"Misunderstood geniuses to the world, but open books to one another," Giulia comments.
"That's one way of putting it. In the end, Mycroft knows what I think of him: the bad and (despite myself) the good opinion, too. But there's one thing I know for a fact he has always wondered, and I never provided him with a clear answer. Well, I do think he is a decent big brother."
She smiles softly, then frowns. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"Someone had to know."
She finally realises what just happened and widens her eyes in surprise.
"Cheeky bastard! You got this weight off your chest because I'm leaving. You know I've already bid my goodbyes yesterday and won't go back to any of those people. They will never know."
A guilty expression clouds over his face. "Do you get it now? Why I can't tell you what I feel? I've never done it before because I know that when I do, everything will change, and I'm scared I'm going to make a mistake and hurt someone. And you…" His voice cracks, overwhelmed with emotion. He struggles to keep going. "You're leaving now, and I don't want you to go with a heavy heart."
Giulia scoffs, staring down at her feet. "I wouldn't worry about that. I'm not leaving with my heart at all. It'll stay here."
She lifts her eyes and meets his gaze. She moves closer, feeling the inexorable clutch of time clawing at them.
"You don't have to be scared with me, Sherlock. I lov—"
"Don't." He stops her, placing a finger on her parted lips, a furious urgency in his voice. "Don't say it," he begs. "If you say it now, it means this is farewell."
"Oh," she breathes out against his finger still pressed to her lips. She finally understands.
He lowers his hand from her mouth and lets it slip down along her arm until he takes one of her hands in his, caressing her skin.
She closes her eyes, savouring that uncommonly intimate touch.
"That's why you haven't said those things to the others, isn't it? You will only tell the truth about your feelings the moment you are cornered and there's no way out. The day you believe you are not going to meet them ever again, that's when you'll pour your heart out. When nothing could change anymore because there is no after. But if you think there is even the ghost of a chance that the game isn't over, you won't say any of it."
He nods. She has always been able to pierce through his stone walls.
"I told you: it's like a confession to murder. If you want to get away with it, you can only admit everything in front of a death-row inmate. Or if you are the death-row inmate."
She sighs.
They remain silent, their fingers interlaced, stubborn not to let go.
"I've always hated goodbyes," she says after a while, breaking the spell of that doomed silence. "I had to say goodbye to so many people, so many places, again and again. Practice makes perfect, isn't it supposed to work like that? You'd think I would've got used to it by now. But every time it's more heart-wrenching than the last."
She stares down at her feet and her mouth bends in a smirk.
"I think that's why I hated fairytales when I was a child. Happily ever after always felt incomplete. That couldn't be the end of the story, right?"
Sherlock wishes he had the strength to smile at that remark, but all he can focus on is the abyss that is opening in his chest.
She lifts her head to look at him. "I have one last question. I saw you leave after we were freed from the National Theatre. Did you go to the MI6 headquarters that night?"
His brows shoot up, surprised by her deduction. He doesn't meet her gaze. "Yes."
"Were you the one who suggested I should leave London—whether I wanted or not?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
She already knows why. Mycroft told her when he came to Baker Street: Sherlock doesn't think he can protect her anymore. That is how she knew what was about to happen to her and her safety protocols: she had to leave. That's how she realised it was Sherlock who requested her removal from London. That night, in the parking lot of the theatre, she thought he was running away from her, but the first thing he did after being released was to ensure her protection. And now she wants to hear it from him. She's not angry: she trusts him blindly at this point. But she needs to hear his reasons and she won't get another chance to ask him.
"When Moriarty escaped, I drew two logical conclusions: one, he will be back for me since we have unfinished business."
"Two," she interjects, "he will come after me. To finally get rid of me."
He nods. "Everything we said in the last room at the theatre… if you stay, it will all come true. You said it yourself: his purpose was always to kill you, and he won't give up on it just because the game got interrupted. With him out there, living in the open in London is no longer safe for you; that's why I asked the MI6 to transfer you. It was never a choice. More like a sacrifice."
He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the icy air of the dawn.
"But that's not all. Before coming to Baker Street, you had already spent a year on the run."
"On the chase," she corrects him with a cunning smile.
"Does it make a difference? You've been running since the day of the explosion at the Consulate. And I thought it was high time you stopped. If you stayed here, you'd be constantly watching over your shoulder, terrified that Moriarty could pop back up any moment to kill you. A sitting duck for the greatest criminal mastermind to take out. Well, not on my watch."
He looks straight at her. "I requested your transfer not just because I don't want you to die, but because I want you to live and live truly. I realised that all I can offer you here is mere survival, and after everything you've been through, you deserve a chance at a real life, but you could never have it here. I had to accept it."
A muscle flexes in his cheek, his last restraint coming undone. "I did it because of something you said to your former bodyguard, Thomas, during the game. Giulia, I'm here to say that I accept all of you, the whole package. And in this case, it means I also accept that I must let you go."
She gapes at him while memories of her furious speech to Thomas a few days before come flooding back.
[...] I don't want to be loved like this. None of the men who ever said they loved me truly did; none of you was capable. If someone were to really love me, they would have to accept all of me, the whole package.[...]
Teardrops pool in her eyes and glide down her cheeks. Sherlock freezes, inexplicably guilty.
"Apologies. I didn't mean to make you cry. I didn't want to upset you."
Giulia passes the back of her hand under her watery eyes and snivels.
"It's okay. It's the nicest thing anyone has ever told me. I just wish it wasn't like this: our last time together."
At that moment, a busker walks to the foreshore nearby, opens a leather case and leaves it at his feet for spare change. He positions a score in front of him and starts playing the violin.
~~~Author's Note: If you want to fully immerse yourself in the atmosphere of this moment, I'd recommend listening to 'Somewhere' (There's a Place for Us) - Bernstein, Violin and Piano Ostrega/Uhl. That's the type of melody I pictured for this scene. ~~~
The bow slides gracefully on the strings: it's a poignant melody that lulls Sherlock and Giulia as their eyes lock. Only eyes and music can be trusted to communicate when words won't suffice. They stay frozen, staring at each other for a time that seems eternal.
Several minutes later, the busker approaches the end of his piece. When the music stops, her eyes dart around for one last look at the City of London.
She whispers, "This isn't the end, is it?"
"This isn't a fairytale."
She spots the water taxi gliding on the water and approaching the dock and turns to Sherlock.
"Can I hug you now, or will you draw a smiley face on my back again?"
He welcomes her in his arms and she clings to him. He doesn't stroke her back as he did in the theatre; this time it's the other way around. It is her right hand that pats his back in a series of taps and knocks, resulting in a very specific spelling in Morse code: I-L-O-V-E-U.
They pull out of the hug, and he leans down to kiss her. His lips meet hers softly and melt in a burning kiss that is saying something: I heard you. Me too.
Giulia smiles against his lips. "What's this?"
He pulls away and winks at her. "Not a goodbye."
She nods and takes a step back. She picks up her bag and glances at him one last time.
"Until we meet again, Sherlock Holmes." And with a jump, she is in the water taxi.
Sherlock's eyes follow the boat as it pulls away from the dock and moves along the current. He gets off the pier and walks on the foreshore, reaching the busker who is gathering his stuff and putting his violin away.
He hands him a banknote, saying, "Perfect timing and excellent execution, Hector. My compliments."
The busker, one of Sherlock's homeless network, bows his head.
"Thank you, Mr Holmes, but all credit goes to the melody." He folds the score carefully and gives it to him. "You composed a magnificent piece. I had no idea such tender music could come from your brilliant head, sir."
Sherlock takes the score and puts it in the breast pocket of his coat. He looks at the boat far on the horizon, then lowers his gaze and turns his coat collar up.
"It didn't come from the head."
Author's note: My dear readers, thank you so much for sticking with me up to this point. This is how the story ends in this timeline.
However, I couldn't leave things like this. So this is indeed the last official chapter, but there will be a very long epilogue set in the future.
Bear with me a little longer: as Sherlock said, this is not goodbye.