2. How to force a door closed

The car sent by Inspector Lestrade arrived quickly. Too much for my liking. Old 'Greg' knew very well that I would accept. I run down the stairs, excited as hell. I can't wait to examine the crime scene and, more interestingly, the body.

I will have at least five minutes all to myself to move about freely and then an indefinite amount of time to scarf down conclusions. It all depends on what I find.

It seems to me that this driver is a little too slow. I don't even bother to tell him to speed up. He would ignore me. While waiting, I stare out the window and laugh. Every now and then Lestrade tells me that I am too cold, too indifferent to the suffering of humanity. What does he know about me? Does he know anything about the suffering I have had to endure? He knows nothing about it. And he never will. Period.

Trying to ignore my own sufferings inevitably led me to ignore those of others as well. Or did I begin to give a damn about other people's feelings precisely so that I could forget my own? Probably. I imprisoned my emotions in an isolation cell double-locked with a few hundred padlocks. Impossible to open.

For some time now, however, it seems to me that someone, or something, has been trying to force it open. I have been paying too much attention to the lock. Somewhere there must be a crack. A tiny crack that, if stressed with the right force, could collapse all my defenses. And at that point? What could I do, me?

Would I be able to handle that wave that would inevitably hit me?

I arrive at the scene of the crime. I still don't know what awaits me. That's what I like about it. The waiting. The longer the wait the more I enjoy the prize. I get out of the car carefully, elegantly. My every movement must be precise and harmonious. I put myself in a superior position just by walking. I mean, how many people walk like me? I am a handsome man, I am aware of that. More than one of my clients, talking to me, could not help but notice it. John is right that I strut a bit. What's wrong with that? It is the only satisfaction I have left.

"Finally," Lestrade says to me as he approaches, "It took you long enough!"

"Next time send me a driver who didn't find his license in the chips," I say without even apologizing. Why should I do that, then? He is the one who should thank me for being there.

I approach the corpse. He is lying on his stomach. I seem to recognize that coat. I have seen it before.

I first observe the ground. There was a very bloody fight, judging by the footprints I see. Two men. One of them came first and waited for the other to catch up. Then the two started talking animatedly and came to blows. It can't be called murder yet, really. It could be self-defense. We will have to find the other man to figure it out.

Since he called me they will have already done all the relevant detections so without asking anything I slip on my gloves and turn the body over to verify his identity.

I've never been impressionable with dead bodies. I mean! I see so many with my profession. My house, much to John's disappointment, is always full of heads, fingers, arms, hands, various organs.

So why is it that when I see the man's face I just want to vomit? Why do my eyes tingle? I look at the sky, hoping the tears won't want to come out.

"Well?" asks Lestrade worriedly, "My God Sherlock, is something wrong?"

He noticed. He sensed my discomfort. I never react like that when I'm about to examine the body. Usually all my attention goes to him. On the details of the dress, the skin, the shoes. Anything that can help me identify and frame him. Not now. I look away and gasp for breath, trying to push back tears too strong to be stopped.

When I turn toward him I startle him. Donovan, recently arrived, also looks at me bewildered. They have never seen me cry. I am crying now. Silently but I am crying.

Never, never did I expect to find him here at all. I loved him, I hated him. I don't know what I feel for him now. Pity. Maybe. Regret. Also. Pain. Yes, mostly sorrow. Sorrow for not being able to show him my affection. For not being able to get it from him.

"What is it Sherlock?" asks Sally worriedly. I must be really scary seen like this if even she has given up the classic nickname she usually affixes to me.

I open my mouth to speak, but the words don't come out. I try to rearrange them.

"What can you tell us about the dead body?"

"There was a fight," I say avoiding the question, "Evidently he and another man had a fight ... and this is the consequence. It could be self-defense. In fact, I'm sure of it."

"How can you say such a thing?"

"The dagger," I say. I noticed the dagger too late and only now recognize it, stuck between the man's ribs "It belongs to the victim"

"How can you tell?" asks Lestrade.

"If the dagger belongs to the victim probably the man who killed him only wanted to defend himself. He," I say pointing to the man lying on the ground, "must have called him over here, probably with an excuse, and tried to kill him but the other guy was quicker and stabbed him with his own weapon."

"Sherlock," the inspector tells me holding his forehead, "This is all very interesting but you can't prove it. You are right that if the dagger belonged to the victim it is self-defense, but you can't prove it. We should first examine the fingerprints and, more importantly, identify the dead man!"

Good. Perfect. How do I say it? I already know who it is. I look for the words that struggle so hard to come. I see the pity in their eyes. They seem tenderhearted by this weakness of mine. It is usually me who overpowers them. I am cold, calculating, cynical. Does it turn them on to see me so weak?

I have no time to search their faces for an answer because I am swept away.

The same blade that pierced the man's side penetrated the crack of my safe room and shamelessly uncovered it, ignoring the many locks with which I had equipped it.

Everything that was enclosed in there invades me with excessive violence. So many, too many memories that I wanted to bury. The awareness of all those episodes explodes inside me like a bomb.

I haven't eaten anything this morning, yet I have to turn away so as not to contaminate the crime scene. I run outside, under the pity-filled gaze of Donovan, Lestrade and Anderson, who has just joined me. Imagine if that little shit wants to miss the show!

They catch up with me while I have already rested my hands on the wall of the factory across the street and throw out the scanty dinner John forced me to eat last night.

I feel pain in every part of my body, as if memories have taken shape. Every beating. Every insult. Every mistreatment. They resurface in my mind and body as if I were living them now. I think back to that man, who died in such a brutal way, in such a squalid place. Everything is so distant from the way he was.

I struggle to get back on my feet. I stagger a little and finally regain some clarity. I feel the presence of the three behind me. They do not speak but stare at me insistently. What will they expect of me? Will they despise me? Will even cold Sherlock Holmes finally suffer in the face of death? Who cares! I have never cared anything about the judgment of others, least of all these three imbeciles who stand watching my back, alert to catch even the slightest movement.

I pick up my cell phone. I must take my time otherwise I risk falling again. I select Mycroft's number. Good. My mental functions are still intact. I try to type a text message. No. Something is wrong. The letters on the keys blur, they're fuzzy. What's standing in my way?

Tears? Are these tears?

All right. I give up the message. I phone him, partly because he detests texting.

"Mycroft?" I call him when, after a short wait, he replies, "Come here, right now."

"Where?" he asks me, of course, but I am no longer connected to the outside world. I am wandering in a universe of my own .

"Come here," I repeat. Where should he come next? Come here to me and help me stem the suffering. Help me. You know, you know everything that cursed room contained. Can you help me put it all back in, brother?

I must have repeated the same sentence an untold number of times but I am not aware of it. Mycroft, on the other end of the phone, is bewildered. It is Lestrade who helps me. He takes the phone from my hand. I do not resist. I stay like this, with my arm in midair and my hand open. He dictates the address and closes the call.

"He will be here shortly," he says, handing me the phone. I don't turn around. I don't move. I lower my hand but do not hint at wanting to take the cell phone he hands me. Resignedly he slips it into my pocket.

"Sherlock, will you explain what is happening to you?" he asks me trying to mask impatience.

"I know who it is," I finally say. I have to make it. I can make it. I want to make it.

"Go ahead, then!" says Anderson with his usual irritating attitude "Enlighten us!"

I can't help but notice a certain sarcasm in his voice. He has always despised me and never hid it. Not that the feeling wasn't mutual, but now it hurts. Like twisting a knife in a sore.

"His name is Siger Holmes," I say, and I hear them hold their breath, "He was my father."