Welcome to Baker Street

113. Star attraction

Giulia leaves the room last and finds Sherlock and John waiting for her in the corridor. Sherlock studies the tenseness in her features and clears his throat, ill at ease.

"Giulia, what you saw in there, erm..." he stumbles on the words. "Irene Adler, she..."

"Is your past," she completes for him and stretches her lips in a tired smile. "I get it. I'm sorry it took me an entire round to come to terms with that, which was quite hypocritical of me, especially after the previous round with Thomas. I guess it just caught me off guard, that's all. But I understand: we all have a past, we all have our stories, our demons. You don't need to explain anything to me."

"I don't," he agrees, "but I still want to. No more secrets between us. Once all of this is over, I think we should talk properly."

She nods pensively and repeats in a low trembling voice, "Once this is over."

Sherlock catches the note of uncertainty and gently asks, "Are you okay?"

She gives him a derisory look and moves her gaze from one man to the other. "Of course not. Are you?"

They both shake their heads, and she says, "Well then. What are we waiting for? The eighth round awaits."

As they walk down the darkened hall, John cocks a brow at her, confused.

"As much as time never seems to pass here, and horrors keep multiplying, I haven't counted seven rooms so far."

"We've only been through five," Sherlock specifies. "But the murders of both the nun and the tenor were the beginning rounds—Act I, if you wish. We are nearing the end now."

John drops his voice to a whisper to remain out of the hearing range of Moriarty's armed men standing in the corridor.

"How are we going to get out of here, Sherlock?"

His friend doesn't look at him when he replies sombrely, "We can't—not by ourselves. We can only hope for an intervention from the outside."

"Like what?"

"A miracle."

John sighs. Sherlock Holmes doesn't believe in miracles. He has a boundless belief only in his brilliant mind. There is just one person who could rival him in terms of intellectual powers and unlimited resources: Mycroft. Their last hope.

When they reach the end of the umpteenth corridor, they find themselves in front of a black door, and Sherlock stops for a second. It's not a pause of exhaustion or a moment to muster the courage. It's an instant of hesitation: Sherlock Holmes hesitates.

John distinctly hears him take a deep breath and hold it before pushing the door open. Unlike the previous room where the vibrant Mozart's sonata welcomed them, this new torture chamber is enlivened only by a continuous low buzzing in the background, but that's not the only difference. There are no glass walls, no showcases for caged hostages—just plain walls on all four sides, and a familiar screen on one of them. An interesting addition is a huge cylindrical structure at the centre of the room, draped in a theatre curtain screening it off. As always, there is a marble figurine on a steel table, next to a folder with a big question mark on the front.

Sherlock strides closer and examines the statue: a woman wearing a cloak embroidered with stars. Her eyes are turned skywards; she holds a globe in one hand and a compass in the other.

"Urania, the Muse of Astronomy," he says flatly, and a wrinkle appears between his eyes as he addresses the turned-off screen. "Though you should know, Jim, that I'm not a fan of the subject. Never cared much about the stars or the Solar System, and I don't count any astronauts among my friends. What would the threat be, anyway? Have you locked your next guest in a rocket to crash on the moon?" he mocks, nodding to the weird tube-shaped structure.