Welcome to Baker Street

117. Not good at goodbyes

John and Giulia stare at each other for a long instant, then as if drawn by an invisible force, they simultaneously turn their heads to look at the timer: still three missing pieces and less than 20 minutes left.

Giulia shuts her eyes for a second and turns her back to the screen, focusing on the table. She skims through the pictures and documents and spends a few seconds deep in thought, then says, "There's one person we haven't considered yet."

At that moment, Sherlock comes back to life with a jolt and looks at her, dazed. "Who?"

John cocks a brow at his awakening from his trance. "Are you back with us?"

Holmes throws him a grave look and turns his eyes around the room. "It's not like I can leave." He uses sarcasm to drag his brain back to mental alertness.

"Not sure about that. Your mind was somewhere else entirely," John points out.

"And now it's here. Who, erm, who did we miss?" he asks Giulia, trying to mask the shroud of uncertainty still enwrapping him.

"Oliver Portland, the dead man."

"I can't believe I have to say it, but the victim didn't do it, Giulia," Sherlock patronises her. "We can safely exclude suicide. He could have chosen among several interesting options, including jumping on the train tracks or a noose around the neck. But I've never seen anyone kill themselves by taking a swing at the back of their own skull."

She glares at him. Did he regain his full faculties just to talk down to her?

"I meant that we haven't considered what he had been doing in the moments before his death," she specifies.

"Oh right."

John chimes in, "We can see his working tools near the radiator in his bedroom. Considering he was quarrelling with his landlady over the malfunctioning of the house heating system, we could assume he tried to repair it himself during the day, maybe right after the fight with his mysterious guest in the afternoon. Manual labour is a good way to blow off some steam."

Sherlock nods. "Fair point. What else?"

Giulia takes over. "We know that at some point after the concierge's delivery at 7 pm, he took the Xanax. There is a missing tablet in the blister pack."

Sherlock gives them a proud look. "Look at you two: I should hand over the reins to you more often."

John glowers at him. His meltdown was no joke. They can't afford to lose him again.

Watson follows Giulia's train of thought. "What did he write on the pharmacy list? A remedy against dizziness and tachycardia, right? Must have been one hell of an argument if he needed to take Xanax after that."

Sherlock joins in. "Jim mentioned that Oliver Portland was behaving erratically lately, being uncharacteristically irritable, so maybe he was suffering from an anxiety disorder, or maybe he was just under a lot of pressure and stress for the upcoming astronomic exhibition. He took the pill after dinner and probably went to bed—after all, drowsiness is a common side effect of Xanax."

John frowns at that reconstruction of the events. "Went to bed?"

"Obviously. Look at the pictures: he must have been lying in bed right before dying. Observe the pattern on the sheets: there's the clear print of his body pressed against the mattress."

"Are you suggesting that the killer made him stand up, then hit him in the head?" Giulia sceptically asks.

"No, of course not. That would be ridiculous," Sherlock objects, but not even his arrogant tone can mask his confusion. It doesn't make sense. Oliver Portland was in bed, that much is clear. So how did he end up face-up on the soft carpeted floor with the back of his head caved in?