Welcome to Baker Street

43. Here comes the storm

Holmes remains unperturbed and inquires with diffidence, "How could you recognise those substances among all the real experiments? Have you ever been on drugs?"

"No. Unlike you, apparently," she snaps back. "I had some help. I grew suspicious when you practically banned me from the kitchen, yet I couldn't be 100% sure, so I looked for an expert and found the number of Dr Molly Hooper stuck on the fridge. Did you know she is keen on chemistry? I asked her to come over, and she analysed everything. We borrowed your microscope, by the way. I hope you don't mind." She plasters a cunning smile over her face, desperately trying to put up a credible façade while her heart is sinking. Her flatmate is a liar who has embarked on a self-sabotaging mission that could cost him his life.

Sherlock loses it. "Molly came here to analyse my possessions?"

"Not only that," Giulia answers, reaching out and grabbing a folder on the coffee table. "She also wrote this summary containing every single drug she found. She's been very methodical—I must admit it. I actually wouldn't mind having her over more often. We have lots to discuss."

"Let me see," he peremptorily orders, stretching out his arms towards her, but she slaps his hand away and walks up to John, instead.

"What for? You already know what was there. This is for your doctor, to let him know the status of his miserable patient."

Watson takes the document and flicks through it, growing immediately pale.

"Jesus, Sherlock, this can't be true. You can't take or even possess all this junk."

"Don't worry, John," Giulia cuts him short. "He doesn't possess it anymore." She simpers, but the sarcasm can't mask her bitter disappointment.

"This is utterly ridiculous," Sherlock bursts out. "You can't do such a thing, you simply can't. Now, listen carefully and pay attention to my words: this is my house—"

"Our house," Watson jumps in to correct him.

"Not now, John. I'm trying to make a point. This is where I live, and if you want to share this flat with me, you cannot behave like that. You are crazy, completely out of control." He throws his hands in the air, fuming with rage.

John glowers at him and hisses, "Sherlock, stop."

He spins around and shakes his head with a stony glance.

"No, I won't stop because this is unacceptable. She threw my experiments in the toilet."

"They – were – drugs," his friend spells out through gritted teeth. "You're not even allowed to have them in the first place."

Sherlock looks hurt by his hostile reply. "Are you on her side now?"

"Side? What are you talking about? This is not a war, Sherlock, nor a bloody game of yours. Your life is at stake." John raises his voice to match the detective's fit of anger.

"Precisely. My life. And you two have no right to mess around with it. I make my own decisions; I adopt the lifestyle I prefer."

"Yeah, and yours is leading you straight to the grave."

"Who cares?"

"We do. That's exactly why she did what she did: because she cares," John exclaims, nodding to Giulia.

"And I'm sure you're an expert about caring, given the number of girlfriends you've had. Practice makes perfect, right?" Sherlock jeers at him. "If you are so good at it, why don't you lecture me on what caring is really about?"

John gives him a tight-lipped smile—his signature disappointed grimace. He hates him for what he is saying. He detests his haughty attitude. But he asked for a lesson and that's exactly what he was going to get.

"You want to know what caring is truly about? Easy: when someone cares about you, they will do their best to save you."

Holmes arches his brows. "Save me from whom?"

Watson holds his gaze. "Your biggest enemy: yourself."

"Shut up, John."

"I will. I'm out," he states, turning around and heading for the stairs. On his way out, he slams the door with a loud thud, making Giulia jump in her seat.

The flat falls silent, but the air is still electric, more similar to the preamble of a storm than its aftermath. Giulia doesn't speak for several minutes: she looks like a sand statue on the verge of crumbling. Eventually, she stands up and walks to the window, turning her back to Sherlock and trying to hold back the tears that threaten to stream out of her eyes.

Sherlock ignores her movements and sinks into his armchair, feeling suddenly drained. Is it the abstinence kicking in? It must be. What else could it be? Remorse? He never felt remorseful in his life. He doesn't feel those impractical little emotions; he doesn't... he mustn't feel. It clouds his judgement; this is what he has kept repeating to himself from a very young age. Emotions don't apply to him. Remorse is the sentence of the guilty, and he is beyond the concepts of right and wrong. Isn't he?

After a while, Giulia breaks that awkward stillness. "John was wrong about me, you know. I didn't want to save you."

"Why not? It seems to be the purpose of caring, after all," he replies sarcastically.

She turns to him with misty eyes. "Because you can't save people that don't want to be saved; you cannot spare them the fight with themselves. Sherlock, you need to face your demons on your own. Nobody can help you, only you can. I was simply trying to keep temptations away, far from your addiction."

"I'm not an addict," he retorts.

"Yes, you are. You are addicted to the thought that you need all that rubbish. Your addiction is the idea that you can only work by using drugs in the mistaken belief that it helps you think. God, you are so intelligent, so how do you not get that it is burning your brain instead?"

He wrinkles his nose. "I need it, I really do. You don't understand."

"I never tried to," she talks over him. "I was scared, okay? When I realised what you were doing with your life, I was truly terrified. I got rid of that junk because I do hope that you won't use it again."

He looks into her eyes and sneers bitterly.

"Why? Because people could find out about my problem, and it would be a scandal?"

"No, because I could find it out, and I'd be very disappointed," she says with a broken voice and heads for the door, but Sherlock murmurs to her back, "You've set the bar far too high; I will never live up to the idea you have of me. You should lower your expectations."

She turns around and looks straight into his eyes. "I have no high expectations of you. I never made you into a knight or a hero. The only idea I have of you is the same thing that you think of yourself: you're always the smartest person in the room. Well, you let me down today. You proved me wrong." She gives him one last pain-ridden glance and rushes downstairs.

He takes a deep breath, looks around, and wanly whispers to himself, "But I am the only one in this room."