Welcome to Baker Street

47. Riddle

Has the temperature in the room dropped sharply all of a sudden? Sherlock thinks distractedly. That would be the only logical explanation, for he would swear that his blood had just frozen in his veins. He can feel it: molten ice all over his circulatory system.

This is unlike anything he has ever experienced. It's not fear, though. He knows how he reacts in front of it. He is not like most people: fear doesn't paralyse him; if anything, it heightens his senses. Then why, for Heaven's sake, is he petrified right now?

He perceives an unfamiliar sensation of tightness in his chest as he lowers his gaze to the tissue soaked with chloroform. What is this unpleasant clutch over his diaphragm? He self-diagnoses. It bears an uncomfortable resemblance to guilt and powerlessness. Is it... remorse?

He shakes his head to cast that absurd thought out of his mind, but his conscience-stricken pride keeps haunting him. He tried his best to protect Giulia and failed. He was in too deep and didn't realise it. He thought he could simply yell some mean things and get her out of the crosshairs. But he should have known better than that: that's not how life in Baker Street works.

"I didn't see this coming," Sherlock murmurs. His tone resounds like a confession of wrongdoing, and that's a first. How? How could he, Sherlock Holmes, not see it coming? How could he fail so spectacularly?

John shoots him a hostile glare and clenches his fists to hide that his hands are shaking.

"I'll call Greg," he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

Finally responsive to his surroundings, Sherlock frowns. "Who?"

"Greg Lestrade," John clarifies matter-of-factly.

"Oh, him. What for?" He wonders candidly.

John takes a deep breath, trying his hardest not to land his right hook on that smug face.

"Because he is with the police, and we need help."

"Scotland Yard never helps," Sherlock quickly rebuts. "You know I can perfectly handle it myself."

"Right now, I know nothing. And since you weren't able to protect her previously, now we are going to do it my way. Is it clear?"

Sherlock doesn't talk back this time; he simply stares as John takes a few steps across Giulia's tiny flat with the phone up to his ear. Then, he too makes a call.

"Hello, Mr Holmes. I was wondering when you'd call." The croaky voice that Sherlock has already heard once picks up to greet him.

Sherlock tightens his grip on his phone and demands harshly, "Where is Giulia? I know you are the person behind her abduction."

"Yeah, it wasn't a very difficult deduction, was it? She's right here with me," the mysterious killer of the Alpes replies sinisterly.

Sherlock has never been more dismayed to be right about something.

"Care to elaborate?" He struggles to keep a cool head. Weird: he always maintains his indifferent composure even in the most frightful situations. What is happening to him?

"I've already left you all the information you need to find us. Just look around, Holmes. You're told to be quite observant and clever. Time to prove it."

When the voice on the phone hangs up, Sherlock takes a deep breath and turns around, coming face to face with John, who eyes him with suspicion.

"Who were you talking to?"