Welcome to Baker Street

49. Into the unknown

In the meantime, at 221C Baker Street

"Because he mocked us with a final joke. Just guess the nationality of the bank."

John pales. "Italian."

A brooding silence hovers in the tiny flat for a few seconds, then Sherlock whips around and rushes upstairs like a tornado. He turns the living room upside down, tossing everything away frantically.

"John, did you see my Browning?" He asks, a note of urgency barely noticeable in his voice.

"The last time I saw it, Giulia was jokingly pointing it at your chest," John says, recalling the events that happened earlier that day.

"Yes, then she gave it back to me. But now I can't find it anywhere," he protests like a toddler who has just lost his favourite toy. He runs from one corner of the room to the other, looking everywhere. He even crouches on his hands and knees and sticks his head into the fireplace. Then he sits cross-legged on the floor, shaking the ash off his hair; his eyes distractedly follow the minuscule white particles floating down on a scattered pile of envelopes at the foot of the fireplace. If Mrs Hudson saw the flat in that chaotic state, she'd beat him up with a broom.

"Come on, Sherlock, we need to get to that bank immediately. She might not have long," John urges him, hinting at the door. His eyes travel across the room restlessly as he fidgets with his hands, eager to spring into action. That's the soldier in him kicking in.

"You might want to remember that we are dealing with a seasoned killer," Sherlock points out, standing up and brushing his trousers.

"And you might want to remember that I'm an ex-soldier and I always carry my gun with me," John replies, tapping the pocket of his jacket. "Now let's go."

Holmes gives him a curt nod, but a dark shade glides over his face as his mind concocts several scenarios to anticipate what comes next.

"We must notify the police of our discovery," John says, dashing along the staircase.

At that exact moment, Sherlock's phone rings. He takes it out and frowns at the screen.

"Speak of the devil," he says, answering the call. "Lestrade, what's happening?"

John stares at Sherlock climbing down the stairs in front of him, silently nodding: Greg is probably delivering crucial information, but Sherlock hasn't put him on speaker, and he can't hear anything. Then the detective thrusts open the front door and steps out on the pavement, his phone still solidly pressed against his ear.

"Where exactly?" Sherlock continues his conversation with the D.I. while John grows more impatient with each passing second.

"Got it. Just hold on a little longer." He touches the screen and lowers the phone, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets as John hails cab and looks expectantly at him.

"What did he say?"

"He found her. She was at the bank. We did a great job with that nursery rhyme, after all," he hints at a smile, trying to defuse the tension, but his anguished face betrays him.

"Yeah, kudos for us. Sherlock, what happened?" John stares into his eyes, but he averts his gaze.

"After you phoned Lestrade, Scotland Yard instantly started a search and located the kidnapper's hiding place at the bank, where he was holding Giulia hostage. They got there, and there was a shooting..." he trails off.

"Jesus! We need to go there. Now," John cries out, throwing open the passenger door of the cab.

"Wait. Giulia is fine. The police freed her. She got into an ambulance just as a precaution. She is being taken to the hospital as we speak," Sherlock explains in a calm tone.