Welcome to Baker Street

57. Identity crisis

When his brother leaves the bank, Sherlock approaches Giulia and gives her a stiff nod of the head.

"I think it's time to go. We've been in here for far too long."

She follows him silently. They hop in a cab while John stays at the thwarted-crime-scene to describe to the police officers both the shooting and the scuffle in which the three of them almost lost their lives. Giulia and Sherlock keep quiet during the first part of the ride, both immersed in their own worlds, lost in thought.

After a while, Giulia stares absent-mindedly out of the car window and says, "I don't understand the very beginning of this case: was the ex-CIA agent also the murderer of the Alpes?"

"Yes," is Sherlock's laconic answer. No clever commentary, no pretentious show-off of his mental abilities.

She turns her head to look at him, struggling to put all the pieces together.

"But how are today's events connected to the homicide that marked the beginning of this case?"

"They aren't—not directly, at least. I was the only connection," he replies shortly.

She scoffs at his terseness; he is usually generous with explanations if it means proving the superiority of his intellect.

"Why did he kill that man, then?" she insists. She wants some answers, and she is going to have them no matter what, even if she has to force every word out of him.

He sighs and surrenders.

"To let me know he was a dangerous murderer—a psychopath that was out for blood. It was like a threatening letter to me. He wanted me to know that I got a target on my back, and so did all the people around me. It was not about killing someone; he couldn't care less about that skier. All he wanted was to draw my attention and get a reaction. He chose an unattached man, quite difficult to identify without documents, only to engage a relaxed, carefree Lestrade in the investigation, knowing that he would resort to me. In the end, the homicide was just a means to an end: to challenge me and lure me into his crazy game."

"And why the Alpes?" She asks again.

Sherlock raises a brow at her. Less than an hour before, she was kidnapped, held hostage, and had a gun pointed at her head. Necessary addition: he himself, her hideous flatmate who had kicked her out that very afternoon, was the one holding the gun, on the verge of taking her life. And now, all she has to say to him is inquiring about a poor devil's death that was merely a distraction.

He thinks about it. Maybe that's the profound difference between the two of them: to him, the death on the Alpes was the insignificant collateral damage of a story that could have reaped many more victims. But to her, every life counts.

Perhaps that's why she embodies a mystery that he seems unable to unravel. He can't figure her out: she is not like him, neither does she behave like other people. He has always thought that she was ordinary, and in some ways, she actually is. Ordinary people do worry about death and murder victims; they would be concerned about one loss, just like she is now. But not after what has just happened. Normal people would be in shock. An ordinary woman would hate him for what he put her through. Why doesn't she?

He realises that several seconds have passed, and she is probably waiting for an answer.

"I told you when Lestrade initially phoned us about the case: pay attention to my words, please," he groans. "That criminal wanted to prove that he knew who my friends were. He caught Lestrade's attention even when he was on holiday, miles away from home. He aimed to instil the fear that nobody was safe, anywhere," he specifies reluctantly.