Welcome to Baker Street

70. Beware of dog

One hour later and a half later, after updating Giulia in great detail about the case, Sherlock hits the brakes abruptly, making the tyres screech on the cobblestones in front of the Admirals' house. As he turns off the roaring engine of Mrs Hudson's sports car, he flashes Giulia a cunning smile.

"You can drive on our way back if you want."

She looks almost terrified and replies, "That's kind of you, but no, thanks. I don't want to risk running this astonishing car into a tree."

He gives her a puzzled look. "You can't drive?"

"Oh, I can drive perfectly well. Just... on the other side of the road." She chuckles. She still has trouble remembering where to look when she crosses the street. Why do Brits have to behave differently from everyone else in the world?

He jumps off the car and bangs loudly on the door while yelling, "Mrs Admiral? Mrs Admiral, please open up."

A few seconds later, Fred shows up on the threshold and looks daggers at him.

"How dare you come to my house again after what you accused me of the last time you were here?"

"Don't worry, Fred, I'm not here for you. I'm looking for your wife," Sherlock says, shoving him aside and making his way into the house, while Giulia stands in the doorway, uncertain.

"What do you want from her now?" Fred tailgates him with a distrustful look.

Holmes ignores his question and looks around the empty living room. "Where is she?"

"In the bathroom, she isn't feeling very well at the moment," Fred reluctantly replies, hesitant to give him details about his wife.

"I knew it." Sherlock almost spins around, full of joy. "What are her symptoms?"

Fred does a double-take and fixes his gaze on the eyes of that hideous meddler. "I beg your pardon?"

"Come on, Mr Admiral, a bit of cooperation here. It's a matter of her health. Tell me precisely what signs your wife has been showing in the last few hours," Sherlock commands impatiently.

Fred scratches the back of his head, trying to recall every single detail.

"When she came back home, she couldn't even tell me what had happened with you. She was staggering. She kept pouring herself glasses of water, complaining that her mouth and throat were so dry she could hardly swallow. I couldn't understand a word of what she said: she wasn't making any sense."

"That's it?" Sherlock stares at him. His piercing eyes look like they could cut through the man's skull to force out his thoughts.

Fred wrinkles his nose and adds, "She had a headache and was feeling dizzy. After you left, she lamented that her heart was beating crazily fast—" he is interrupted by Sherlock who pedantically specifies, "It's called tachycardia."

He waves a hand in the air dismissively. "Whatever. I thought it might be a physical reaction to all the stress you put her in." He gives the detective a stern look. "About that, please leave now. I don't like unattended guests," he hisses, pushing him towards the door.

"Not even the ones that might save your wife's life?" Sherlock moves Fred's hands away from him and straightens the lapels of his coat.

"What do you mean?"

"The list of her symptoms is quite long: staggering, dryness in mouth and throat, slurred speech, confusion, headache, dizziness, elevated heart rate," he quickly sums up. "Everything you have just said is consistent with Atropa Belladonna poisoning. It's a toxic plant also known as 'deadly nightshade'. Its toxins can cause severe clinical disorders, affecting both internal organs and the central nervous system; hence the hallucinations she experienced in front of us at the crime scene. If your wife doesn't get medical attention immediately and provides the doctors with this specific diagnosis, she might not make it. So, I'd suggest you call an ambulance now," Holmes urges him.