Welcome to Baker Street

74. Truth or dare

"Look who's back to annoy me," John exclaims gleefully while entering the room, his eyes all focused on his friend. He can't express how grateful he is to see him breathing, still holding onto that life that he never seems to consider of much value in his reckless adventures. Yet he didn't let go.

John smiles fondly at him, but as soon as his eyes land on the figure beside the hospital bed, his hand instinctively flits behind his back, reaching for his gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He doesn't consciously want to aim a weapon at Giulia. It's just his spontaneous reaction in front of what he perceives as a threat and possible danger for both him and Sherlock. Sometimes, the soldier sleeping within reacts faster than his alert, rational conscience.

Holmes inspects his every move and beseeches him, "Easy, doctor."

Watson keeps his hardened gaze locked on Giulia and spits out, "She's a liar."

She peacefully opens her arms in a gesture of surrender.

"To be fair, I never really lied to you. I simply withheld some information and omitted a few details about my past."

"Like the fact that you died one year ago, just to name one," John quickly rebuts, straightening up and keeping both arms stiffly by his side. His clenched fists still signal a circumspect attitude.

"Apparently not," Sherlock ironically intervenes to lessen the tension in the room. "Take a seat, John. We're here to listen to a story."

John raises a questioning brow at them but doesn't argue. Never taking his eyes off Giulia, he steps backwards, outstretching his hand back until it brushes against the armrest of the chair in the corner. He slowly sits down on the edge, still watching her.

Giulia swallows under his wary gaze and attempts to break the ice.

"Sherlock told me about the newspaper article you found regarding the explosion at the Italian Consulate in Latin America. How could you be certain it was about me?"

"Next to the text, there was a family portrait. I recognised your face beside who, now I assume, were your parents and sister," he states in a firm voice.

She frowns at him, puzzled.

"That's odd. There shouldn't be photos of me anywhere anymore. Where did you find the newspaper again?"

No photos of her anywhere? What does it even mean? Nowadays, it would be incredibly difficult to erase someone's presence from the Internet entirely, John reflects, but instead of expressing all those questions aloud, he simply replies, "I didn't. It was attached to an email in Sherlock's Inbox."

She gawks at him while a thousand doubts line up in her mind. Something is not right. That is a subtle way of blackmailing her by advertising her true identity to the people closest to her.

"Who sent it?"

"No idea: anonymous sender. But that's not the point. Are we really going to ignore that you faked your death one year ago?" John bursts out, losing his temper. He needs answers. Now.

"I never intended to do such a thing. I simply found myself in the right place but at the wrong time. Let's start from the beginning. What do you know about that?"

"Not much. You were the daughter of an Italian Consul in Latin America. Last year, a gas leak provoked an explosion that tore down the Consulate and killed your parents and allegedly you too," he hisses.

"Quite accurate, but not entirely. You got some details right. My father was indeed a consul, and he and my mother both lost their lives in that explosion." Her voice drops to a barely audible whisper, then she speaks up. "But it wasn't a gas leak: it was an overt attack against my family."