Welcome to Baker Street

94. It's showtime

Giulia beams proudly at Sherlock and marches immediately towards the exit of the museum, urging him, "Let's go."

"Wait," Sherlock hesitates, grabbing her arm; his fidgety eyes show signs of an internal battle. For once, the great detective is putting his ego aside and is thinking about another human being. "This was supposed to be your night out. I don't want to ruin it with my case. You were so happy to be here. Maybe you should stay."

"Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss the solution to this murder for the world. The stars have been hung onto the sky for millennia. I suppose they can wait one more night." She smiles at him.

They race outside while Sherlock tries to call Lestrade; the D.I. doesn't pick up.

"Good heavens, Detective Inspector, it's quite urgent," he hisses, annoyed at the mute phone line.

"It's the weekend. He is probably with his wife," Giulia assumes.

"Yes, of course, since she is trying to win him back. He shouldn't give in, though. She's still sleeping with their neighbour," Sherlock grunts, hailing a cab.

Giulia rolls her eyes and hops into the car. "Who should we contact at Scotland Yard, then?"

Sherlock freezes for a second as the answer to that question becomes painfully clear.

"Goodness gracious," he mutters under his breath, dialling a number and listening to the harsh reply coming from the other end of the phone.

"Hello, Freak. What do you want?"

"Good evening, Sergeant Donovan. It is always a pleasure to speak to you. Listen, Lestrade isn't answering my calls—"

"Are you surprised? It's Saturday night. Get a hobby," she cuts him short.

"I already have one: I act as the most effective consultant and babysitter for the police force when your cases get too difficult," he snarls. "So, now you'll do me the favour of letting your forked tongue rest for a second and listen up. I've just solved the murder of the tenor, but I think Scotland Yard should do the honours and show up for the arrest. Wouldn't you agree, Sally? And since your boss is busy, the fun is all yours tonight," he jests at her.

Giulia can distinctly hear a deep sigh coming from the other end of the line, followed by Sherlock's indications of the address of the theatre. Then he hangs up.

"Are you going to tell me the solution, or will you keep me guessing?"

He turns to her with an amused look. "Tell? No, no. I'm going to show you. I promised you an exhibition tonight, but I'm afraid there was a change of plan. I'm giving you a performance instead."

She arches a brow at his cryptic words. "This is why you deliberately chose the theatre, isn't it?"

He smirks at her quick wit and takes a notepad out of his pocket. "You know me. I can never resist a touch of the dramatic."

She goggles at the object in his hands and points out, "That's Lestrade's notepad."

He flicks through the pages and texts frantically on his phone.

"Obviously. I pickpocketed him last night. Surprisingly, he hasn't texted me in all day to accuse me of stealing Scotland Yard's property." He rolls his eyes at his personal watchdog. He wouldn't admit it, but deep down he likes Lestrade, and not just because he is his only ally in the police. Sherlock knows he is a good, honest man. Bright even—for normal standards, that is.

"You should give it back. It might contain important information," she scolds him, crossing the arms over her chest.

"That's precisely why I took it."