Welcome to Baker Street

96. Under an unlucky star

Sherlock stares at Giulia, incapable of reacting. She keeps her eyes fixed on him and swallows hard as chills run up and down her spine. The recent feeling of being constantly spied on turned out to be a haunting reality.

Sherlock exhales loudly to regain his cold determination and types furiously on his phone.

"There's no need to spam John. I'm sure he got your texts and is looking for a way out of his date. No wonder he is still single, with you as his nagging best friend." She rolls up her eyes, trying to lighten the mood.

"He is already on his way to meet us." He checks his watch and stifles a smirk. "It shouldn't take him more than a couple of minutes to come here from the restaurant. I am texting Mycroft now."

She furrows a brow. "I understand Moriarty is probably a matter of national security, but don't you think that if you tipped off the MI6 about our tickets to the National Theatre, Moriarty would vanish instantly?"

"I couldn't care less about national security or the little show that Jim has prepared for us. Your identity and safety have been compromised: that is worthy of Mycroft's time and attention," he states, clumsily trying to dissimulate the subtext that even with a madman on the loose, she remains his number one priority.

She takes a deep breath, grasping the disturbing implications of that situation, then strives to think straight.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Why would Moriarty even be interested in me, for starters?"

Because you could be used as leverage against me, Sherlock mentally replies, realising for the first time the actual risks of his sentimental involvement. He clears his throat to provide a more neutral reply.

"Blackmailing reasons. Can you imagine what would happen if he notified the Mafia family that they failed to kill you and you are alive and well in London? They would swoop down on you like hawks."

She stares at him and gulps down nervously, as the blood turns cold in her veins. By knowing her real identity, Moriarty possesses an atomic bomb against her life.

At that moment, a cab pulls over next to them, and John jumps out of the car with confusion and bewilderment painted all over his face.

"What is going on here? What is the emergency? Are you alright?" He rushes his questions as his eyes travel over the two figures standing in front of him, finding no trace of life-threatening wounds.

"In great shape, indeed. I've just solved the tenor's case and sent five people to jail," Sherlock gloats and signals the cabbie to wait.

John stares at them, stunned. He could ask a thousand questions at this moment, but the only thing he says is, "I didn't get the memo about dressing up. You'd better not make it a habit to show up to crime scenes dressed so ridiculously fancy, or I'll stop hanging out with you both." His comment eases the tension for a second, pulling a smile from both of them. Then he narrows his eyes at his friends, suspicious.

"Seriously though. Why are you looking so smart tonight?"

Sherlock clears his throat and steps closer, lowering his tone.

"It turns out we are sporting the perfect outfit for an exceptional theatrical performance of Iphigenia at the National Theatre. Moriarty has surfaced back again and has invited us. Nice of him, isn't it?" He shoots him an ironic smile, handing him the ticket with his initials.

John gapes as Sherlock pushes him aside to get into the waiting taxi.

"Are you out of your mind? He clearly set a trap for us, and you intend on diving in headfirst?" John yells, frustrated.