Welcome to Baker Street

44. Sorry not sorry

Giulia goes out and is about to walk down the street when she spots a familiar face beyond the window of the coffee shop next door. She steps into Speedy's and sits down at a table, smiling crookedly at the person across from her.

"I thought you went further away," she says, fiddling with a napkin.

"I just needed to get out of that flat," John answers, lowering his pensive gaze.

"Yeah, me too."

They remain silent for a few seconds, then John speaks again, looking directly at her.

"I hate that Sherlock talked to you like that. And the way he behaved... why didn't you react? You just sit there while he shouted at you."

She bites down on her lip and grimaces. "I'm doing a PhD in International Relations. I know how to handle a tough situation with the right calmness and diplomacy."

He nods understandingly. "Still, had he yelled at me like that, I would've punched him in the face."

She chuckles but immediately becomes serious again.

"John, why has no one ever told me anything about his drug habit?"

"I guess I thought he was doing just fine. I believed he was clean. I could never imagine he had relapsed. I - I..." he stutters, embarrassed. "I should have seen it coming. What kind of doctor am I? What kind of friend?"

"The one who has been busy and preoccupied with his work, and this is not a crime. You can't blame yourself for thinking that he was better than that. It's not your fault." She reassures him, placing her hand on top of one of his on the table.

"Sometimes I just wish my life was a bit easier."

"I can relate. But where would be the fun in that? Don't worry. We'll try to talk sense into him." She winks at him and leaves, holing up in her room.

After a while, John comes back home and finds Sherlock on the couch, eyes closed, hands folded under his chin, wandering around in his mind palace. John stands next to him for a couple of minutes and stares at his motionless figure, weighing his words, choosing carefully what to say.

Sherlock, well aware of his presence, snaps his eyes open and gazes at his silent spectator.

"I know that face, and I can clearly see what you are thinking right now, as if it was written on your forehead."

"Read it out loud, then."

"You want me to apologise to her, don't you? Oh, John, you are so predictable," he whines.

"So are you, since you haven't done it yet."

"Don't you get it? She knows me even better than I thought. She reads through me more easily than I expected. She doesn't need a stupid apology." Sherlock twitches his lips at that mundane social code.

"I don't care if she needs it or not, if she knows you or not. The only thing that matters now is that you go to her room and apologise. It's a question of manners. I can bear your angry outbursts, and I will overlook the dark sides of your personality, but I will not allow you to be rude. Not with her, not ever." His tone is icy, his fierce gaze nails Sherlock on his spot with no escape.

"And what should I say?" He asks with sincere curiosity, crossing his arms on his chest. Interpersonal interactions aren't his area of expertise, to put it nicely.

"Something like I'm sorry, forgive me," Watson suggests.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but John doesn't budge, his hands on his hips.

"Fine," Holmes concedes and grumbles. He descends the stairs heavily and is about to knock on the door of 221C when a voice prevents him from within the flat with just one word: "Don't."

Sherlock freezes, speechless. Giulia anticipates his moves.

"Don't knock on my door and don't try to apologise."

Sherlock retracts his hand, and his arm falls lifelessly to his side.

"I was right, then. You don't need this trifle."

He hears the soft sound of her footsteps approaching and her voice resounds closer, but the door stays closed.

"No, you were wrong. I don't need to see you at my door just because John begged you to apologise to me."

"He didn't beg," he specifies, leaning a shoulder against the jamb and easing up the tension—attempting, anyway.

"You know, we could get on really well if only you were sincere with me," she feebly states, resting her hands and forehead on the door but refusing to open it.

He picks at his lips with his fingers while his brain looks for something to say. What does 'honesty' mean with a person who can apparently see through his soul?

"Well, I don't have sincere apologies to offer you."

He waits for a few seconds for a reply that doesn't come. She doesn't talk back this time. He nods uncomfortably at her silent treatment.

"Good night," he mumbles and turns around.

He is going back upstairs when he hears the key clinking in the lock. Giulia peeks out from behind the half-open door.

"Speaking frankly, what's happening?"

His brows knit, and confusion swims in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I thought we were doing fine, and everything was okay. But now you are on drugs, you are rude most of the time, and my mere presence bothers you," she lists. "What's the problem?"

He shrugs. "I suppose I am the problem. These are just the downsides of living with me."

"I've had no problems living with you so far, but something has changed. It's like dealing with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. You changed, and now your attitude towards me is different. I'm not blind or stupid. Sherlock, what happened? I thought we found a balance." She can't hide a crack in her voice.

He averts his gaze and turns towards the staircase, climbing another step before stopping to murmur, "You want me to be honest, right? Great, so here's what I think: balance is fiction; it's just a ticking bomb. And when the timer goes off, there will be a huge explosion."