Welcome to Baker Street

41. Shadows

"It's yours."

Greg's words linger in the silent room. Sherlock, John, and Giulia stand still and exchange shocked looks.

"My number and name, huh? It would seem that this poor devil wanted to contact me. Oh well, I believe it's too late now." Sherlock puts up the fakest sad face he is capable of. "I already have a lot of clients, most of whom are alive and annoying. I gotta go." He hastily dismisses the problem, earning reproachful stares from both his flatmates.

"Hold on a second," the D.I. intervenes. "There's a problem: the name is yours, but the number isn't."

Sherlock's head jerks up. "What did you say?"

"This isn't your number, not the one I know. Have you changed it?"

"I've just answered your call—terrible idea, by the way. How could I have possibly changed my number?" he blurts out, rubbing a hand on his face in front of the impossible incoherence of that question.

"I mean, have you bought a new SIM card recently or used someone else's phone, maybe?"

"No. Why do you keep asking?" Holmes replies in a frustrated tone.

"Because I find it strange. Don't you?" Lestrade is hopelessly groping in the dark.

"He might have made a mistake. Perhaps he was in a hurry and wrote it down wrong," John chimes in for the first time.

"Impossible," Greg immediately replies. "He could have made one mistake, two at most. But this is an entirely different number."

Sherlock freezes as a sudden realisation strikes him. "Because I wasn't supposed to be the receiver of the call. I should be the caller."

"What are you talking about?" the inspector's hoarse voice croaks out of the speaker.

Sherlock folds his hands together and props his chin on them.

"Lestrade, just think: the intention wasn't to call me. The message is that I should call that number."

Nobody dares to move or respond as he paces across the room, lost in thought.

"Dead. Why is he dead?" he talks to himself and immediately stops in his tracks, exclaiming in vague excitement, "He's been murdered."

Giulia and John stare at him with vacant looks on their faces. He meets their void gazes and exhales in annoyance.

"The killer planted the message on the dead man's body. Quite the informed murderer, by the way, since he knew Lestrade was there and would be drawn to investigate the matter, given his police job. The killer took everything into consideration and exploited the fact that he is a detective inspector of Scotland Yard who knows me."

"Everybody knows you," John points out.

"Yet somehow the killer knew that only this officer would willingly call me asking for an explanation. He is two moves ahead of us," Sherlock ponders, intrigued.

"Alright, Sherlock, slow down. What killer?" Greg asks, puzzled.

"The skier's killer, of course. It wasn't an accident. And I guess deep down you've always known," he replies in a grim tone.

"Will you help me identify him now?"

Holmes furrows a brow at his irrational request. "How? I'm currently in London, in case you'd forgotten."

"But maybe we could be of some use even from here," Giulia timidly intervenes.

Sherlock turns toward her as a glint of curiosity glimmers in his eyes. "What are you suggesting?"