Welcome to Baker Street

71. No-one's who they seem

221B Baker Street

At the same time

This is mortally boring, John mentally grumbles at his computer, looking for a new case.

He passes a hand over his tired face and lets out a loud sigh. He can't believe that Sherlock solved that case in such a short time.

John shoots a glance at the clock and realises just now that all the events related to that case (their first trip to the crime scene, the weird encounter with Mrs Admiral, and Sherlock's wrong accusations of her husband) have actually happened over one day. Their life is so full and busy that it is difficult to keep track of what happens daily.

He stretches his back with a groan and goes back to the search for a new adventure. He keeps distractedly scrolling down the inbox full of requests for the Consulting Detective until one email catches his attention: Anonymous sender.

He grunts. Why do people even go to the trouble of contacting them if they don't want to disclose their identity? Don't they know Sherlock doesn't do anonymous clients?

He opens the email: no subject and no content except for an attachment—a newspaper article from over a year ago.

He rolls his eyes, annoyed. Why would someone bother to collect and attach an old article without giving the slightest information about themselves? Are people incapable of using their own words to describe what their case is about?

He skims the text absentmindedly, then frowns when his eyes land on the picture of a happy family featured in the article. He blinks repeatedly and leans towards the screen, shocked. That's not possible. It can't be.

He scrolls back up to read the title and the first lines attentively.

Explosion in Italian Consulate: the Consul's family decimated

Due to a gas leak, a massive explosion burst down an Italian Consulate in Latin America. When the firefighters arrived on the scene, 90% of the building had already been destroyed by the flames. Official sources have confirmed three fatalities: the Consul, his wife, and one of their daughters (the woman on the right in the photo).

He looks at the picture again, and all the colour drains from his face.

The Admirals' House

In the exact moment Fred fires his weapon, Giulia lunges towards Sherlock and tackles him to the ground. The impetus of her jump flings them on the carpet of the living room. Sherlock falls backwards while Giulia lands on top of his chest, making him cough out all the oxygen in his lungs. She whips her head up with an apologetic look and rapidly scans his expression for signs of pain.

His face is just a few inches away from hers; his breath brushes against her lips as he tries to take in a gulp of air. A tuft of her hair is hanging loose in front of her forehead, stroking Sherlock's cheek. As they are entangled on the floor, she shifts away from his diaphragm, letting him breathe normally. Without a word, she checks on him by staring into his piercing eyes; they are so close.

He inhales deeply and props himself up on his elbows, groaning, "In your previous life, did you play rugby, by any chance?"

She doesn't have the time to come up with a witty reply because he clutches her arm and pulls her closer, dragging her out of the line of fire. One second later, a bullet darts right where her head was. He tries to shelter both of them behind the sofa as Fred takes aim again and shoots in their direction. Sherlock bends down as another bullet grazes a cushion of the backrest that is shielding him, just a few inches above his shoulder. Fred fires some more shots as they crouch down, trying to make themselves less of a target.

"You will never get to her, you will never lay a finger on my wife," Mr Admiral shouts angrily, firing away.

Giulia looks at Sherlock with both terror and determination. "What do we do now?"

He shuts his eyes for a second, raising his fingers up to his temples while elaborating an exit strategy inside his mind place; while providing the solution to the murder, he memorised the plan of the ground floor of the house, and a clear exit path now appears in his brain.

He snaps his eyes open and rapidly explains, "From where we're standing, the rear door is closer than the main entrance and easier to reach. If we sneak out through that, we will be out in the garden and could run to the car I parked in the driveway. But we still need a diversion." He lets out a low moan of defeat. "I wish I hadn't locked my Browning in that drawer."

"Would this still do the trick?" She produces her gun out of the pocket of her coat. "Before you ask, that's why it took me a while to get dressed, back at Baker Street: I was taking the gun out of my other coat that was hung on the rack. It's not like I bring weapons with me to my exams," she jokes around.

Sherlock's eyes sparkle. "You did like my Christmas gift, then."

"I figured that since you made me leave my bodyguard behind, I could at least bring with me another instrument of the Holmeses' protection." She winks at him and hands the gun over to Sherlock.

"Here's the plan: I'll fire some shots at Fred while you grab and topple that little wooden table on your right, next to the armrest of the sofa. We are going to use it as a shield to get to the rear door. It's not the best cover, but we only have to run for a couple of metres: it'll be enough. All clear?"

She nods without a word.

"Are you ready?" he asks, placing his left hand on her shoulder in a reassuring and encouraging gesture. She nods again and takes a deep breath.

The next thing she knows, her hands are grasping the wooden stand as she knocks it over and lifts it by levering one of the table's legs with her shoulder. She squeezes her body behind it and makes room for Sherlock, who takes off the gun safety and fires several times against Fred, struggling to get a clear shot of his target perched on the staircase, mostly out of sight. Giulia tries to provide as much cover as possible for the two of them while they simultaneously move toward the rear door.

They proceed one leg after the other, trying to dodge bullets, and have almost reached the rear door when Sherlock's phone rings. Without losing sight of Fred's line of fire, he quickly takes the call.

"John? This is not a good time." He whiffles, squashing his full height behind the small table that is now riddled by bullets.

Giulia stretches out her hand to lower the handle of the door and glares at Sherlock. Why did he even pick up?

"I don't care. I've something important to tell you right now," Watson's voice replies, anguished, unaware of their current situation.

"Could you wait for a bit?" Holmes groans.

"No. Your life might be in danger—" Watson stops and holds his breath as he hears the distinguishing sound of shots being fired on the other side of the line.

"You don't say," Sherlock ironically replies, rolling his eyes.

"There was an email in your Inbox containing an old article about an explosion in an Italian Consulate—"

"I don't have time to work right now," the detective interrupts him. "I'll think about it when I get home."

"No. Listen to me, please. According to the newspaper, one year ago, that explosion killed the Consul, his wife, and one of their two daughters whose smiley face is clearly visible in the picture beside the text." John's tone gets more alarmed by the second.

"It's interesting, I'll grant you that, but—"

"I have the picture in front of my eyes, Sherlock, and there's no doubt," John cuts him short. "It is also stated in the text: the woman was 24 years old, and her name was Giulia. According to this article, Giulia is supposed to have—"

"Died one year ago," Sherlock completes his sentence, coming to a sudden halt while his blood runs cold.

A second later, a bullet pierces him.