Welcome to Baker Street

95. Final Act

Giulia steals a glance at Sherlock's absorbed expression and feverish activity, and shakes her head, laughing inside. This is what she talked about with Sherlock's mother, after Christmas dinner. His mother had asked her why she put up with her son, and Giulia had pointed to that one particular aspect; since she came to Baker Street for the first time, she had noticed a sparkle in him, a burning flame of curiosity and passion for his detective work. At first, his childish enthusiasm for cases caught her attention as one of his many quirks. But now, after many months and even more internal battles, whenever she watches him in his impetus of adrenaline rush, a ridiculous, spontaneous smile plasters on her face. She loves his passion, his devotion to the search for the truth. She loves that inhumanly dangerous life by his side.

As her eyes linger over his movements, a detail catches her attention, waking her up from her daydream; some beads of sweat are forming fast on Sherlock's forehead, trickling on the keyboard over which he is towering. She frowns at the anomalous reaction of his body. It's mid-February, and the theatre is still considered as an active crime scene; therefore, any activity inside it has been shut down, meaning no one has taken the trouble of turning the heat on lately. Besides, they aren't even wearing their coats; they left them in the museum cloakroom when they rushed to the theatre without a second thought.

Inside the direction cabin, she is freezing; she has to restrain her jaw from making her teeth chatter. She looks at Sherlock; whenever he talks, a puff of white smoke comes out of his mouth, so he must be cold, too. How can he be sweating so much, then? What is going on with his body?

She lowers her eyes to his hands and notices that he is spasmodically clenching his right fist to dominate the uncontrollable shaking in his hand. That's not a cold shiver, though.

Her quick mind draws one logical conclusion: the inexplicable tremor and copious sweat are all physical symptoms of his post-traumatic stress disorder. Solving this case is making adrenaline pump into his veins, triggering a reaction in his scarred subconscious.

She gives him a concerned look and murmurs, "Sherlock, did you take your medicine today?"

He covers the microphone with his hand and whispers back, "What are you talking about?"

"Are you feeling alright? Before going to the exhibition, did you remember to take all the medicine the doctor prescribed you?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, trying to recall his last actions before leaving the house. As his memory focuses on the tablets that he left on his nightstand, that recollection brings to the surface another image: the two bottles of lotion he had toyed with during the costumer's interrogation in the wardrobe department. Even back then, the sight of those medicaments had triggered his PTSD, already aggravated by his utter ineptitude to take care of himself.

Right now, though, the resurfacing of that piece of information that he stored away in his mind palace flashes before his closed eyes, providing him with the final answer that he has been secretly chasing all along.

He opens his eyes wide, exclaiming, "The medicines. That was the key, and it was right under my nose. Yes! You are a genius."

In the heat of the moment, he takes her head between his hands and plants a kiss on Giulia's forehead.

She arches a brow, bewildered in front of such an unusual display of affection. "What was that?"

He takes a step backwards and clears his throat, blushing slightly, then states timidly, "A sign of gratitude. For inspiring me with the definitive solution to this enigma."

He hurriedly turns his back to her and resumes his show, speaking straight into the microphone for everyone to hear.

"When I solved the case in my mind, less than an hour ago, one tiny detail kept eluding me. Everything fell into place so smoothly and perfectly that even the slightest inconsistency stood out. Now it is perfectly clear that you people shared one common motive—you were mostly driven by blind revenge. The wife wanted to get back at her cheating husband; the mistress needed to avenge his forthcoming abandonment and negligence, and so did the producer. As for the journalist, we've already established that he was trying to get revenge for his suicidal sister, the never-to-be bride. But what about the costume designer? Calvin was surely upset about Vincent's fits of rage and tantrums because of his skin allergy, but that is too little, too flimsy. What real incentive could he ever have to participate in a cold-blooded homicide? What drove you to murder, Calvin?"