Welcome to Baker Street

101. False step

As soon as Giulia crosses the threshold of Molly's room and steps into the corridor, her eyes fill with tears and she doubles over, burying her face into her quivering hands. It takes her all her self-control not to sob uncontrollably. She has been fighting these tears for so long, but she doesn't want Sherlock to hear her. She doesn't even want him to see her cry. After all, Sherlock was so adamant to shoo her away from his mental weaknesses, so why should she let him peek at her emotional vulnerabilities?

She realises he might step into the corridor at any moment, and she straightens up rapidly, placing a hand on a wall for support. As she walks down the corridor, she rubs the back of her hand under her eyes and vaguely stares at her fingers now smudged with her make-up. It would seem that in this crazy game, all the masks are coming off. And she isn't sure anymore whether she will like what she finds at the end.

Left alone in the silent room, the detective lowers his eyes on his left hand still placed on the gun-shaped handle; he immediately retracts it as if he had just touched a burning ember. He instinctively brushes the tips of his fingers against his shirt, where the bandage covers his gunshot scar. It is nothing more than a conditioned reflex by now: he feels no pain anymore. He knows that the soothing gesture is just a sign of his post-traumatic stress disorder. As much as his body has fully restored, his mind hasn't healed yet, and this game has cracked open all his mental wounds, threatening to leave him with even more trauma.

He walks slowly towards the door, thinking back at Giulia's determined gaze as she leapt through the air to save Molly's life. It wasn't the first time he had seen that fierce look in her eyes. She had the same expression when she drove him desperately to the hospital. The terror in her eyes was the same, as was the fortitude. She is much stronger than anyone, even him, gives her credit for.

The next conclusion flows naturally across his mind. She doesn't need anyone to help her do anything. She doesn't even need anyone to support her while she walks through hell with her head held high. She doesn't need anyone, period. But she does want something... someone. She wants someone to stay by her side, take her hand, and jump with her into the void, facing whatever challenge lies ahead. And no, it can't be just anybody. It must be him.

He walks out of the room with a steady gait. It's time he took his place in her life, for her and himself.

Giulia is halfway down the corridor. As she hears Sherlock's footsteps behind her, his words echo in her mind. "I am not afraid to be beaten," that's what he had said in his hideously patronising tone.

Now she knows he was just trying to hide his insecurities, his fear of not being right. Yet, she cannot help but wonder what the hidden meaning of that sentence was. Did he imply he wasn't afraid of being beaten by just anyone or was it intended for her specifically? Behind his narcissistic tendencies, he has always acknowledged someone else's wit. For instance, he is fully aware of his brother's capabilities, and he has never shied away from addressing a compliment to John when he felt his efforts deserved it. Hell, he would applaud Moriarty for his brilliance at that very moment. Yet with her, he has always been stingy with his praise, as if by acknowledging her intelligence, he would be compelled to admit she hasn't only enamoured his heart but also charmed his mind. What an outrage.

She closes her eyes for a second and sighs, thinking, But isn't it what everyone looks for in life: a deep, thorough connection of body and mind?

She opens her eyes again. Everyone but him, apparently.

She reaches the end of the corridor and passes through the doorway into a dim-lit room, followed suit by the detective.

John turns towards her. Upon seeing her watery eyes, he shoots her a worried look, arching his brow and shifting his gaze to the man standing behind her. He doesn't have to voice his question because she can clearly see it written on his wrinkled forehead: did he make you cry?