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108. Sword of Damocles

Sherlock clenches his jaw imperceptibly and lets Jim's comment sink in. At that moment, he realises something that he could have never expected from himself. No matter Giulia's answer, no matter the underlying reasons for her choice, right now he would do anything for her.

The realisation triggers him into his poker-face-detective mode. He takes a step forward and quickly scans the bodyguard from head to toe.

"Alright, let's think. What would be the appropriate capital punishment for a traitor?"

Before either John or Giulia could reply, he says in a disinterested tone, "Given that we have the statue of the Muse of epic poetry, we could take a cue from the ancient civilisations that created epic masterpieces, such as the Romans and Greeks. I would exclude the first, though, since the Romans used to hurl traitors off the Tarpeian Rock, which was a steep cliff in Rome used precisely to carry out executions."

Regardless of the gravity of the situation, he can never resist flaunting his boundless general knowledge. It's just the inherent arrogance of his character, he convinces himself. He wouldn't have any ulterior motive to strut about at this very moment, would he?

He interrupts the disturbing chain of his thoughts and gives a sarcastic nod to the immobilized bodyguard.

"That'd be impractical, right now. Maybe we should stick to the Ancient Greeks and some more classical death penalties, like stoning or beheadings." He turns towards his friends. "Do you see anything that makes you think Mr Wellington could be killed by a boulder or an axe?"

Giulia gapes at him. "Sherlock, what are you even talking about? What are you doing?"

"Since you've decided to play, I am just playing the round." He shrugs, but a cutting note seeps out of his voice.

"As always, I'm starting off by considering the threat against this man." He taps a finger on the glass with the same jeering attitude of children at the zoo.

Giulia scrutinises him for a few instants. She knows he is doing the most rational thing now, but she didn't miss his clenched jaw and hard gaze. Is he offended by her choice to save Thomas?

She bites the inside of her cheek. He has every right to be furious at her for putting both him and John in danger.

Watson reads the room and provides a timely reality check. "We could discuss old killing methods for hours. Or we could take advantage of the possibility of interacting with the hostage and just ask him," he sensibly suggests, turning towards the chained prisoner. "Mr Wellington..."

"Just Thomas, please," he interrupts him. "This is no time for formality."

"Right, Thomas, I'm John Watson. Do you see any imminent threat against your life?"

The bodyguard opens his palms to them, showing his restraints. "Since I'm tied to this chair, I'd say that pretty much anything could happen to me without me being able to react and defend myself."

"No, not anything," Sherlock scoffs, and his patience wears thin. What does Giulia see in such a dim-witted man?

"Look attentively around the room," he orders him without bothering to introduce himself.

Thomas trails his gaze around, peering in all directions. He lifts his head up, only to be blinded by the solitary light shining in his room. He shuts his eyes and groans.

"I can't see directly above my head, unfortunately, and I can't distinguish anything vaguely threatening around me. This room looks empty."

"There must be something. There always is," John reflects, then turns toward Holmes and concedes, "Okay, back to your initial method. What treacherous character of epic poems royally screwed up?"