Welcome to Baker Street

40. Good m...urder!

* * * Quick Author's Note. A little advice: if you can, listen to Lacrimosa, an amazing piece from The Requiem by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. I'd recommend the version of David Garrett performing the piece on the violin. It will let you immerse in the atmosphere at the beginning of this chapter.

Several days later, Giulia enters the flat, following the plaintive violin tune coming from upstairs.

"Good morning," she cheerfully exclaims as she steps into the living room and waves at John sitting in his armchair.

"Look who's in a good mood," she ironically adds, nodding at Sherlock who is playing the violin standing near the window, with his back facing her. The heart-wrenching notes of Mozart's Requiem fill up the room, making the atmosphere gloomy and sorrowful.

She bends down to whisper in John's ear, "What happened?"

"He's simply depressed. He hasn't had a proper case in a week, and it's driving him crazy. Here he is: officially celebrating the death of his own mind," he replies, sipping his tea. Business as usual at 221B.

She looks at the absorbed violinist, seemingly unaware of their presence.

"And what will happen when a big case finally pops up? Will he spring across the room playing Beethoven's Ode to Joy?" she jokes.

At that moment, the bow slides harshly along the strings, and the music immediately stops. Sherlock turns around and complains, "You two distracted me."

"To be fair, you were the one who turned breakfast into a funeral," Giulia rebuts.

He groans, places his violin on the table, and walks back and forth across the living room. She observes his movements with a scowl. Her eyes scan his arms in search of some signs of narcotics, but he is wearing a long-sleeved gown, and it's impossible to say whether he is on drugs or simply having a nervous breakdown.

"I want a case. Give me a case," he bursts out, sinking down into his armchair.

Right when John and Giulia exchange an exasperated look, Sherlock's phone rings.

"What a coincidence," she says excitedly.

"Coincidences don't exist. The universe isn't so lazy," Holmes snaps back, stealing a look at the lit screen.

"It means the universe has listened to your prayers, then."

He takes the call and puts it on speakerphone. "Lestrade? What do you have for me?"

"Hello, Sherlock." The unmistakable voice of the D.I. crackles from the device. "I'm fine. Thank you for asking. It's very kind of you," he adds sarcastically.

"The whole point of my gruff manner and clipped replies is to skip the small talk, but you don't seem to get it. Now, please, hurry. I'll give you two minutes to show me you have something worthy of my time."

"A strange thing has happened to me today," Greg starts off nervously.

"What is it? You managed to solve a crime all by yourself?" Sherlock mocks him.

They distinctly hear Greg sigh on the other end of the line.

"I've run across a new, mysterious case. Death on the Alpes."

"No, please. Don't give cases a title as John does. You are not a blogger, for goodness sake. You're a detective inspector—even if you wouldn't deserve such an appellation," Holmes bitterly remarks.

"Whatever. There's a dead man here, Sherlock." Greg's voice resounds deeper.

"Here? Why are you investigating a crime scene on the Alpes? I'm pretty sure it doesn't fall within your division. What are you doing up there, Lestrade?"

"I'm supposed to be on holiday, believe it or not. Could you please help me, now?" he begs.

"Fine. So, somebody died on a mountain. What's interesting about that?"

"To begin with, we cannot identify this man. I didn't find any ID, mobile phone, credit cards on the body—nothing. No one seems to have ever met him; he was alone, and nobody has been reported missing yet," Lestrade dutifully reports.

"You keep missing the point, Lestrade. Why should I be involved? You're running out of time: two minutes nearly expired," Sherlock informs the officer in a bored tone.

"Wait!" Greg shouts out, panicking.

Sherlock lets out a deep breath and massages his forehead.

"Alright, here's the thing: you're a detective from Scotland Yard who has just found an unidentified corpse. I'm sure you could work something out with the local police, and yet you phoned me. So, I suggest you cut to the chase now. Inspector, why do you think this is murder?"

"I don't," Greg hastens to reply. "It's fairly obvious that it was an accident: this guy unwisely went off the ski slope, trying to make his way through the trees toward the bottom of the valley, but he fell down and slammed his head on a rock."

"What was the point in phoning me, then?" Sherlock says, losing his patience.

"I found a piece of paper on the body, with handwriting on it: just a name and a phone number," is his laconic reply.

"Here we go: you're finally delivering relevant information." Holmes rubs his hands together expectantly. "Do you recognise the name?"

"I sure do. It's yours."