Welcome to Baker Street

54. The choice

Sherlock reaches out and slowly grabs the gun from the hands of the wary guard. The butt of the Browning is in his hand. He has held his firearm so often that he doesn't even need to check the magazine to perceive that there is just one bullet in it. He looks down at the gun and tries to focus on his next move while a disturbing thought crosses his mind. With a weapon in his hand, is there really a line that can't be crossed?

Kevin glances at him and anticipates his thinking process.

"Before you do something rash and reckless, let's go through every possible scenario, shall we? You are now armed, and this could give the impression of levelling the playing field. But if you reconsidered the whole situation, you'd understand that you're still on the losing side. Let's think: what could be your best bet? Aiming for my head, for starters... Wrong!" he shouts. "In the time it'd take you to lift your arm and take aim, my friend here would put two bullets in your skull."

Sherlock takes a deep breath, reluctantly excluding that option from his mental list, then looks around the dark place. He shifts his eyes to the guard who is still aiming at him, and a corner of his mouth lifts upwards almost imperceptibly. But before he could make the slightest movement, Kevin forestalls him.

"I know what you're thinking: everything would be easier if you could just overcome my guard. Once again, that would be utterly useless because the moment you shoot in his direction, Giulia will die by my hand. I'm afraid I forgot to mention that I picked up another souvenir from your house. I thought it might come in handy."

He takes out of his pocket the multi-tool knife that the detective uses to stab his envelopes onto the mantelpiece. As Sherlock's eyes land on the shining blade, his mind presents him with the image of the ash falling from his hair onto some envelopes scattered on the floor by the fireplace, less than one hour before. There was a reason those envelopes weren't skewered on the wooden ledge. He was just too absorbed in the search for his Browning to notice that something was off in the messy living room. He closes his eyes, defeated.

"No matter what you do, you're at a dead end. She will be murdered with a weapon that belongs to you, and you're going to be held responsible, anyway. You can't save her. There's no room for a selfless sacrifice either: I'm not giving you the luxury of taking her place and playing the part of the fearless knight." Kevin anticipates even that last desperate possibility.

"I haven't been awarded the knighthood yet, technically."

Kevin smirks at his snarky comment: soon, Sherlock Holmes won't be in the mood to joke anymore. He just needs one last push.

"I haven't been completely forthright, though. If you won't be the one to pull the trigger and instead decide to leave me the pleasure of this homicide, I promise you I won't make it quick, let alone painless. I will torture her before your eyes until she begs you to shoot to spare her all the excruciating pain."

Suddenly, Kevin leans forward and pulls Giulia's chair towards him, making the small wheels creak and roll over the floor. He rapidly draws the blade of the multi-tool knife and places it near Giulia's cheek. Sherlock feels as if his heart had suddenly jumped in his throat, stopping him from breathing. There's no time for irrational reactions. Pull yourself together! He yells at himself inside his brain.

Giulia screams and tries to wiggle out of that iron grip, in vain. The blade brushes her skin just for one second, then Kevin withdraws the knife and pushes the chair away, leaving her paralysed in full sight under the beam of light: the perfect target. She squints her eyes, terrified. A single tear rolls down her face, passes over the little fresh cut that has just formed on her cheek, and blends with a drop of blood, eventually turning into a crimson bead that glides down to her chin.

Kevin gazes at their faces, frozen in terror.

"Make up your mind, Holmes. Do you want to be the protagonist or the spectator of this tragedy? What's your choice, option number one or two?" He trills in a singsong fashion, and the echo of his voice disperses in the room right when the detective believes to hear a door click. Is he hallucinating now? Or is there a sniper hidden in the dark pointing a red dot at his back, too?

Shadowy memories of a similar scene (the kidnapping of one of his friends, coupled with the doomed confrontation with a criminal in a deserted building) are projected inside his mind like frames on a screen.

Sherlock breathes in and swallows hard, regaining control over his body.

"I don't see why it should be important. The outcome is always the same: she dies, and everyone will think that I am the murderer."

Giulia looks daggers at him, a faint red trace still on her cheek. Does he realise he is talking about her murder?

"But what will you think of yourself? Jail time never passes, I can tell you. And a feverish mind like yours could do terrible things; it can torment you for months, driving you crazy. What will you think when you are locked up? Will you blame yourself for not being able to save her, or will you also feel guilty about killing her with your own hands?"

Sherlock sighs. Kevin is right about one thing. The conscience is the only court before which everyone always faces their trial, in the end.

"That's it, then. Not only do you wish to destroy my reputation and see me rot in jail, but you also want to turn me into a monster," the detective finally realises.

Kevin smiles proudly at him. Sherlock Holmes is about to fall. Oh, the satisfaction of that moment. He has waited ten endless years to taste it.

"Time's up. The choice is all yours."

Sherlock exhales and raises his Browning toward Giulia, aiming at her head.

"I never had a choice and we both know that," he murmurs. He isn't addressing him but her.

She nods. She wishes she had the strength to tell him that she understands and forgives him. She wishes she could be strong and embrace death peacefully. It seems just right: she managed to ditch the Grim Reaper before, but she can't escape it forever. Yet she is not ready to die.

She closes her eyes and waits for the end.

A split second before his finger can pull the trigger, Sherlock hears a whisper coming from the opposite side of the room. Just a couple of words: Vatican Cameos.

Then a gunshot echoes in the room.

Author's note: Dear readers, I would love to hear your thoughts and comments on this work. I'm curious: what do you think of this story? Are you enjoying the cases? What about the characters?

Please, don't be shy; any kind of feedback (constructive criticism included) is highly appreciated. Thank you.