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83. The sound of death

Sherlock gazes at the box in his hands, feeling everybody's look on himself. They are all waiting for a reaction that never comes. He looks frozen, as still as the carved angels on the column capitals all around them.

"I'd better go now. The wake in honour of our Mother Superior is starting soon." Sister Laura breaks the awkward silence with a tender voice. "Thank you again, Mr Holmes. With the arrest of her murderer, now her soul can finally rest in peace." She makes the sign of the cross and leaves the silent trio plunged in the contemplation of that ominous gift.

Sherlock carefully unwraps the package and lifts the lid of the box. An expression of sudden realisation darts through his eyes as he pulls out another marble statue. The subject sculpted is once again a young woman, but there are some differences compared to the first one. This graceful woman is holding a wind instrument resembling a flute; her head is crowned with a laurel wreath.

"Should we assume we won the game and Moriarty is complimenting us with a wreath that signifies victory, as was the custom for ancient champions or Poets Laureate? Or is he mocking you and warning against the arrogance of resting on your laurels?" Giulia brainstorms with a hint of weary sarcasm.

Sherlock puts the figurine back in the box without uttering a sound, takes the package under his arm, and strides rapidly towards the exit.

"Wait, Sherlock, what does this gift mean?" John shouts after him, baffled.

He turns his head back to yell a reply. "That we are about to find another body."

They storm out of the convent, and Sherlock marches up to Lestrade, who is completing the arrest across the road.

"Detective Inspector, if another murder pops up—" he begins but gets cut short by the D.I.'s portable radio that crackles to life, "To the officers out there in the Chiswick area: the lifeless body of a man has just been discovered in a swimming pool..." the operator goes on and gives the exact location.

"Take the case," Sherlock immediately commands him after listening to the dispatch.

Greg frowns. "In case you haven't noticed, we aren't exactly in Chiswick. This case will be taken over by the police squad of that district, which doesn't count me on their team," he says matter-of-factly and shakes his head. Dealing with Sherlock Holmes is like having to put up with a 5-year-old constantly asking for the moon.

"Then start negotiating a place for us on their guest list for the crime scene," Sherlock replies sarcastically, scowling at the officer's inflexibility. "I will behave properly if you let me glimpse at it. They won't even notice I'm there." He places a hand on his heart, mocking a genuine promise.

"This is a contradiction in terms. You barge in crime scenes with the delicacy of a German panzer," Lestrade retorts.

"And the same level of efficiency. All I ask is that you trust me, just this once." Holmes's tone resounds lower, deeper than usual.

Greg's head whips up upon hearing the pleading note in his voice. He gives him a long look, studying Sherlock's begging eyes. He is not putting up a fuss. This isn't an expression of his usual stubbornness, he suddenly realises. Something is troubling him. It looks like it was personal, and yet nothing is ever personal with Sherlock. He never gets directly involved in a case; he never lets anything get under his skin. Then why is this case so important to him?

He stares into Holmes's determined eyes. "I do trust you, Sherlock. And I wish you weren't always right about these things. But you have to consider that I'm not the only detective in Scotland Yard."

"Though you're the only one who'd cooperate with me. Please, Lestrade, this is unlike anything your colleagues could ever imagine. But you and me, we have been down this road before. Do you remember the bomber and the clues sent to the pink phone?" He cocks a brow at him allusively.