The shadow of a smile flashes on her face as she mentally adds, I'm not sorry for getting rid of his drugs, to be honest.
She raises her gaze on John: he is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. She shakes her head as if to erase all her words or simply rewind.
"Actually, I think I was rambling. Just tell him that he is finally having his life back. It's what he wanted."
"Giulia," John begins, but she cuts him off.
"Please, now go."
He has no choice but to turn around and walk away. He climbs the stairs and enters the living room only to find Sherlock lost in his mind palace. He sighs and sinks into his chair. No one speaks for several minutes, then they hear some commotion downstairs. Sherlock grumbles, but doesn't come back to reality. John stares at him while mustering all his self-control not to punch him. They go on like this for half an hour: John plotting Sherlock's murder and Sherlock guessing what original insults John might come up with.
After a while, Sherlock contemplates the blissful calmness in the flat and breathes out, "She is finally done raising hell down there. I'm glad the noise stopped."
Watson groans, "You won't have to worry about the noise anymore. She's moving out."
Holmes ponders that statement for a while, then says flatly, "Good."
"That's all you have to say?" John blurts out. "Jesus, Sherlock, you've just kicked out a woman sending her out in the street homeless and alone."
Sherlock gazes upon vacancy and talks like a robot, "She should have never come to this place. She'd better keep her distance."
"How can you go on like this? She is our friend."
Sherlock's head jerks up at those words. "This was our first mistake. Calling her like that, considering her like that," he spits out, wrinkling his nose in a grimace of disapproval.
"And what's wrong with friends?" John asks but immediately raises a hand in the air to prevent his predictable comeback. "No, don't bother answering. I wonder why I keep asking you these questions."
Holmes lets out a deep sigh as if he was trying to get rid of a burden constricting his chest, his conscience maybe.
"Being friends with someone is normal—or at least you all make it look like that. But being friends with us... That is masochistic. We are dangerous, John. Can't you see it? We are, in fact, dangerous people who tend to run into very dangerous situations more often than expected, than humanly plausible. This is what we are, this is our lifestyle, and we are used to it. But she shouldn't be involved in this; it wouldn't be fair. Because we chose it in the first place, and she didn't."
"You're wrong. She did choose this lifestyle, this mess, even the danger. Everything she did was based on her own choice. Nobody has ever forced her to be around us, Sherlock. We are dangerous, and she knew it. Yet she stayed. Until you showed her the door," John retorts, lowering his eyes.
"Oh, forgive me if I wanted her out of the most perilous place in London," Sherlock snaps back.
Watson turns towards him, confused. "What are you talking about?"
"I will not deny that I am the most selfish, obnoxious man in this city, but I didn't get rid of her on a whim."
John does a double-take and frowns, clueless. "I don't understand."
"I phoned a killer a few days ago," Holmes reminds him as if that was enough of an explanation.
"I know."
"But you don't know that he threatened me during our call. And not just me: he said he would become a concrete presence in my life," Sherlock quotes the obscure words of that voice.
"What does it mean?" John scratches his head, baffled.
"Haven't the faintest. But it was quite obvious that everyone around me was in danger—"
"Including Giulia," John completes his sentence, finally getting his intentions.
"Yup. That's why I've been so hateful and mean to her lately. I was just trying to get her to walk away from me. I simply wanted to—"
"Save her," John concludes his sentence again as his brain works frantically.
"Yes. Would you please let me finish?" He groans.
"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up and listen." John places a finger on his lips, signalling him to keep quiet.
The detective pricks up his ears for a couple of seconds, then shakes his head.
"To what? I can't hear anything."
"Exactly." John is struck by a sudden realisation, and all colour drains from his face.
"Oh, God." He whips around and sprints out of the room.
Sherlock follows him downstairs. "Wait, John. Where are you going?"
"All that noise and commotion we previously heard was coming from Giulia's room," he specifies, dashing along the staircase.
They reach the door of 221C: there are clear signs of a break-in around the lock and the damaged handle. They freeze and slowly push the door open, peeking inside.
Most of her clothes and books are now packed inside suitcases and bags. There's no sign of all the chaos John saw, but also no sign of Giulia.
Holmes inspects some dirty footprints on the floor and kneels down next to a white tissue abandoned in a corner. He grabs it and carefully moves it close to his nose. He immediately wrinkles his nostrils and throws the handkerchief away.
"Chloroform," he states.
John gives him a desperate look.
"She has been kidnapped. You didn't save her, after all."