While heading towards the Bank of England – supposedly the key to Moriarty's decay – I came to the conclusion that guilt was among the most degrading emotions one could feel, if not the top of the pyramid itself.
It occurred to me that Rhea's sulky mien, reinforced by those pouty lips of hers – seemingly perhaps? – was honestly making me devoid of any reasoning or rational judgement. Despite being compelled to repeat the plan in my head – a step rather unnecessary, considering that I already learned it by heart – the webs of my mind entangled so deviously that each space left was filled with Rhea. And when I say "filled", I mean it in the sense that the whole bloody Armageddon unveiled itself in between my brain lobes.
"Passenger Sherlock Holmes is required on Planet Normal." I heard Mycroft's voice on my right, literally grazing my ears.
"What is the use of such less-than-funny observations?" My monotonous voice inquired, while pondering on whether I should jump out of the cab and crash my forehead against a hydrant or strangle him.
Mycroft heaved in discontent at my lack of reaction – more likely at my too dull of a reaction – and muttered. "After we arrange an appointment to the Vault and Rhea exits the hospital..."
"Pardon me?!" I interrupted furiously, banging my soon-to-be fist into the cushion of my seat.
Why was she in a hospital, anyway?
Mycroft ignored my comment and continued, bearing no remorse for leaving my question hanging in midair. "... you should talk to her. Caged feelings bring no benefits. Both of us, as sons of the almighty Morland Holmes, should know that."
Although extremely eager to free hateful quips off the tip of my tongue, I refrained myself from doing so, simply because brother dear was right.
Communication, regardless of my deficient abilities in that particular area, was very much mandatory. I needed to set things straight with Rhea before neither of us could think and act properly.
"Alright, I shall talk to her later and put your statement about Rhea's hospitalization aside. Meanwhile, we have reached the Bank."
Mycroft nodded, paid the driver and we were soon greeted by the equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington, reigning outside the Bank, its metal surface glowing in the chaste rays of the autumnal sun (such a bloody poet I am).
What a lovely day to ask the manager of the Bank for favours!
Mycroft and I entered the Bank and our jaws instantly fell to the marbled floor. The royal appearance of the statuesque columns in each corner of the Hall could easily compete with that of Queen Elisabeth's mansions. What startled me to no end was the familiarity of the employees, whose smiles could brightly substitute the large, faceted crystals of the main chandelier.
Was I entering a childhood story where I was the big, bad wolf howling after the Little Red Riding Hood? I surely hope not.
I coughed intentionally, motioning Mycroft to ask for the manager at the reception. He complied and in five minutes' time, we were invited in the office of the aforementioned chap.
Well, he was not exactly... a chap. One would take too many risks if he considered that unrefined, yet pretentious man as someone who could be subdued to mockery without subsequent vengeance. On a theoretical level, I could ridicule him, but that would jeopardize the privilege of entering the Gold Vault.
"It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." I switched on my polite mode, careful not to disclose any scornful gestures.
Mycroft greeted as well, although his civility emerged more instinctively.
"Likewise. I have heard so many positive reviews about you. Plus, you helped the Bank strengthen its security. A reward would only come naturally." He paused for a second, his bald head almost glinting under the neon lamps.
"However, you need to come up with a bloody good reason as to why you want access to the Gold Vault." His voice dropped significantly low, a menacing undertone lingering.
I stilled. I have already run security checks, I could not pretend to be doing the same again.
I purposely stepped on Mycroft's feet in order to catch his attention. He swiftly realized my unfortunate situation and smiled rather shamefacedly.
Blimey, he has no plan either.
"Well, what do you think I need it for?" I found myself asking, oblivious of the possibility of antinomy between his answer and my optimistic expectations.
"Your own interest, I presume. Of course you would not leak your reason, but you can at least tell me if it is a good cause or not." The manager arched his lips in a Chesire smile.
In translation, "You can give me a bribe of some sort if you want to gain entrance". How bloody fortunate!
"With all due respect, sir, I do not end deals with dogs. Actually, dogs are loyal, kind and selfless, therefore much better than a man who climbed up the social ladder using nothing but queer acquaintances and a lot of arse-kissing."
Favourably, I managed to keep my thoughts from materializing into what may have been the worst penalty ever to be received from Rhea. Because, let's face it straightforwardly, Rhea would execute me if I fail to accomplish the plan she so meticulously forged.
Oh, Rhea, where is your royalty-worthy diplomacy when I need it? I heaved internally, wondering how some people are actually able to have sugar-coated lips, instead of venomous ones.
I would have criticized that manager in the firmest of manners, if not for the obvious inconvenience.
Dear God, would you be so merciful so as to offer me a hand? I asked Him rhetorically, conscious of the fact that He could not possibly hear me.
Mycroft shifted anxiously, biting his lips and pondering on the possibility of fleeing. Of course he searched for an escape. He would always want to divagate from a problem instead of facing it heroically.
Suddenly, the manager's phone lit up, signaling a call despite it being on vibrations.
"Sir..." I tilted my head in the direction of the phone, curious about the origins of that call.
The manager nodded and answered, his creased features glowing as he recognized the voice on the other end of the line.
"Rhea, to what do I owe this honour?" The bald mate's chirpy voice emerged from his vocal chords.
While receiving the awaited answer, I noticed a positive change in his features, a sudden shift whose merits belonged to none other than Rhea. It was peculiarly fascinating to observe her impact on every individual to whom those honeyed words were addressed. She was... she was even more compelling than C.
C did not linger enough, of that I was unconcerned. But Rhea's mellifluous voice... oh, that lasted despite any reticence one may extend towards it. Those modulations infected you to the point where everything became desert if not being acquainted with the holy water it provided.
In my case, however, there was a subtle difference. While others were bereft from their encounter onwards, I felt hollow until that meeting. It may have been a basic matter of semantics, but that subtlety was the very proof of our bond – a link which, due to my full-on idiocy, was falling into a regress beyond repair.
My stream of consciousness was soon transferred to present time, more specifically to the moment when Rhea was put on speaker.
"I am sure you can allow my friends to enter the Vault, right? After all, Sherlock is so anti-social that he cannot even bring himself close to killing a bee." I heard Rhea's mocking chuckle and would have blessed her with an equally uncivil retort if not for the current situation of insult impotence.
The manager simpered – it was more of a childish giggle, to be honest – and nodded. "Alright. Cheers, my darling. I will let Jonas know you called."
"I would love to hear news from him. Keep your fingers crossed on my behalf." Rhea paused for a few seconds before asking him to hand me the phone.
I slightly gritted my teeth.
"For your information, Jonas is his son. I helped him fight his severe social anxiety. That would be all."
I found myself sighing in content, as if a burdensome load was taken off my shoulders.
"Fancy the green-eyed monster?" Rhea inquired sheepishly. "I like it."
I would have bet her cheeks turned rosy in that instant.
What did she mean by "I like it", though? <<Your jealousy makes me think you care about me>> or <<Your jealousy proves you are enslaved to your emotions, therefore incredibly weak>>?
You may be of prick descendance, but you surely ain't one. Perfect, just bloody perfect. Am I turning ghetto now? Focus!
"See you soon, mea pulchra." I said my farewell, my voice a bare whisper. Rhea said nothing and ended the phone call abruptly, but her silence was of inmost meaning.
I returned the phone to its rightful owner and prepared myself for the minutes to come. We were to enter the Bank of England Gold Vault, bearing nothing in mind but the retrieval of the object equal to Moriarty's decrepitude.
All three of us rose from our seats and exited the manager's office, directing our path towards the renowned circular metal door.
I heard a loud beep coming from the direction of Mycroft's phone, but was not awfully bothered by it. Brother dear had an extreme anti-smartphone policy, therefore his brick of a phone ceased to function from time to time. Right before entering the gold chamber, he managed to catch a glimpse of it and his eyebrows furrowed. Did he actually receive a text message or was he simply notified of a battery failure?
Oh, bugger. Not of much importance, anyway. I thought while stepping inside, my whispery words colliding with the stale air of the Vault.
"Ad eundum quo nemo ante iit."
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"To boldy go where no man has gone before."