"Delivery for Mr. Holmes," the courier said, presenting his clipboard for a signature as Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes arrived back at the flat. Sherlock glanced at the packet the man held. Suddenly animated, he plucked it from the man's grasp, turned, unlocked the flat, and disappeared up the stairs without breaking stride.
John sighed. "Here, I'll sign for it," he said, taking the clipboard.
Upstairs, John expected to find Sherlock eagerly perusing the delivery's contents. Instead, he found his friend seated at the desk, the large envelope unopened before him, so still that John immediately knew that the envelope must contain something important.
"Sit down, John," Sherlock said quietly.
Something in Sherlock's voice made John begin to give the situation his full attention. "What's that?" he asked. "Something you expected?"
"Yes. For some time now. A Class A analysis can take up to several months," Sherlock said. He picked up the envelope and turned it so that John could see the address.
"Lestrade's office?" John said.
"Yes, forensic toxicology report," Sherlock replied.
"What were they running for you? Not crime scene evidence, surely, those results can't be sent to private citizens."
"Exactly crime scene evidence," Sherlock replied, his gaze back on the envelope before him. "However, there won't be a prosecution in this case, so Lestrade authorized his office to send me a summary of the results. Of course, I'm sure he had no idea why it might be important."
"And why might it be important?" John asked, impatiently, when Sherlock was silent for half a minute.
"These are the results from the evidence taken at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College." Sherlock's voice was still quiet, almost emotionless.
"Where?" John asked, trying to remember.
"Where the cabbie and I had our … conversation," Sherlock answered. He can't take his eyes off that envelope, John thought.
No prosecution. Of course, the cabbie was dead. "Sherlock," John said carefully, "What did that cabbie say to you, that you were going to risk taking that pill? You've never told me."
"And you've asked four times, yes, I know," Sherlock said. "It was … private. But I'll tell you now," he added, sighing. He appeared to be speaking with some effort. "I promised myself that I would tell you, and then open this envelope in your presence."
John stared at his friend. Wordlessly, he nodded, listening.
"The cabbie was extraordinarily brilliant, in that he knew exactly what to say to each of his victims, to press them where they were … weak," Sherlock began. "In my case as well, he was able to pinpoint my weakness, spot on." He's admitting "weakness", John thought. This really is serious.
"My weakness, John," Sherlock said, in answer to John's unasked question, "the weakness the cabbie knew because he suffered from it himself, is that I will do anything – anything – to keep from being bored." He looked directly at John.
"Bored?" John said, taken aback. "But everyone gets bored, sometimes. That's just, well, life."
"No! Being bored, it's not the same thing at all, not for me!" Sherlock insisted, agitated. "Most people go through life half-asleep, eyes shut, brain off, dull, dull, dull! They want life to be that way; they ignore anything potentially interesting even if it is right in front of them! Bored is their default condition and they are satisfied with it! They don't see what I see, or want to know like I need to know. Life can be fascinating, incredible – when I am "on fire" for something, I live, truly live, more than anyone else I've ever met ever does!" Well, that's certainly true, John thought.
"But," Sherlock continued, subsiding, "that is rare … soul-killingly rare. In the meantime I endure unimaginable boredom. Oh, I get things done, my experiments, my music, a few cases, but only once a year or so do I feel I am actually alive. No," he corrected himself thoughtfully. "More often now, since you came, since your blog has been bringing in better cases. Remember that," he said, clearly to himself, eyes closed and fists pressed against his forehead. "More often now."
"So, the cabbie, what did he say, about this weakness of yours?" John asked, truly worried for Sherlock now.
"It was a game," Sherlock said, looking up. "Seldom, so seldom, does someone on my intellectual level propose a game that I want to play." John's eyes flicked to the chessboard, where he and Sherlock had a game going, one move a day. "Not that kind of game," Sherlock said, dismissively, "And, no disrespect, but a completely different calibre of opponent, one who operates at a very, very high level. Real time. Real … stakes."
John swallowed his retort. This isn't about me, he thought. Just listen. When he didn't speak, Sherlock continued, "There were two bottles. Two pills. One containing poison, one safe. I was to choose one, he was to take the other, and then we were both to swallow them."
John gaped. "That's a game?" he said, astonished. "A high-level, 'brilliant' game?"
"Elegant, isn't it?" Sherlock said wistfully, remembering. "Beautiful in its simplicity. Only what was necessary present, and that completely sufficient. Plus the element of time, and the stakes of course, to make it exciting."
"So, you were about to take the pill for a game?" John said, aghast. "A pill that might contain a fast-acting, lethal poison?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied, simply.
John stared. Finally, he asked, "And did you choose the correct pill?" Sherlock's eyes dropped to the envelope. "Oh. I see. You're about to find out if you were right."
"Vindicated, or … defeated," Sherlock agreed. "On the only battlefield I care about."
John looked back at him, truly alarmed now. "And if you're wrong?" he demanded. "What then?"
"It's extremely unlikely I am wrong. However, there is always some margin for error," Sherlock said. "That's why I've asked you to be here when I open it, as a … precaution."
John considered. "What are you likely to do," he said, directly, "if it turns out that you have indeed been wrong?"
"I don't know," Sherlock said, honestly. "It's never been this important to me before."
A long moment passed. Then John said, "All right. When you're ready." He got up and walked over to the desk.
"Thank you, John." Sherlock turned his attention to the envelope. With deliberate motions, he sliced the envelope open and pulled out the report. He glanced rapidly at the contents of the two pages, and then placed them slowly, gently, on the desk. Mechanically, he got up. John placed a hand on his arm as he walked by, but dropped it as Sherlock continued, unseeing, and stood at the window, looking out.
"I was wrong," Sherlock whispered.