Author's notes: This is based on the unaired pilot episode of BBC's Sherlock.
Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table impatiently, trying to figure out who the killer is, the one who had poisoned all of his victims. He looked through the round window of the kitchen doors, thinking of a plan.
"No sign yet then?" John said, poking his food with his fork.
"Tch, it's going to be a long shot, we have to be realistic," said Sherlock. He darted his eyes around, lost in thought.
"You said before, you didn't know who the killer was, but you knew what."
"So do you, if you think about it," Sherlock replied quickly, "why wouldn't people just think?"
"Oh, 'cause we're stupid," John said sarcastically. He lifted his fork up to his mouth and ate the food, looking at Sherlock while doing so.
"We know the killer drove his victims, but there were no markings of blood, or signs of violation on the bodies. Each one of those five people climbed into a strange car voluntarily. The killer was someone they trusted," Sherlock explained.
"But not someone they knew?" John added.
"There are five people, five different people; they have no friends in common. According to the police, no one remembers a strange car parked outside an empty house, not one person remembers."
John raised his head, trying to comprehend all of this. "… I see what you're saying."
Sherlock shifted his body around and looked at John expectantly, hoping that he has finally understood this.
"… No, I don't see what you're saying."
Sherlock slouched, disappointed.
John decided to take a guess. "You're saying that the killer's got an invisible car?"
"Yes, yes! Exactly!"
"… I definitely don't see what you're saying."
Sherlock sighed. "There are cars, that pass like ghosts, unseen, unremembered. There are people we trust, always, when we're alone, when we're lost, when we're drunk. We never see their faces. Every day, we disappear into their cars and let the doors close around us," He looked at the window on his left side. He noticed a cab stop; he felt suspicious about it. He thought up a plan. He looked at a waiter and said, "Angelo, glass of white wine, quickly." He ordered for it in a quite loud voice, but he did not yell. He looked back at John. "I give you, the perfect murder weapon of the modern age, the London cab," He whispered.
John watched the cab outside take a turn and suddenly stops near a woman. "But, there have been cabs, up and down the street all night."
"This one stopped," Sherlock rejected.
"He's looking for an affair?" While John stared at the cab, Angelo came up to them with a glass of white wine. Sherlock made a smirk. "We don't know it's him."
"We don't know it isn't," Sherlock said. Angelo handed him the white wine. "Thank you." To John's surprise, he didn't drink it; he splashed the wine all over his face. Sherlock cleaned up the mess with the red napkin. "Watch, don't interfere. Angelo, send me out as if I'm drunk."
"Oh, now that was the case," Angelo chuckled and he rolled up his sleeves. "You ready?"
"If you would mind," Sherlock said, as he put on his overcoat sloppily.
Angelo grabbed Sherlock by the flaps of his coat and picked him up. "Out of my restaurant! You're drunk!" He carried the "drunken" detective outside and pushed him. "And stay away!"
Sherlock stumbled as he tried to stand up straight after the push. He walked over to the cab, wobbling from side to side.
John raised an eyebrow as he watched his flat mate look drunk. "Uh, what's he doing?" He asked.
"Sherlock's on the case. Bad news for bad people," Angelo answered, smiling. They both watched him from the restaurant.
There were the sounds of cars honking as Sherlock casually walked through the road and onto the sidewalk. When he approached the cab, he knocked the window. When the old driver didn't respond, he said, "Hey, hey, come on!"
The driver rolled down the window. "Sorry, mate, off duty," was his response.
Sherlock wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "221B… Baker Street." His eyes were staring blankly at the ground.
"I said I'm off duty, didn't ya hear?" He said, sounding agitated. He smelled the wine on the man.
"221B! Just 'round the corner!" He began to lose his footing and leaned on the door of the cab.
"Get another cab; I don't do drunks!"
Sherlock spun around, walked toward the passenger's door, and leaned on it. He pulled out his phone from his pocket and dialed a number. He looked at the driver for a moment and saw him hold out a pink phone.
The driver looked at his pink phone in confusion. How did someone know the phone number? He hesitated, and said, "… Hello?"
"How did you make them take the poison?" said the man through the phone.
"… What?" He was intimidated by the deep voice. Right after, the driver felt himself being strangled. He quickly looked at the one who was doing this; it was the drunk man who wanted a ride.
"I said, how did you make them take the poison?" Sherlock demanded.
The driver widened his eyes in surprise. "You're not drunk. Who are you?"
"I'm Sherlock Holmes!" He furrowed his brows in anger.
"The detective? Heh, people would've passed out by now when they meet me. Let's see if you will." He chuckled.
Sherlock felt something sting under his arm. He let go of the old man and looked at his left arm. There was a syringe needle filled with a type of drug. He gasped and tried to take it off, but felt the driver grab a hold of him. People were beginning to gather around them.
"This is nothing! The man just, y'know, had a big party earlier, got drunk..."
Sherlock could barely hear the last part of the driver's sentence, as his vision began to blur and felt his ears ringing.
John saw all of the commotion going on around the cab. There was a crowd of people, watching a person being strangled an old man. Something must be going wrong in Sherlock's plan. "Hey, he needs help!" He panicked, and was about to get up from his chair when Angelo held him down.
"No, no, this is all part of the plan," Angelo reassured.
John stood up anyways and burst out the restaurant to help his friend. Angelo shook his head, chuckling.
"John!" Sherlock wheezed. He felt as though the world spin around him and was getting nauseous. He was pushed into the cab by the driver. He tried to get up, but only fell back down afterwards. His muscles felt so weak.
"Heh, y'know, that's the problem with acting; people are stupid. They don't know whether you're acting or not," He closed the door, locking the drugged man in.
Sherlock used his entire last bit of strength and tried to sit up, but darkness engulfed him within seconds.
John saw the cab take off, and ran even faster to catch up, but the cab was too quick. He slowed down and tried to catch his breath. Oh God… Where is that idiot detective going to now?
Author's notes: Some things may be a bit off, I had to write some of this while I had no internet.