"He's gone," Sally Donovon shouted out to a confused looking John Watson.

"What?" John asked in disbelief.

"He just left," Sally added and then came closer. "If you ask me, you should stay away from that one, he's dangerous."

John could barely restrain the eye roll he felt coming on; danger he could handle but being left at a crime scene was bloody annoying. Suddenly feeling very foolish and weak, John meekly asked, "Do you know where I can catch a cab? My leg . . ."

Sally nodded pityingly and lifted the tape, "Try the main road."

John smiled stiffly and began limping down the sidewalk. Once he was a couple blocks away and everything was eerily quiet, a taxi pulled up to the curb. The driver, a funny little man with crooked teeth, rolled down the window and asked, "Need a lift?"

For some reason John did not trust the man but ultimately blamed it on his PTSD and thought it would be awfully stupid to turn away the cab because of some gut reaction. After giving his address and settling in for the ride, John thought back over the bizarre night he was having. He found himself confident in thinking that Sherlock Holmes was one of the most extraordinary men he had met, also one of the rudest. Perhaps he was mad for considering living with the man at all but at least he would no longer be bored not with a gorgeous, curly haired whirlwind of a flatmate.

As if the driver had read his mind, he spoke, "Sherlock Holmes left without you then?"

John's stomach dropped and his muscles tensed as he replied, "Pardon?"

"You accompanied Sherlock Holmes to that crime scene but he left you behind."

With growing unease, John lowered his voice to ask, "How the hell do you know that?"

The driver chuckled lightly, "Mr. Holmes has quite a few fans. His most attentive one let me know he would be around here. I was hoping to give him a ride but I guess I'll just have to settle for his . . . friend? . . . colleague?"

It was then that John noticed they were not headed toward his flat. "Where are we going?"

"Just somewhere we can have a nice chat without being interrupted. Would you happen to have a mobile on you?"

"No. If I had, I would've called the police as soon as you mentioned Sherlock."

"Good, we don't want any interference now do we?"

When the cab stopped, John was relieved that he at least recognized the college he was being taken into. Just when he was starting to size the man up and plan how he would take him down, the driver took out a gun and motioned for John to get out of the car. The cabbie walked behind him, guiding him into the vacant building and eventually setting him down in an empty classroom. With barely restrained glee on his face, the driver took a seat across the table from him.

While John glowered at him and remained perfectly still, the cabbie reached into his pocket and produced two vials of pills. He set them both of the table and slowly slid one capsule toward John.

"We're going to play a game. One of these pills is poison and the other is a placebo. You choose one and I'll take the other, then we both swallow."

John rolled his eyes as he drawled, "Let me guess: both capsules are filled with iocane powder and you've spent the last few years building up an immunity."

The cabbie laughed heartily, "Are you really not afraid?"

John cocked his head, "What's there to be afraid of?"

"If you don't choose a pill, I'll shoot you," the cabbie replied blandly, taking out his gun for emphasis. "It's your choice."

While deliberately pursing his lips, John hummed sarcastically, "Hmmmmm . . . you know, I've been shot before, I don't quite like the idea of bleeding out but then again I've been poisoned before and choking on my own vomit isn't much of an improvement. I think I'll take the gun . . . in the forehead if you don't mind."

John emphasized his point by putting his hands in his lap and leaning his head forward expectantly.

"Come on, aren't you the least bit curious as to how I did it, because it's not pure luck if that's what you're thinking."

"No . . . no, I don't really care. I've had enough of flashy geniuses for one night and I'd much prefer to get this over with. Besides, once you learn a magician's secret, it takes all the fun out of it."

With a huff, the cabbie moved the gun forward and pulled the trigger. John smirked widely when all it produced was a small flame.

"So, how could you tell?"

John rolled his eyes, "If you're going to coerce someone into suicide at least have the courtesy to buy a realistic looking fake gun."

"No one else noticed."

"Yeah, just your luck you pick up an invalided veteran," John replied snidely while digging his mobile out of his jacket, "Yes, hello, can you connect me to Detective Lestrade please?"

The cabbie's eyes widened, "You said you didn't have a mobile."

"And you said a lighter was a gun so we both lied . . . Detective, this is John Watson, we met earlier this evening . . . that's right, I was with Sherlock Holmes . . . no, he took off . . . listen, I met someone interesting . . ."

As John explained things to Lestrade, the cabbie grew more distraught, eventually he reached out and grabbed the pill closest to him and popped it into his mouth. John noticed at the last moment and shook his head in disappointment, "Oh, and Detective, you best send an ambulance as well."

After hanging up, John leapt from his chair and effortlessly slid across the table just as the cabbie began showing signs of asphyxiation. Desperately, John began wrestling with the man who was stubbornly keeping his mouth closed and kicking violently. John shouted in frustration, "Don't do this, you stubborn arse!"

The murderer continued to flail, refusing John's help until the doctor stood and angrily kicked the man in the side, "At least tell me who hired you! You may be clever but you definitely did not do this alone." When the man refused to answer, John lowered his voice to a steely growl, "If you don't give me a name, I'll tell everyone we played your game and you lost. The ambulance will be here any minute and despite your best efforts, a team of police restraining you and fully equipped paramedics will be able to save you. It's going to be my word against yours on what happened and physician/war hero beats murderous cab driver for credibility . . . Give me a name and I'll let you die, taking that genius secret to your grave."

The man looked like was considering the idea as John leant closer and, in a reassuring tone, told him, "I promise, on my honor as a soldier."

The cabbie nodded and hoarsely choked out one word, "Moriarty."

John patted the dying man's shoulder and stood up, watching yet another person pass away in front of him.

John sat on the back of an ambulance with a ridiculous looking, orange shock blanket draped across his shoulders. He had tried explaining it was hardly necessary but they insisted that was the shock talking. Soon he was joined by a relieved looking Detective Lestrade who had a warm smile on his handsome face.

"You've had quite a night, Dr. Watson: survived Sherlock Holmes and being abducted by a serial killer. I'm impressed," Lestrade said with a nod before asking, "Did he happen to say anything before he died?"

"No," John said as he began to worry if his story would raise suspicions in the clearly capable detective. "Look, about what happened-"

"I read your statement: he knocked you to the ground, ran across the room, and you couldn't get to him in time on account of your leg. Makes sense to me."

"But I still let a man die in front of me."

Lestrade put his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels, "Well, he wasn't a very good man, now was he?"

John was surprised and somewhat delighted to see a smile creep onto the detective's face. John relaxed and replied, "Not to mention a bloody awful cab driver. You should've seen the route he took."

Both men laughed heartily until John stopped himself, covering his mouth, "Suppose it's a bit not good to be giggling at a crime scene."

Lestrade patted his back, "We'll just blame it on the shock."

After a moment, John pondered out loud, "I wonder if Sherlock ever found that suitcase?"

Lestrade scoffed, "Bloody well may have but it doesn't really matter now. I'd love to be able to see his face when he reads about this tomorrow."

"You're not going to phone him?"

"What and ruin the surprise?" Lestrade said before sighing and shaking his head, "Sherlock's a bit of a wildcard. I go to him only when I have no other option. He's brilliant but he doesn't give a damn about actually helping."

John stared back with a slight look of confusion as Lestrade elaborated, "Everything is about solving the mystery, nothing else matters. What you saw tonight was Sherlock at his best and it's beautiful, isn't it. He comes in, sees things no one else sees, performs magical feats of deduction, and waltzes away. What you haven't seen is the rest of him: the sulking, the destructive boredom, the ungodly experiments, and the constant, petulant, childish behavior," Lestrade shrugged and added, "I didn't start going grey until I met him."

While John tried to process the new image of Sherlock, Lestrade asked, "You seem like a normal bloke, how did you get mixed up with someone like him?"

"To be honest, I was considering sharing a flat with him."

"I think you may have dodged a bullet there," Lestrade laughed then thought for second before continuing, "You know, I have an extra room. I'm not as exciting as Sherlock but the place is clean and in a decent neighborhood."

"I wouldn't want to impose, Detective."

"Please, call me Greg," Lestrade answered, "You'd be saving me from going home to an empty flat, my ex-wife kinda cleaned me out when she left."

Briefly, John thought back to Sherlock and his piercing grey eyes but decided it was too much of a risk. Reaching his hand out, he shook Lestrade's and smiled, "Greg, I think we can work something out."