"What the..." Sherlock opened his eyes widely. He looked into the black taxi wondering if he was—without knowing—high. But maybe John was right and he should sleep during cases. Because he could not be healthy and/or clean if he was seeing Jim Moriarty as a taxi driver.

"What?" Moriarty snapped. "Haven't you ever seen a man with a part-time job?"

Sherlock was still silent, wondering if he should take another cab. He was meant to meet John at Angelo's. Or maybe he should just call Lestrade? Mycroft? No, nothing is ever worth calling Mycroft. Arrest Moriarty himself?

"Come on, sweetie. You have nothing on me. I'm not doing anything wrong, I'm just driving a cab. I'm a cabbie, cabbies don't harm people," he said as smiled like a little girl found in family photos.

"Seriously? Are you a good man to tell me that cabbies do not harm their passengers?" Sherlock looked at him suspiciously.

"Look. I'm not going to kill you. Nor any of my clients. They are paying me for driving them from place to place. You know... that's basically what cabbies do. So, are you taking the cab or you just want to be late to your sweet-sweet date with Johnny-boy?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He needed to be as careful as possible. John would be very, very unhappy if he found out that he was kidnapped by Moriarty.

"Fine. But only this one time. I am in a hurry." Holmes opened the door slowly and took a seat at the other end of cab, so he would be able to watch what Jim was doing.

"Sure, darling. I know. You're going to be late for a special dinner with our dear doctor Watson, who is waiting for you at Angelo's. I understand that perfectly, you know? You're such a cute couple. Thank god men can't get pregnant! Because then the world would blow up without my help. Your kid would be so sweet, with those black curls, blue eyes..."

"Stop it, or I will cut your throat."

Jim looked at him in the mirror, but went silent.

An awkward silence surrounded them. Sherlock just eyed Jim, who was humming something happily. He knew the song being hummed. John... John had played him this. Once. What...

"Do not hum 'Never gonna give you up' in my presence or I will call Mycroft who will arrest you, and he will not care that you are not killing me."

"God, you're no fun." Jim pouted, looking at him in the mirror. Why was he making that face of beaten puppy?

"So... cabbie. Why a cabbie?" Sherlock asked curiously. Oh, he was curious. After all this wasn't a normal situation.

Jim looked at him with friendly smile.

Sherlock just wanted to get the hell out of this cab.

"Actually... I've been dreaming of being a taxi driver since I was five."

Sherlock looked at him, amazed.

"Really? You've wanted to be a cabbie since you were five? And what was your dream before that? To be a cab?"

"No! Don't be ridiculous! Before that, I wanted to be evil mastermind. Anyway, you just can't live in luxury apartments from being a cabbie, that's why I chose my first plan for life. This one is just a hobby, I'm doing it once—twice a month. Usually I try my best to avoid contact with you, but it looks like we're so, so unlucky, Sherlock. We really are!"

"Do not tell me," he said, almost smiling. Almost. He was aware of who he was in this damn cab.

They went silent again. Sherlock really didn't want to talk with Moriarty. Especially about his childhood dreams. It would be too dangerous.

"Here we are. 22 Northumberland Street."

"You could not have chosen a better place, could you?" Sherlock asked with irritation, un-clipping the belt.

"Of course, my dear. So... It'll be twenty five pounds."

Holmes looked at him with shock.

"What?"

"What? Did you think I was giving you a ride for free? Don't be mad! It's my work! Twenty five, or I'm calling police."

Sherlock cursed quietly, taking out his wallet.

"Twat, you are the worst cabbie ever." He growled, giving him the money.

"Thank you, my love! You're the worst passenger ever!" Jim called after him as he left the cab.

He didn't smile when he saw John through the window. His boyfriend was smiling at him, which was great, but... God. The drive had just been too awkward.

"Hi," he said as he kissed John on the chin, taking seat by his right side.

"Hello. Is something wrong...?" His dearest doctor looked a little bit worried.

"I just had a ride with the weirdest cabbie ever. That's all."

"Want to talk about it?" John smiled, taking Sherlock's hand in his own.

"No... Not really. Not now at least. Oh. And we are buying a car. I don't want to meet that cabbie again. Nor do you."

Watson looked at him slightly surprised.

"Are you sure?"

"Bloody sure, John. Bloody sure."