They were in a frenzy.
It amused him. All so freaked out over this. The case, the phone, the mystery. It was all his work.
Pretty good for an old dying cabbie, eh? His work filled him with pride.
There he was. Sherlock Holmes. His mind was working desperately, the gears clearly spinning like a runaway train.
A proper genius. How much fun could he have with someone at his level?
Suddenly though, his gaze was caught by someone else.
A small man. Short blond hair. Not connected to the police but clearly connected to Sherlock. That much was apparent in just his body language and the fact that they were so obviously flatmates, and not just that, but flatmates on fairly good terms. This in it of itself was odd for a man like Sherlock, but he could see how they worked.
That man's personality, temperament and tolerance fit well with Sherlock's eccentric ways. He wasn't the type to easily bore someone like Sherlock, though of course he was quite uninteresting to the cabbie himself.
There was only one problem with him.
He was the type to charge into danger to save someone. Whether or not Sherlock and he were 'friends' was of no importance (though if it had to be noted, they had already reached that level at least in every way except spoken aloud) as the man was drawn to danger, had a military mind, and a strong doctor's instinct.
If Sherlock left, and the man figured out where to look through the phone, he would most certainly go to help, ultimately ruining their game.
Annoying. But easy to fix.
He lures Sherlock out and gets him in the cab, then plots out his plan.
There were two identical buildings he knew of that were free for a murder. He'd been planning to use a different place, but this one worked just as well. That man would invariably choose the right building, giving them plenty of time to play.
And then the great Sherlock Holmes would be dead. Because of course the cabbie knew how he'd choose.
They set up, they talked, and Sherlock revealed the fraud to his incentive. But he knew Sherlock still wanted to play. So he convinced him to choose, and convinced him to play.
No doubt that stupid dog of a man was still running around the wrong building, helpless to stop him. Perhaps he'd even looked through a window and seen what was happening.
The thought made him grin. He ushered Sherlock further, wanting to show off to his imagined audience of one. He so hoped the man was there, watching in horror as Sherlock prepared to swallow the capsule.
The wrong capsule. Poison.
Another loser.
How fun this was. How clever. To have thwarted both the genius and his little friend.
His little... Army friend...
The shot rings out before the cabbie can fully realize what it meant.
Of course. The man had a gun. How had he been so careless as to have missed it?
Clear trust issues. Clear need for the security of a weapon despite his need for danger.
His fault had been his downfall. In the end the cabbie had lost.
Not to Sherlock Holmes, but to the little man he had underestimated.
That little unusual man.
The idea struck me that perhaps it wasn't coincidence that John had chosen wrong.
Two buildings.
Two pills.
He'd played the game so many times before, so why not a little bonus round? After all, John had been in clear sight of the cabbie and he had said that he could read people easily.
Oh yeah, another cool thing? Sherlock chose right just like John... That is... If I'm not wrong.
I don't think I am wrong, but you're welcome to check and correct.