*** Author's Notes ***
Towel Day Prompt: "A common mistake that people make when trying to design something completely foolproof was to underestimate the ingenuity of complete fools." ― Douglas Adams, The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
It's no wonder, really, the others committed suicide. If the weaselly little man with the dead eyes was as dull with them as he now is, then he did indeed murder them. He talked them to death. The agony of being poisoned would have been a relief.
Sherlock is most certainly bored with this 'game' now. Has been since he and Bill found the pink case in the skip and discovered the cabbie waiting for him at the end of the alleyway.
His brain has defaulted to what he refers to as the 'tedious setting.' He's focused just enough that he can sham his way through even the most heinously banal things, like case reports with Lestrade, or talking to Mycroft. Or in this case, deducing the dying cabbie to the point of tears about his children.
And still, Jeff Hope persists.
Dull.
He'd thought for sure this case was going to be fascinating, that he'd be chasing down a deranged sociopath for months. Instead he's sat across a desk from what must be the most boring serial killer in memory - certainly the worst cabbie - languishing in his apathy. All the while, the most compelling killer… Man?... Person... Sherlock has ever known is out there, doing his job.
He wonders if the 'mess' Jack is about to clean up is aware they've got a target over their heart. Do they understand the magnificence they're about to encounter? That it will be an honor to die because it will be at the hands of one so adept?
Sherlock lets his mind wander, conjuring scenario after bloody scenario. Most of his musings involve Jack in a tree, or balanced along the ledge of a high building, or even precariously stretched out on hidden girder under a bridge. He's all hard lines, his muscles taut and straining, focus laser sharp, strong hands deftly maneuvering his weapon.
Fuck. He is so fucked.
And a bit unhinged (he is fantasizing about a man who murders people for a living).
But definitely fucked.
Jeff Hope's speech pattern spikes uncharacteristically, and Sherlock is rudely reminded he's not in the room alone. He closes his eyes and sighs, wishing Hope would just kill him and get it over with. "I'm sorry," he yawns, "you'll have to repeat the question. I wasn't paying attention." No point in sugar coating it, especially if Hope's intention is to murder him. Perhaps he can hurry things along.
"Not a question, Mister Holmes, but a point of interest for yourself." Hope blinks, a smug smirk on his face.
"Good lord," he slams his hand impatiently on the table, "spit it out and let's get on with it."
"You'd think a genius such as yourself would know to extend some polite courtesies to the man who could end it all right now." Hope places two small glass bottles, each containing one pill, and his handgun on the desk in front of him. "Especially when I'm trying to divulge sensitive information."
Taking slow, controlled breaths, Sherlock puts both hands in his lap and balls them into fists. With clenched teeth he nods once. "My apologies. Please continue." He sounds contemptuous and he knows it.
Hope's laugh is condescending and Sherlock hates him for knowing something he doesn't. "You're not the only one who enjoys a good murder. There's others out there, just like you, Mister Holmes. Except you're just a man, and they are so much more than that."
"What do you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?" Finally, they're getting somewhere. Sherlock sits up a little taller in his seat and steeples his fingers under his chin. "Be specific."
"Oh,that's got your attention, has it?" Hope laughs his loathsome laugh. "They specialize in finding the answers to questions. Financing those who know how to solve problems. Men like me."
"So, you've got a sponsor." Sherlock stares him down, observing every twitch, every blink, every breath. He refuses to think of Jack. He won't. He can't equate Jack with the likes of Jeff Hope. Jack is better than that. Jack is...
Jack is a hired killer.
Sherlock's eye twitches. He cannot let his resolve thaw. "Who would sponsor a serial killer?"
"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?" Hope shrugs.
"A name," Sherlock demands as he stands.
Hope picks up the gun. "Sit down, please."
Sherlock knows the gun is a fake. Any idiot could see the gun is a fake. He wants to weep for a society where grown adults were coerced to their deaths by a novelty lighter. But Hope is unmoving. He sits unwavering, with the fake gun trained on Sherlock, waiting. Sherlock nearly laughs at the absurdity, though he sits anyway.
With a tight smile, Hope lowers the gun. "There's a name no-one says," his tone is ominous, almost reverent, "and I'm not going to say it either." He has the audacity to wink. "Now, enough chatter. Time to choose." He uses the gun to push the two little bottles to the middle of the table.
"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here." Sherlock sighs in exasperation as Hope points the gun at him once more. "Oh, dull. Here I thought I was dealing with a fellow proper genius."
Hope grins and Sherlock can see he's a bit manic. "You can take your fifty-fifty chances, or I can shoot you in the head. No one's ever picked that last option."
"Now, you've just gone and made up those odds. I'm not a gambler, but even I know you never take that bet." Sherlock stares back. "I see a third option."
Hope lifts his chin and studies Sherlock's face. He leans back in his chair and nods. "Now this is a proper match. No one ever brings a counter offer. They never think these things through. I'm listening, Mister Holmes."
"You tell me the name of your benefactor," Sherlock slides the two little bottles back across the table. "Then you, already a dead man, take these." Sherlock claps his hands as if he's brushing dust off of them. "Problem solved."
"He never mentioned you had a sense of humor" The pretense of a smile gone, Hope slides one bottle back to Sherlock. "Time to take your medicine."
"A name." Sherlock leans across the table.
"Take the pill, and I'll tell you." Hope tucks the gun under his coat and taps the pill from the bottle in front of him into his hand. "But no cheating."
"I didn't choose this bottle." Sherlock doesn't hesitate. He dumps the pill into his palm and raises it to eye level in order to examine it more closely. He sniffs it. Is very tempted to lick it, but refrains. For the moment.
"The time for choosing is done. Do you want the name, or not?" Holding his pill between his thumb and index finger, Hope also examines his.
"Name first. Then…" Sherlock picks up his own pill, mirroring Hope. He lifts it as if he's making a toast. "An agreement between geniuses."
"Pill first." Hope raps the knuckles of his free hand on the table in emphasis. "There will be time before you die to learn the truth.
"So this is the poison pill?" Sherlock cocks and eyebrow and sniffs.
Hope's manic grin is back. "It's killing you, isn't it? Not knowing. Just take the pill."
"It's really not." Sherlock shrugs. In truth, he's ready to stand on the man's throat if he thought it'd make him talk. But Hope has already showed his hand. He drops the pill back into the bottle and replaces the stopper.
"So, the gun, then?" There is a brief moment when panic shows in Hope's eyes. He's still holding his pill. This time his hand does shake.
Waving his hand dismissively, Sherlock leans back and sighs. "I'll double it."
"Excuse me?" Taken aback, Hope frowns.
"Whatever your benefactor's rate is for this kill. I'll double it in exchange for his name." Pulling out his mobile, Sherlock begins tapping away at the screen. He glances briefly up, then shows Hope the screen. It's a bank site, with a rather large sum listed.
"That…" Hope stammers. "I don't think you understand…"
"Triple." Sherlock pulls the phone away. "You know I'm good for it. That's my final offer. Take it, or I'm walking out the door."
It's an inopportune time to recall Jack telling him he needs to learn to negotiate. He's looking forward to telling him this story.
"Y-your serious?"
"What's the worst that could happen? They kill you? You're already dying. This money is a sure thing." Sherlock leans in for the kill. "Think of your children. That's a lot of cash."
Hope nods. His eyes glisten, but he looks resolute. "Your way, then. I need a guarantee."
"My word." Sherlock sits up and squares his shoulders. He holds out his hand to shake on it.
Hope reaches out to take his hand, and with the other reaches into the other side of his coat. "Your word?" He laughs and Sherlock sees the glint of a gun that he suspects is very much real. Hope is surprisingly strong, and Sherlocks struggles to break his grip as Hope levels the new gun, the real one, at his face. "Your word means nothing to me."
"The name. Please. If you're going to kill me anyway, at least tell me his name." Sherlock's mind is racing with possibilities. There are three ways he can disarm Hope up to the last second.
"I suppose I could do that one kindness." Hope stands and grips the gun with both hands. "It's Mor-"
There is a pop from behind as a bullet passes through the glass of the window. It hits its mark, through Hope's heart, and explodes out his back, shattering the shelves of glassware behind him.
He's dead before he hits the floor.
Sherlock screams as he dives over the desk, giving no thought to potential danger. "Mor? Mor what? Moran? Is it Moran?" He drops to his knees and frantically begins rescue compressions. "Tell me who you work for!"
Sherlock is miserable. He's miserable and frustrated, and he really, really needs a cigarette. He's sitting in the back of an ambulance dressed in the workout clothes Lestrade never uses and wrapped in an orange shock blanket, because his clothes are covered in Jeff Hope's blood and sealed in a plastic evidence bag.
Lestrade is enjoying himself entirely too much. He snaps a picture with his phone. "Okay, gimme."
Sherlock sighs. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from something high power. A rifle. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon is easy – the accuracy, with the angle, is not. That's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a hardened killer. Someone acclimated to violence and unpredictability. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man with a history of military service…"
Fuck. Fucking hell. Sherlock scans the area around them. Through the distortion of the flashing police lights, near the back of the barricade, he finds what he's looking for. Rather, who. He makes eye contact with Jack who cocks an eyebrow and gives him a lopsided smile. Jack's partner stands a step behind him, and he's glaring back at Sherlock.
"Never mind. Just ignore me." He flaps a corner of the blanket. "Shock. You know."
He shakes his head and turns his attention back to Lestrade. It doesn't appear he's noticed who Sherlock was looking at. Lestrade, instead, nods to the black sedan pulling up on the other side of the barricade.
"I'm guessing that's for you."
"Mycroft," Sherlock grumbles as he jumps down from the ambulance. He wraps the blanket more tightly around himself. "I should probably get rid of him. Don't need his fat nose in your crime scene." He starts walking away before Lestrade can respond.
He diverts and ducks behind a police car, and uses the general chaos of the scene to escape Lestrade and avoid his brother. He makes it to the edge of the scene where he'd spotted Jack and his partner, but they're gone.
In their place is a single bullet casing.
"Fuck."
*** A/N ***
I'm going to be playing a bit with canon, both original ACD and BBC versions, for the 'verse. So, things that happen here may not happen in the same order as they do on the show or in the printed stories. I don't think that really matters much, I just wanted to warn anyone who might be curious.
Also, I relied on Ariane DeVere's fantastically thorough transcript of A Study in Pink for some of the dialogue.