Baker Street, outside No. 221B. Night-time. The street is all but deserted. All the windows of No. 221B and most windows of the surrounding houses are dark. A cab passes by, then another going in the opposite direction, then the street is quiet again. Sherlock can be seen walking down the pavement towards his home, huddled in his coat and scarf, his breath visible in the cold air. As he approaches his front door, the figure of a man with a hood over his head who must have been sitting on the step rises to meet him. Sherlock comes to a halt, obviously not surprised to find he has a very late visitor.
SHERLOCK (in a quiet voice): Good morning, Bill.
The visitor lowers his hood, revealing the face of Bill Wiggins to the dim street lights.
BILL (in a plaintive tone): I was jus' goin' to bed.
SHERLOCK (rummaging in his coat pocket for his keys): Come in for a second. I've got some scones left.
BILL: Hate 'em.
SHERLOCK: No, you love them, actually, but you don't want to feel like you depend on my charity. Well, come in and starve, then.
BILL: Don't wanna wake Mrs Hudson.
Sherlock raises his eyebrows. BILL (impatiently): So, you got a job for me, or not?
SHERLOCK: Yes, I have.
BILL: What is it?
SHERLOCK: Boss McGinty.
Bill opens his mouth, then closes it again. There is a silence. Sherlock and Bill look at each other, Sherlock expectant, Bill rather unsettled. Finally, Bill exhales audibly.
BILL (in a low voice): You wanna be careful.
SHERLOCK: Of course. That's my middle name.
BILL: No, but really. I know what I'm talkin' about.
Sherlock raises his eyebrows questioningly.
BILL (in an even lower tone, confidentially): Tried to recruit me. Couple o' months back. Knew I was good with mixin' stuff an' how to get me hands on the equipment an' all, from me old job. I said no.
SHERLOCK: Pay not good enough?
BILL: Nope. Scared the shit outa me.
SHERLOCK: You've actually met them?
BILL: No. Jus' people what worked for 'em. Scary blokes. Backed out double quick as fast as I could. Really glad they didn't know me real name, too.
SHERLOCK: Can you find them again? The scary blokes?
BILL: Don't see why I'd want to.
SHERLOCK: Scones? And if you do find them, I'll even make you tea.
BILL:Not that hungry, really.
Sherlock shrugs.
SHERLOCK: Call me when you've found them.
He takes out his keys and moves towards the front door of No. 221B. Bill grumbles something inaudible under his breath, puts his hood back up and his hands in his pockets, and turns to walk away. Sherlock, with the key already in the lock, calls after him.
SHERLOCK: Bill?
Bill turns back towards him, his face invisible now in the shadow of his hood.
SHERLOCK: What name did they know you by?
Bill hesitates for a moment before answering.
BILL: Porlock. Bill Porlock.
221B Baker Street. The kitchen. Early afternoon on the next, or rather the same, day. Sherlock, hair wet from the shower, in his dressing gown over a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, is sitting at the table and toying distractedly with a full fry-up version of breakfast. His eyes are on a newspaper rather than on his plate, but they keep flickering back and forth between the article he is reading and the phone on the table next to his tea mug. There is a cheerful knock on the jamb of the open living room door.
MRS HUDSON (off-screen): Oohoo!
Sherlock looks up. Mrs Hudson comes walking around into the kitchen.
MRS HUDSON: Good morning! Or rather, good afternoon. Can I – oh. (She points at the plate.) I thought you'd be long finished.
Sherlock glances at the clock on the wall.
SHERLOCK: I'm actually three hours early, according to my current schedule.
MRS HUDSON: What? It's 1 p. m., and you're breakfasting. What's early about that? (Affectionately) Oh! You're going to tell me now that you're already eating tomorrow's breakfast, right? (She wags a finger at him.) Clever you. See, I know you too well.
Sherlock sighs. Mrs Hudson steps closer to the table. MRS HUDSON: Are you eating that cold?
SHERLOCK: There was no room in the microwave.
MRS HUDSON (turning towards the appliance in question and actually putting her hand on the button that releases the door): What? Why –
SHERLOCK (rather sharply): Mrs Hudson!
Mrs Hudson turns back to him, slightly affronted by his tone, but takes her hand off the microwave.
SHERLOCK: In the interest of your own safety, don't open that.
MRS HUDSON (shaking her head at him): In the interest of my sanity, I suppose I shouldn't.
Sherlock takes a moment to make up his mind whether to glare or smile at her. Then his phone takes the decision out of his hands by starting to ring. He grabs it immediately, and without a second glance at Mrs Hudson, swishes past her into the living-room, a huge smile beginning to form on his face.
SHERLOCK (into the phone): Yes? (He stops dead, and his face falls.) Oh, Bill. Alright. What - (He listens.) What? Where are you? Kew Gardens? (Another pause.) What do you mean, they suspect? (An even longer pause.) Yes, OK. I'll be there in an hour. Three quarters. Yes, I'll hurry. Just don't do anything stupid, alright?
He ends the call and stands staring out of the window for a moment.
MRS HUDSON (her mind still on breakfast): So, are you going to finish that, or not?
SHERLOCK (distractedly, without turning around): No, you can have the rest.
Mrs Hudson makes a revolted face, sighs in exasperation and exits with the half-empty plate in her hand.
Greg Lestrade's Office at New Scotland Yard. Sally Donovan is sitting at the computer, studying data on a spreadsheet. Lestrade is pacing up and down like a caged animal, a deep frown creasing his brow, his phone in his hand, clutching it with far more force than necessary.
SALLY (with her eyes on the screen): I really think we should talk again to the witnesses from the two cases before this one, and try and get a more detailed description of the women the victims bought the pills from. They were all female dealers, the last times.
LESTRADE (running his hand through his hair): What?
SALLY: I said the dealers in the last three cases were all girls. Maybe they were the same girl. There's a lot you can do with make-up, hairstyles, sunglasses, even wigs.
LESTRADE (even more distractedly): What?
Sally leans back in her chair and sighs.
SALLY: I'm trying to expound the theory that at least those latest pills were all sold by one and the same person, and if we can get our hands on her – Greg, are you even listening?
LESTRADE: Yeah. No. Sorry.
With a visible effort, he stops pacing and turns towards his sergeant.
SALLY (impatiently): Please stop worrying about him. He's just winding you up.
LESTRADE: I really don't think so, Sally.
SALLY: He does that, remember?
A pained expression passes across Lestrade's face.
LESTRADE: I'm not even sure he meant to, that time.
SALLY: Does it sound any better this time? (Quoting) "Am going after someone." I mean, "someone"? Why not just put in the name?
LESTRADE: Maybe because he didn't know it?
SALLY: Well, then a general description would have been helpful. (Aping Sherlock spouting deductions at rapid fire speed) "An elderly bald man in an ill-fitting blue suit who seems to be walking his dog down Rossmore Road right now but who is in fact on a reconnaissance for his next break-in", or -
LESTRADE: No time to type that?
SALLY: He types even faster than he talks.
LESTRADE (holding up his phone, now quoting in his turn): "If I don't manage to get back to you within an hour, feel free to track my phone." If that isn't the Sherlock Holmes equivalent of a strangled cry for help, Sally, I don't know what is.
SALLY (exasperated): The Sherlock Holmes equivalent of a strangled cry for help would be the exact GPS coordinates of the location where he is being strangled, not an invitation to play hide and seek with the help of British Telecom as if we had nothing else to do on a Sunday afternoon.
LESTRADE (unconvinced): I wish you were right.
He turns away to look out of the window of his office, at the nondescript building opposite, deep in thought. Sally shakes her head and proceeds to print off the spreadsheet. She takes the pages out of the printer and highlights some lines on it with a bright yellow marker.
SALLY: Here. How about you take the – (She looks up.) Greg, really. Since when do I have to organise you into doing your job?
At that moment, the phone in Lestrade's jacket rings. He pulls it out hastily and checks the caller ID. But the moment he raises it to his ear, it stops ringing. He takes it down again, looks at it with a frown, even gives it a little shake, but there is nothing more. He stares at it in disbelief for a moment, then raises his head to look very meaningfully across at Sally. Sally sighs in resignation.
SALLY: Alright. Official channels, or Mycroft straight away?
LESTRADE (in a very tense voice): Mycroft. And quickly.
SALLY: He'll have your head if this is another hoax.
LESTRADE: He'll have my head if it isn't and I haven't let him know.
Mycroft's office. Beneath the portrait of Her Majesty, Anthea is sitting at the desk in front of a laptop. Mycroft stands behind her chair, leaning across to look at the screen. On the telephone on the desk, a green light is blinking. Greg Lestrade's voice fills the room, slightly distorted by the loudspeaker.
LESTRADE'S VOICE (via phone): Kew Gardens?
MYCROFT: Outside Kew Gardens. Just outside Brentford Gate, right by the river. (He frowns slightly as his eyes travel down the screen of the laptop.) Took a cab from Baker Street to the car-park there – the stops at the red traffic lights are quite distinct in the GPS coordinates, as is that perpetually congested stretch of the Westway. (He points, and Anthea nods.) From the car-park, he must have walked on down the riverside path for another hundred yards or so. The coordinates change much more slowly for that last part of the way, to walking speed. Besides, that path is closed off to motorised traffic.
LESTRADE'S VOICE: What's the last activity on his phone that you can see?
Anthea types on the computer.
ANTHEA: At 1:44:06, a text message to you. Then nothing until 2:18:37. There's an incoming text message then, from 07924883 -
MYCROFT: Molly Hooper.
LESTRADE'S VOICE: What does it say?
ANTHEA: Just a second. (She types again, and reads from the screen): "I'm sorry."
LESTRADE'S VOICE: Why, what's wrong?
ANTHEA (patiently): No, that's the message. It says "I'm sorry."
LESTRADE'S VOICE: Oh. Well, that's something Molly Hooper says a lot.
ANTHEA: And then at 2:20:04, there's that aborted call to you, six seconds of it. Then it went out altogether.
LESTRADE'S VOICE (surprised): Including the GPS locator?
ANTHEA: Yes, including that. It stopped transmitting completely at that point, all of a sudden.
MYCROFT (his eyes still on the screen): And there's something very strange going on with the coordinates during those last seconds. They change again.
ANTHEA: Not significantly, sir.
MYCROFT: Oh yes, very significantly. To the north-west, and to a distance of approximately twenty-two yards over the course of only three seconds. And -
LESTRADE'S VOICE (cottoning on): - to the north-west from the riverbank outside Brentford Gate is nothing but a lot of water. (In a tone of deep disquiet, realising the implications) Jesus Christ.
The Thames. A riverside path on the south bank of the river, just beyond Brentford Gate into Kew Gardens. Sherlock is standing off the path, in the grass right on the edge of the bank, his hands in the pockets of his coat, looking down at the water. The water level is high, swollen by recent rain, and the lead-coloured river flows rather quickly. There is very little traffic on the water, no rowers and no pleasure boats at this time of the year, and even on the opposite bank, in the Brentford Docks, not much activity on a Sunday afternoon. The riverside walk itself is completely deserted. Then a minivan with the Kew Gardens logo drives up, slowly and carefully on the gravel surface of the narrow path. Sherlock turns to look. The van stops where Sherlock is standing, and three men get out. Two of the men are in the dark green overalls and heavy boots of the Kew gardeners. One is a young man with a knitted woollen hat on; the other is middle-aged and slightly overweight, with a scruffy beard. The third man is not in working clothes, but in a plain dark jacket, jeans and wellingtons. His head is uncovered, revealing slightly overgrown dark hair and a friendly, open face, if it wasn't for his rather tense expression. The three of them would indeed give a very convincing impression of a landscape architect with two subordinates on their way to some field work in the park, if they didn't happen to be the boy on the bike, one of the men who was responsible for positioning the airbag, and the pretend doctor with the stethoscope, all of whom we saw assisting in the magic trick of Sherlock jumping from the roof of St. Bart's, three years earlier. Sherlock obviously recognises them, too. His eyes narrow slightly as they approach him, the once-doctor-now-architect in front, the two pseudo-gardeners following, all three grave and unsmiling. They are only a few paces apart, right at the edge of the water, when Sherlock addresses the man in front.
SHERLOCK: Hello, Dimitri. How's your daughter?
The man eyes Sherlock suspiciously. There is a short pause. When he replies, he speaks fluent English, but with a Slavic accent, and there is a rather bitter undertone in his voice. DIMITRI: Much better, now that we could afford the third surgery.
SHERLOCK: Don't feel the need to apologise. I know I've been a negligent employer lately. (He turns towards the other two men, who have taken up their station between Sherlock and the path.) But a man must eat, as they say. Am I right?
The older man gives a shrug of indifference. The younger man looks down, trying to hide his slightly guilty expression.
DIMITRI: You're not surprised to see us here?
SHERLOCK: Not really. I know you can all do with the money.
DIMITRI (jerking his head back towards their van): Are you coming then?
SHERLOCK: Why would I?
Dimitri chuckles briefly.
DIMITRI: Someone would be very disappointed if you didn't.
SHERLOCK: I'm sure he would.
DIMITRI: Not "he".
SHERLOCK: What?
Dimitri nods across the water. Sherlock turns to look. On the opposite bank, a solitary figure has appeared on the walkway across the lock of the Brentford Marina. It is a small, ponytailed woman in a grey jacket and dark red trousers. She is too far away to make out the expression on her face, but all the same, she is instantly recognisable as she stands looking across the the river at the four men on the grassy bank. Sherlock stares at her. His lips part, as if in silent protest, then close again. After a moment, she puts a hand into the pocket of her jacket, and a second later, Sherlock's phone buzzes a text alert. As if in slow motion, he takes his phone out of his coat pocket and looks down at the screen. The message he has just received consists of only two words:
I'm sorry.
Sherlock raises his head and stares across the water again, at the still unmoving figure, like a man in a dream. In the silence, from behind his back, there is the click of the safety catch of a gun being released. The older of the pseudo-gardeners has produced a handgun from the pocket of his overalls and, holding it firmly in both hands, is pointing it at Sherlock's head.
DIMITRI (holding out his hand): And I'll have that phone now, please.
With an effort, Sherlock tears his gaze away from the figure on the other side of the river, and turns back to face Dimitri. He swallows, and takes a moment to find his voice again, but when he does, it sounds as calm and confident as ever.
SHERLOCK: So it can take an innocent walk in the park, while I'm elsewhere?
DIMITRI: Of course. And exchange a few more innocent messages with hers, too, so nobody starts worrying about you too soon.
SHERLOCK: My phone is PIN locked. It's a random sequence of numbers, and I change it daily.
DIMITRI: And today it's 7425. Now hand it over.
Sherlock smiles a humourless smile, punches a single key on his phone, and quick as lightning raises his hand and flings it far out into the river. It sails through the air for a couple of seconds, then sinks down and disappears into the dark water. Dimitri has taken a hasty step forward as if to intervene, but he is far too late.
DIMITRI (furiously): You –
Sherlock shrugs.
SHERLOCK: It fancied a swim, not a walk. Sorry.
And then he makes a strange little sound, more of indignation than of surprise, as the man behind him whacks the handle of his gun against the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock's knees buckle, and his vision goes blurry. Then there is a second impact, the grassy ground is flying upwards to meet him, and everything goes dark.