"John! JOHN!" Sherlock thrashed madly in his chair, but his restraints did not budge. He looked at John's face, frozen in shock, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, dripping off his chin. Only the trembling lips suggested any life in the man. John Watson's eyes were absolutely dead. Sherlock couldn't imagine how he must be feeling. But he sensed he would know soon.

The animation of the trolley began again. It chugged agonizingly slow across the bottom of the screen.

Ten seconds.

"JOHN!" Sherlock howled, pulling at his wrist restraints madly. Crunch crunch went his bones. His wrists became wet as his skin was rubbed raw against the cold metal, his flesh splitting open and blood pooling inside the restraints. He didn't flinch at all at his self-inflicted injury. If anything, he pulled harder. Sherlock pulled with all his strength, trying to squeeze his boney hands out. He thought wildly that maybe the blood would offer enough lubrication…just enough to…

The trolley made an innocent little "choo-choo!" chime.

Sherlock's eyes flew open in horror.

John's lips were moving.

As you wish, John Watson.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth.

Nothing happened.

Sherlock felt droplets of sweat fall from his face. He trembled, waiting. But nothing. And then still nothing.

He dared to open his eyes. "JOHN!" he screamed when he saw what was left of his friend. "JOHN! JOHN!" He continued screaming and he couldn't stop.

See Sherlock? John Watson is a better friend than you.

As Sherlock screamed, his voice split, growing raw. His protests became weaker as the adrenaline drained from his body. Sherlock whimpered, his body falling limp in the chair. "John, oh my God. Oh my God John."

Sherlock? Can you think straight? How's that solution coming?

"Fuck you," Sherlock sobbed. "Fuck you!" He shut his eyes. "What the hell do you want?"

We're conducting a thought experiment, remember? Has the stress caused you short term amnesia as well?

"But to what end?" cried Sherlock. "What do you want from us? What are you…what are you trying to get from me? What's the point to all this?" He writhed helplessly. "What's the punch line? How does this game work!"

There is no point. I told you, this is a thought experiment that measures your sense of moral justice, not your intellect. There is no riddle to solve. There is no prize for figuring it out. There is just you. And John Watson. And the lever. And the trolley.

Sherlock's squirming came to a halt. "How do we get out of here? W-what h-humiliating thing do you want me t-to do?" He starting stuttering now. "Do you want t-to watch me sacrifice myself? I will. Whatever it takes. You j-just tell me what you want and its yours..."

There is no way out.

"You….you must want something from us, otherwise we would be dead!" Sherlock shouted in frustration.

Are you ready to play again?

Sherlock started screaming; "John! John! Can you hear me, John!"

But John was passed out. Soaked in his own blood, John's mind was gone.

This time, the lever is back in your hands, Sherlock.

Sweat burned Sherlock's eyes. He rapidly blinked the salty moisture away like tears. Maybe he was crying. He hadn't cried in years. "Leave him alone. Don't fucking touch him."

Trolley's coming. It's John's legs this time.

"Fine!" Sherlock replied automatically. "Take my leg."

Legs.

"Legs!" Sherlock corrected miserably, flexing his toes and mentally saying good-bye to running and walking and climbing stairs. "You can have my damn legs." He imagined all at once being bound to a wheel chair for the rest of his life and wondered how easy it would be to make eggs and toast for John from that awkward height. He now had a life-long debt to his friend. It would take years for John to master dual prosthetics, and even then all fine motor functions would be non-existent. The responsibility now fell to Sherlock to be John's hands…

No. No more tit-for-tat. We've done that.

Sherlock shook. "What do you mean?"

Your moral center has shifted because of your experience. Now your moral thinking is becoming automatic, which means you're learning from your mistakes. That's good progress, sociopath. But this is supposed to be a challenge. So let's raise the stakes and move on to something harder.

The trolley appeared again.

"Please," Sherlock begged.

Let's gather our thoughts. Trolley is coming again for John. But there is a lever next to you. If you do nothing, John's legs will be cut off. He will suffer again, as he's suffered twice before. Not only will he suffer the painful amputation, but he will be a quadriplegic. If he manages to survive, he will have a miserable and painful life ahead of him. However, if you pull the lever, you will be given a local anesthetic. Then, a blade will descend from the arm of the chair that will make an incision around the circumference of your skull, cutting not only the flesh, but also the bone. Then the arm will remove the top of your skull and utterly scramble your brain into soup, killing you.

The trolley chugged across the screen.

"What?"

You will die. You will be awake for your death, fully conscious and aware of what is happening to you. However, you will not feel the most painful aspects of your death. Your imagination will do enough to torture you in your final moments. That is until your imagination melts with the rest of your thoughts along with your superior, superior intellect.

Sherlock was speechless.

You're guilt has made you into the kind of friend who would lose a limb, maybe even two limbs, or four limbs, for a friend. But are you the kind of friend who would volunteer to lose his life? Or worse yet, his most prized possession; his brain?

Sherlock was frozen, mortified. The tears spilled down his face and he could not stop them.

The trolley chugged along happily.

Sherlock searched John's face for some sign of life. "John? John?" He sobbed. "Is John dead?"

He might be. Between the shock and the blood loss, he might be.

"John…," Sherlock beckoned helplessly.

If he is not dead, he will need a capable care-taker if he survives. Maybe a capable friend like you, with your arms and legs and brain. Or, you could spare him the misery of two additional amputations and spare yourself the guilt. If he is dead, can you live with yourself for being such a coward and making him suffer alone? You could shoulder his burden. Maybe he'll even say something thoughtful at your funeral. He is a generous friend, after all. One of those amputations was his choice.

"I don't know what to do," whimpered Sherlock, his pale eyes glassy voids.

The trolley neared the end of its journey.

Not so smart, are you? Just five more seconds.

At that last moment, Sherlock thought of John's cane.

How John limped when they'd first met and how difficult it had been for John to get around. He remembered how easily it was for him to forget about John leave him behind. How it had limited John. How it had twisted John's face into a mask of ambivalence. Robbed John of joy. And what delight danced in John's eyes the moment he realized he had conquered his own limitation. The person John became after that. The happy person.

Already, John would be robbed of much of that happiness, a happiness Sherlock felt a little responsible for. Sure, it had been John's own adrenaline rush that had ended his psychosomatic delusion. But Sherlock had coaxed John out of safety, dared him to take a risk, live a little. Chase down a serial killer. For kicks. And why not?

But John Watson was strong. He could overcome this. But Sherlock had to believe in John.

That meant coaxing himself out of safety. Daring himself to take a risk. Live a little.

All at once, Sherlock felt peace.

"I'll pull the lever," Sherlock said, surrendering. He actually felt a perverse excitement. He was about to die. Gruesomely. It stirred his pulse and thrilled him in a way outside of fear. He curiously pondered how long he would remain conscious, if he would be able to feel his mind shutting down one thought, one function, at a time, like the lights of a passing subway car disappearing? Or if he would just…be one moment and the next…just not be?

Sherlock, the screen admonished. You're three seconds too late.

"No, I've decided!" Sherlock said firmly. "I volunteer to die."

You took too long to decide.

To be continued…