-Clever.

-Paring(s): Sherlock Holmes/OC

-Rated: T (currently) for language, suggested violence, and slight adult situations

-TV-based

-Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. The characters belong to the fantastic Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and the legendary Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I only own the OCs introduced.


Chapter Seven:

"A Steady Hand"

[In a Taxi Heading Somewhere Unbeknown; 10:55pm]

The ride to the location only the cabbie knew was silent expect for the shrill ringing of Jennifer Wilson's phone. Sherlock discreetly sent a text to Marisol.

Got a plan

SH

A several seconds later, a reply came:

Wish you accepted my gun now? ;)

His lips twitched, holding back a smirk.


[Sherlock's Flat; 10:55pm]

"And if it's ringing, it's not here." Lestrade noted.

John went to the laptop. "I'll try the search again."

"Does it matter? Does any of it?" ranted Sally to Lestrade, "He's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down. And you're wasting your time. All our time."

"He is not a lunatic. Sherlock's the only one really trying to end this." Vallas snapped, becoming sick and tired of hearing her complaining. But her outburst was for another reason also..one she hoped would work to her advantage.

"You don't even really know him, so don't bother defending the freak." the other woman told blandly. Marisol stomped over to her then; her dark eyes narrowed with anger.

"Either do you but I know enough to understand that he's adamant when it comes to a case. He wouldn't leave it unfinished. So unless you've got any other bright ideas, I suggest you shut it before you stick your foot even further in your mouth." A condescending sneer formed on her pink lips. "Or something else for that matter, which I'm sure Anderson would love to volunteer for also." Sally's eyes flared and she rushed towards the snarky younger woman who just stood there with her hands on her hips in a sassy pose.

"That's it! I've had it—"

"Enough! The both of you!" Lestrade got in between them to stop a possible fistfight. He looked at Sally. "Donovan, go cool off." Then Vallas, pointing a warning finger at her. "And you, another outburst like that and you'll be in cuffs down in my police car. Got it?" The women nodded, backing off with mumbling remarks but not without one last vicious glare at each other. The Inspector tiredly rubbed his temples before announcing with a wry tone.

"Okay, everybody..done here."


[Taxi: close to location; 10:59pm]

"..How did you find me?"

"Oh, I recognized you. Soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes!" the cabbie answered, pausing for a moment. "I was warned about you." Sherlock gave a curious expression to that, peeking his interest. "I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it."

"Who warned you about me?" he questioned smoothly.

"Just somebody out there who'd noticed."

"Who?" The genius leaned forward a bit, spying a torn picture taped to the dashboard. "Who would notice me?"

The man smiled. "You're too modest, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm really not." he was corrected quickly.

"Got yourself a fan."

Holmes leaned back, casually saying, "Tell me more."

"That's all you're going to know." the killer stated, menacingly adding. "..In this lifetime."


[Sherlock's Flat; 10:59pm]

The Inspector looked to the genius' acquaintances as he put on his coat. The other officers were all gone from the apartment and outside now. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?"

John shrugged and glanced briefly at his goddaughter with a teasing glint in his eyes. "You know him better than I do." She blushed with a frown, holding back from elbowing him.

"I've known him for five years and no, I don't." Lestrade replied, not noting the double meaning.

"So why do you put up with him?" questioned Marisol curiously.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why." He headed for the door, peering back at them. "And, like you said, because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." He then left, leaving the two alone. The young woman wasted no time and rushed to Sherlock's laptop.

"Finally! He's gone!"

"What are you doing?" John asked her, stepping over. "The police are taking care of this now, we don't need to continue helping."

"That may be true," she said securely, not taking her eyes off the screen. "But I'm not stopping." He sighed and grabbed his cane from where he left it on the table.

"Well, I'm going home. This has been enough excitement for me in one night." Walking away then, a beeping came from the computer—the locator had found the phone again.

A bit of relief washed over the writer. "There you are, you sociopath.." She snapped the laptop shut and took it with her, speeding out of the room. "Forget going home, John! Sherlock needs our help!"

"W-What?!" he blinked before going after her.


[Taxi: Upon Arrived Destination; 11:04pm]

The cabbie stopped outside two old building that seemed to be used a school of some sort before stepping out and opening the backseat door.

"Where are we?" asked Sherlock firmly.

"You know every street in London." the older man remarked, knowing Sherlock very well. "You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?"

"It's open. Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie—you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

"And you just walk your victims in? How?" A gun was pointed at him then and he sighed with disappointment. "Oh..Dull."

"Don't worry. It gets better." the killer reassured.

Holmes glared at him. "You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint."

"I don't. It's much better than that." he said, placing the weapon away. "Don't need this with you. Cos you'll follow me." He turned to stroll inside one of the buildings. The genius stayed where he was for a second before with gritted teeth, hurried after the murder, hating how well he was being read and his unhinged curiosity. Upon following, he was lead to a computer study hall.

"Well, what do you think?" the cabbie wondered as he peered around. "It's up to you. You're the one who's going to die here."

"No, I'm not." Sherlock said with certainty.

"That's what they all say." the other man stated while he sat down at one of the tables in the room. "Shall we talk?" The genius did the same, saying once seated.

"Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs. Hudson and Marisol Vallas will remember you."

"You call that a risk? Nah..This..is a risk." A vial with the suicide pill was placed in the center of the table between the men. The eccentric eyed it inquisitively. "Oh, I like this bit. Cos you don't get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this.." A second one was put alongside its' identical. "Weren't expecting that, were ya?" He said nothing, making the man grin. "Oh, you're gonna love this."

"Love what?" he deadpanned.

"Sherlock Holmes..look at you! Here in the flesh." commented the cabbie cockily, "That website of yours, your fan told me about it."

"My fan?"

"You are brilliant. You are a proper genius. The Science Of Deduction. Now, that..is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here, why can't people think? Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?"

"Oh, I see.." drawled Holmes sardonically, "So you're a proper genius too."

"Don't look it, do I?" the older man noted, "Funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know."

"Okay, two bottles. Explain."

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle." he was informed, "You take the pill from the good bottle, you live. You take the pill from the bad bottle..you die."

"Both bottles are of course identical."

"In every way."

"And you know which is which."

"Of course I know."

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew—you're the one who chooses." The cabbie stated.

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on." Sherlock pondered with indifference, "What's in it for me?"

"I haven't told you the best bit yet." the killer announced smoothly, "What bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together..we take our medicine." Sherlock smirked, amused now. "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. Holmes?"

"This what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice." he said aloud, processing this new information.

The other man nodded, disturbingly relishing the tense moment. "And now I'm giving you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game"

Clear blues narrowed. "It's not a game, it's chance."

"I've played four times. I'm alive." the murderer smugly declared, "It's not chance, Mr. Holmes—it's chess. It's a game of chess with one move..and one survivor. And this..this..is the move." He then pushed one of the bottles towards him. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one.."


[Cab ride to Roland-Kerr Further Education College; 11:09pm]

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade—I need to speak to him." John stressed to the other person on the line. "It's important. It's an emergency."

"Left here, please." Vallas pointed as she instructed the driver where to go. The small computer sat in her lap with the mephone locator page still open. The impending seconds were ticking and they hoped to make it there in time before it was too later for their new friend.


[Study Hall at Roland-Kerr Further Education College; 11:14pm]

"You ready yet, Mr. Holmes? Ready to play?"

"Play what?" he questioned in a flat tone. "It's a 50/50 chance."

"You're not playing the numbers—you're playing me." told harshly the killer. He tilted forward some. "Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?"

"It's still just chance."

"Four people, in a row? It's not chance."

"Luck." stated the eccentric heatedly.

"It's genius!" he was corrected, "I know how people think." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know how people think I think. I can see it all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid, even you. Or maybe God just loves me." Holmes leaned on the table then with his hands wrapped business-like in front of him.

"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie." he insulted coolly.

"So, he's still here?" Marisol and John now stood in front of the two buildings, peering at both.

"Yep. That's the taxi right there."

"Too bad the locator won't tell us exactly which one they're in." noted the doctor with a sigh. "It's never easy in these situation."

The young woman glanced at him, smirking. "Good thing there's two of us."

"So.." Sherlock paused. "You risked your life four times just to kill strangers—why?"

"Time to play." replied the older man instead.

"Oh, I am playing. This is my turn." he informed before assessing him, "There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own—there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The children's mother's been cut out. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old, but frame's new. You think of your children, but you don't get to see them. Estranged father." The cabbie just sat there listening, glancing off the side somewhere.

"She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts. Ah, but there's more." He pointed at the other man. "Your clothes. Recently laundered, but everything you're wearing is at least..three years old? Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?" Clears blues stared before an understanding filled them:

Dying

"Ah..three years ago. Is that when they told you?"

"Told me what?" the murder at last spoke.

"That you're a dead man walking." Holmes said impassively.

"So are you." the cabbie told; he was becoming agitated and defensive.

The genius finished, uttering. "You don't have long, though. Am I right?"

"..Aneurism. Right in 'ere." He pointed to the top and right side of his head. The eccentric smirked triumphantly. "Any breath could be my last."

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people."

"I've outlived four people." corrected the killer, "That's the most fun you can have with an aneurism."

"No..No, there's something else." Holmes noted, "You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow, this is about your children."

The other man sighed, licking his dry lips nervously. "Oh..you are good, in't ya?"

"But how?"

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs."

"Or serial killing."

"You'd be surprised."

"Surprise me." the genius challenged him.

"I have a sponsor." he revealed in a whisper. This information was indeed a plot twist that the other had believed would be true.

Sherlock raised a brow. "You have a what?"

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill..the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

"Who's sponsor a serial killer?" Sherlock whispered in disbelief.

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?" the murderer countered. Said person's brows furrowed slightly. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's other out there just like you, except you're just a man. And they're so much more than that.

"What do you mean..more than a man? An organization..what?"

"There's a name that no one says. And I'm not going to say it either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose." The eccentric peered down at the bottles then.


"Sherlock!" John ran from door to door, trying all to see if any of them would open while shouting out his name. The same was being done by his goddaughter.

His phone rang. "..Find him?!"

"No, you?"

"Nope. I'm heading to the second floor now."

"Okay, me too. Call me if you do."

"Sure thing!"


"What if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here."

The gun was put on him again. "You can take a 50/50 chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no one's ever gone for that option."

"I'll have the gun, please." Sherlock requested, straight-faced.

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely." he smiled, "The gun."

"You don't want to phone a friend?" jested the killer.

"The gun." Holmes emphasized with that easy smile of his. The trigger was pulled and a small flame came out. "I know a real gun when I see one."

"None of the others did." the older man stated smoothly, putting the lighter away.

"Clearly." the eccentric said mockingly, "Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." He stood and proceeded to leave.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out?" was asked of him suddenly. He stopped just before exiting through the door. "Which one's the good bottle?"

"Course. Child's play."

"Well, which one, then?" the cabbie questioned, slowly reeling him back in. "Which one would you have picked? Just so I know whether I could have beaten you. Come on! Play the game." Sherlock strolled over once more to the table. The bottle in front of the killer was picked. Said person took the other, removing and observing the poisoned pill.

"Oh..Interesting. So what do you think? Shall we?" The genius stayed silent, rolling the vial thoughtfully in his hand. "Really..what do you think? Can you beat me?" The older man got up to stand across the other, taunting him still with his words. "Are you clever enough..to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you. So clever." The curiosity..the need to know if he was right..was killing him. Holmes emptied the bottle then, giving in to his demented game. He raised the pill to the light to better see the contents.

The murderer prattled on. "But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it? Still the addict. But this..this is what you're really addicted to. You'll do anything..anything at all, to stop being bored." His words were like the puppeteer pulling the strings of his puppet, making it unwilling do what he wished. "You're not bored now, are ya? Isn't it good?" The poison moved gradually to Sherlock's lips; the cabbie mocking his movements, until a gunshot rang out and struck the killer, not instantly but close enough to the heart to kill slowly. The eccentric dropped the pill, returning to his senses. Spinning around on his heel, he discovered the shot had came through the window behind him. Upon a closer look, across to the other building, a window opposite of that one was opened but the shooter was nowhere to be visibly seen in the room. A wheezing gasp made him returned to the now-dying cabbie.

Picking up his dropped pill, he eagerly asked the man, "Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?!" No answer. He tossed the pill angrily at him.

"Okay..tell me this. Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan. I want a name."

"No.." the killer rasped.

"You're dying, but there's till time to hurt you." Holmes told with cruelty. "Give me..a name." The injured older man stubbornly shook his head, earning a foot pressing down roughly on his wound. "A name! Now! The name!"

"Moriarty!" shouted the murderer with his dying breath. The genius removed his foot and repeated the name in his head several times for a moment before mouthing it out that would play a major part later in the story.


[Outside Ronald-Kerr; 11:32pm]

Holmes sat in the back of an ambulance with a shock blanket once again placed around his shoulder for the fifth time. Finished dealing from some things inside the building, Lestrade joined him.

"Why have I got this blanket?' complained the genius when seeing him, "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock." the other man told.

"I'm not in shock."

"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs."

Sherlock sighed before questioning, "So, the shooter—no sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here." the Inspector stated, "But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him, but..we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." the eccentric said knowledgeably.

The detective sighed, "Okay. Give me."

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and..nerves of steel.." Sherlock began to drawl as he noticed John and Marisol standing not too far from where he was. The young woman gave a shy wave when he looked but it was her godfather that really caught his attention. The doctor stood in a militant stance; doing so being ingrained after several years of service. He knew then who the shooter was.

"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me." he told Lestrade.

"Sorry?" Lestrade said, thinking he heard wrong.

Holmes stood with the blanket still on. "Ignore all of that. It's just the, er..the shock talking." He began to leave and join his new friends.

"Where are you going?"

"I just need to..talk about the..the rent."

The Inspector followed, "I've still got questions."

"Oh, what now?! I'm in shock." He waved the blanket for emphasis. "Look, I've got a blanket."

"Sherlock—"

The genius prattled next, "And I just caught you a serial killer..more or less."

"Okay..we'll pull you in tomorrow." Lestrade instructed, "Off you go." He complied, at last joining the writer and veteran.

"..You all right?" Vallas asked with concern right away. Sherlock noticed she was shivering a bit and without her coat.

"Yes, I'm, uh, fine." he assured before taking off the shock blanket and then handing it to her. She gave a questioning look. "It's not for shock obviously but the cold. I noticed you forgot your coat."

"Uh, right." A sweet smile was given as the blanket was wrapped over her shoulders like a shawl. "Thank you." He nodded stiffly.

"Erm..Sergeant Donovan's..just been explaining everything. Two pills.." Watson said, shaking his head once. "Dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful."

Sherlock stared at him. "..Good shot."

"Yes. Yes, must have been. Through that window."

"Well, you'd know." the eccentric pressed adamantly, "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." John cleared his throat, peering around. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course I'm all right." the doctor answered calmly.

"Well, you have just killed a man."

"Yes, I.." He paused, sharing a short glance with Marisol before looking back to Sherlock. "..That's true, isn't it? But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No. No, he wasn't, really, was he?" agreed Holmes.

"Frankly, a bloody awful cabbie." The three chuckled at that.

"That's true, he was a bad cabbie." They began to leave the scene together. "You should have seen the route he took us to get here." They burst into more laughter.

"Stop! We can't giggle, it's a crime scene." scolded the young woman, though she was still laughing. "Stop it, hehe."

"He's the one who shot him." noted Sherlock just as the trio passed by Sally.

"Keep your voice down!" John reprimanded him before saying to the sergeant. "Sorry, it's just, erm..nerves, I think."

"Sorry." Sherlock told her half-heartedly. The woman narrowed her eyes at them before continuing on. When they were a good distance away from not being heard by any officers, the doctor queried.

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time." the genius informed smoothly, "Knew you two would turn up."

"No, you didn't." denied the other man, "That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot." Marisol deadpanned, making him smile. She became serious then. "Look, John and I had only just met you and we saw clearly that you were clever and always will..so that should be enough. You don't need the whole world to." She reached over to give his arm a gentle touch, uttering. "Something to remember if you're ever at your lowest, Sherlock." He nodded, somewhat moved by what she told him.

Composing himself again, he asked them. "Dinner?"

"Starving." John replied.

"Oh, definitely." agreed the writer.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese. Stays open till two." Sherlock stated as they walked off again. "You can tell a good Chinese by the bottom third of the door handle." But John wasn't listening as he saw the man would questioned him earlier step out of a car.

"Sherlock..that's him," he told quickly, "That's the man I was talking to you about."

The eccentric looked, narrowing his clear blues. "I know exactly who that is."

"So..another case cracked." his arch-enemy said upon joining the three with his assistant, 'Anthea.' "How very public-spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Holmes questioned harshly.

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern.'"

"Always so aggressive." the man chuckled, "Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough..no." Sherlock told snarkily.

"We have more in common than you'd like to believe." the stranger stated, "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer..And you know how it always upset Mummy." The godchild and parent's brows furrowed simultaneously with confusion.

"I upset her?" scoffed the genius, "Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"No. No, wait.." John interrupted, "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"Mother. Our mother." his new friend explained as last, "This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft corrected snidely.

"He's your brother?"

"Course he's my brother."

"So he's not—"

"Not what?" The siblings looked at Watson questioningly.

"I don't know..criminal mastermind?" guessed Watson.

"..Close enough." Sherlock drawled.

His brother laughed, "For goodness' sake, I occupy a minor position in the British Government."

"He is the British Government when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Sherlock then addressed him lastly. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home—you know what it does for the traffic." He walked away afterwards.

"..Wow, haha." Marisol uttered with a grin before following him. John did the same but paused, glancing back at Mycroft.

"So, when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?"

"Yes, of course."

"It actually is a childish feud?"

"He's always been so resentful." informed the other man, "You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah.." the doctor drawled, looking at the retreating Sherlock before denying, "No..God, no. I'd better, erm.." He noticed 'Anthea' then. "Hello again."

"Hello." she greeted politely.

"Yes, we met earlier on this evening."

"..Oh!" the woman said, seeming to have forgotten him.

His good daughter had returned and said blandly as she tugged on his coat sleeve. "Come on, John."

"Okay. Good night." he told the other Holmes before leaving.

"Good night, Dr. Watson." Mycroft said, watching the group go.

"Sir, shall we go?" asked his assistant.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow and his goddaughter." he commented, "They could be the making of my brother..or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade 3 active."

"Sorry, sir—whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson."

"So, dim sum." John stated the dish he was going to get.

"Mmm!" Sherlock hummed, "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't." smirked Vallas.

"Almost can." he smirked back before stating suddenly, "You did get shot, though."

"Sorry?" the two questioned, off-guard.

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

"Oh. Yeah, shoulder." the doctor replied when realizing he was talking about himself.

"Shoulder! I thought so."

"No, you didn't." Watson contradicted.

"The left one." noted Holmes.

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes, you do." smiled Marisol before noticing his own. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty." was her single reply.

John asked him curiously, "What's 'Moriarty'?"

"I've absolutely no idea." he informed them with glee.

-TBC-


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