Mr. Turner is a man destroyed by diabetes and mental exhaustion and Sherlock deduces that in a second: his deep, dark circles around his eyes, that almost undetectable tremor in his hand and the cane that helps him with his right feet, affected by the disease.
- Mr. Holmes. I don't understand why I'm here but it's a pleasure meeting you too. My daughter talks about you all the time. And you must be Doctor Watson.
John slowly walks toward him with a sheepish smile, shaking his hands.
Sweating palms.
- Mr. Turner, please, take a seat.
The man flops down on the couch resting his cane on his legs.
- I've got your message, Mr. Holmes.
- Ah, yes, of course, glad you came.
John rolls his eyes at Sherlock being overly nice.
- Care to explain why I'm here? Is there something wrong?
Sherlock is standing right in front of Turner while John sits down: he pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.
- Oh, no, God forbid. Nothing is wrong. I was told by your daughter that you're having a rough time with what happened to your dear friend Charles, so I thought you should be the first to know that we found the killer.
John eyes widen while turning to glance at Sherlock: he grips the armrests of his chair.
- Oh…you found the killer?
- Yes.
- Who is it?
- I think you know, Mr. Turner – Sherlock smiles sardonically.
Turner lowers his eyes with a slow blink, taking in what Sherlock just said.
- I see.
- Do you have anything to say?
The smug expression on Sherlock's face fades away and then time seems to slow down: both John and Sherlock watches the man as he reaches for something inside his trench coat but both are unable to move. John curses himself; he knows what's going to happen and glances at the other side of the room, on the table, where he put his gun holder when they came in.
Sherlock watches John: he slowly raises his hand to him, stay put, calm down, I've got this.
The doctor tries to protest but finds himself paralyzed on his seat.
Fear. Drops of sweat. White knuckles gripping the armrests. Calm down, John.
The doctor gapes and then swallows a lump in his throat.
No, not again. Please God no.
Turner takes his gun out of his pocket and smiles.
- I think you know, Mr. Holmes.
