Finally! I finished this chapter at least. I'm so happy - it's the biggest chapter so far. Still, I'm sorry it took so long to update the story. My bad. One more chapter and I finish the first case. Please, ignore any mistakes, as usual. I didn't have time to reread between writing the script for my English project and studying Philosophy (how boring...). Thanks for the reviews and everything else! You made a person very happy. Don't forget to review!

Now, on with the story.

Disclaimer: I got Sherlock's Casebook, but I doubt it counts as owning Sherlock or any other characters.

"You sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine."

John stood on the doorstep along with Sherlock for a moment, quivering a bit, not knowing if it was due to leaving his jacket inside, or due to the sudden thought of being in great danger. The taxi Mrs Hudson wouldn't stop talking about was parked at the kerb and the driver, Jeff Hope, was leaning casually against the side of the cab. He was clearly the murder, but why would he turn up in a place where he would put his safety at risk? There was no doubt everyone on the street could see the police inside 221B (remember to close curtains, John thought). It was disturbing how calm and serene the cabbie looked like.

"Taxi for John Watson."

John stepped forward. "I didn't order a taxi."

"It doesn't mean you don't need one."

"The taxi of death." Whispering creepily, Sherlock wiggled his fingers in front of John's face and pretended to be a ghost (not so hard for him, after all), with sounds like 'uhuuu' and 'boo' coming out of his mouth. However, Sherlock's attitude only revealed how ironic he was being. "He's clever. No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like they're invisible. Just the back of a head. Proper advantage for a serial killer." He clapped his hands. "Well, this was very interesting, but I'm bored now. I must focus on finding out the man who left the suitcase in your flat, John. You may call out Lestrade."

John was just about to turn around and tell the DI Jennifer's murder was downstairs, as Sherlock told him to, when the cabbie straightened up and started walking around the front of the cab. "I didn't kill those four people, Dr Watson. I spoke to 'em ... and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing." He paused. "I will never tell you what I said."

Apparently, those last words made Sherlock reconsider his previous thoughts. Yes, it was true he caught the killer, but he never found out the how. Yes, it was also true he knew that man forced his victims to swallow the pills. Notwithstanding, this 'how?' also had another 'how?' behind. Was it enough to get him curious and get him back on the case? The cabbie continued around to the driver's door and got in, sitting down and closing the door. He settled into his seat and ignored John. Sherlock bit his lip and walked closer to the cab, looking up at the flat windows. John stared at the cabbie.

"No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result."

"An' you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?"

Seeing Sherlock getting more and more unsure of what to do, John interfered again. "If I wanted to understand, what would I do?"

"Let me take you for a ride."

"So you can kill me too?"

"I don't wanna kill you, Dr Watson. I'm gonna talk to yer ... and then you're gonna kill yourself."

Jeff turned to face the front again and Sherlock straightened up, his eyes lost in thought as he considered the situation. John observed his friend in silence, until the taller man nodded towards the taxi door. The cabbie, calmly gazing out of the front window, smiled in satisfaction as the rear door opened. The cab dipped as John got in after Sherlock and the door slammed shut. The cabbie started the engine and left Baker Street. As the London scenery passed by, John started making questions as Sherlock observed the side of Jeff's neck. He then noticed a photograph of a young boy and girl attached to the dashboard of the cab, the mum cut out.

"How did you find me?"

"Oh, I recognised yer, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. John Watson! I was warned about you. I've been on your blog, too. Loved it!"

"I'm not writing a blog."

"But yer used to."

John's eyes widened. The only time he wrote a blog Sherlock was still alive. The day when the brunet was allowed into a crime scene, John made sure he went with his friend, to register every single moment, every single deduction he'd say. For years, they fought together to be listened, everyone ignoring them because they were just kids. Yes, that day was a glorious day, the day when the 'big people' finally understood the prodigy they had in front of them. The blog was not popular, very few people knew about its existence, but that didn't matter to the young John Watson. He only cared about writing down the adventures he had with Sherlock, making sure he would have the records of it in case he wanted to recall those epic moments in the remote future. "Who warned you about me?"

"Just someone out there who's noticed you. You've got yourself a fan." The cabbie stopped talking and he stayed that way the rest of the trip. John looked at his friend when he heard him murmuring, unable to distinguish a word. Trying not to draw to much attention from the cabbie, John moved slowly next to Sherlock and whispered.

"What were you saying?"

"You missed your job interview. And your appointment with Ella. And to do the shopping, again."

"Yeah, I'm kind of busy right now with all of this serial killings and the break in… Those things are really not my priority at the moment."

"As long as you don't start complaining how you really should have gone to that job interview or how Ella is going to pester you around forever, it's all fine. Now, if you do so, I'll have the locks changed while you're out."

"Good luck with that."

"Thank you."

With a great timing, John and Sherlock's dialogue reached an end when the cab stopped at the front of two identical buildings side by side. The taxi driver turned off the engine and got out, coming to the passenger door and opening it. He looked in at John. "Where are we?"

"You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are."

"I really don't."

"He really doesn't." Sherlock said at the same time as John.

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. 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 he just walks the victims in? How?"

"What now?" The cabbie raised a pistol and pointed it at John. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his head away. "Oh crap."

"Don't worry. It gets better."

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint." John slid on the back seat and got out of the cab, the gun on the cabbie's hand now touching the back of his head. He looked at Sherlock from the corner of his eye, the git still sitting in the cab. John cleared his throat, trying to call Sherlock in a way the cabbie wouldn't understand. Luckily, Sherlock just said 'Dull' and followed the murder and the blonde inside the building on the right.

Once inside, the cabbie opened the door of a room and stood aside, lowering the gun, so that John could go in. Sherlock looked at him closely but stepped inside the room after John. The taxi driver walked over to some switches on the wall and turned on the lights. They were in a large classroom which has long fixed wooden benches and plastic chairs, everything perfectly clean. Sherlock walked deeper into the room, looking around, as John sat in one of the chairs, the cabbie following his lead.

"Well, what do you think?" John raised his hands and shrugged. "It's up to you. You're the one who's gonna die 'ere."

At this point, Sherlock turned back and sat next to John once again, the cabbie also sat in front of them. "I'm the one who's gonna talk from now on, John. Just repeat my words and wait for him to reply." John nodded. "Bit risky, wasn't it? Taking John away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs Hudson will remember you."

"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 will remember you."

"You call that a risk? Nah." The cabbie reached into the left pocket of his cardigan and took out a small glass bottle with a screw top on it. He put it onto the table in front of him. There was a single large capsule inside. Sherlock and John looked at it, not reacting in any way. A good old trick Sherlock taught him ages ago. "This is a risk. Oh, I like this bit. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do yer? But you're about to. I just have to do this." The cabbie reached into his right pocket this time and he took out an identical bottle containing an identical capsule, putting it onto the table beside the first bottle. "You weren't expecting that, were yer? Oh, you're going to love this."

"Love what?"

"Love what?"

"John Watson. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That blog of yours: your fan told me about it."

"His fan?"

"My fan?"

"You are brilliant. You are a proper genius. Between you and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think?" He looked down angrily. "Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?" The cabbie looked up again into John's eyes. John looked back at him for a long moment, narrowing his eyes. Sherlock then made a realisation, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

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

"You are a proper genius too."

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

Sherlock held his gaze for a second or two and then looked down to the table. "Okay, two bottles. Explain." John only pointed at the pills inside the bottles and waited for the cabbie to give an explanation.

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

"Both bottles are, of course, identical."

"Both bottles are identical."

"In every way." The serial killer tilted his head slightly, seeing John analysing both the bottles.

"And you know which is which."

"And you know which is which."

"Course I know."

"But John doesn't."

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses."

"Why should he? He's got nothing to go on. What's in it for him?"

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?"

"I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then, together, we take our medicine." Sherlock started to grin. It was finally starting to get interesting. "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." Sherlock looked down at the bottles once again, concentrating properly now. "Didn't expect that, did you, Dr Watson?"

"This is what he did to the rest of them. He gave them a choice." Although Sherlock was only talking to himself, John repeated what the brunet had just said.

"This is what you did to the rest of them. You gave them a choice."

"And now I'm givin' you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game."

"It's not a game. It's chance."

"It's not a game. It's chance."

"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Dr Watson, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this ... this ... is the move." With his left hand, the cabbie slid the left-hand bottle across the table towards John. He licked his top lip as he pulled his hand back and left the bottle where it was. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one." He looked down at the bottles briefly and then met John's eyes. "You ready yet, Dr Watson? Ready to play?"

"Play what? It's a fifty-fifty chance."

"Play what? It's a fifty-fifty chance."

"You're not playin' the numbers, you're playin' me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?"

"Still just chance. Luck."

"Still just chance. Luck."

"Four people in a row? It's genius. I know 'ow people think." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead." The brunet was really exasperated now. "Everyone's so stupid. Even you."

John couldn't keep it in. "Ouch." He put a closed hand in front of his mouth and eyed Sherlock, whose only response was a noisy huff.

"Or maybe God just loves me."

Sherlock straightened up and leaned forward, folding his hands in front of him on the table. "Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie." He lifted his folded hands in front of his mouth and gazed at the cabbie intently. "So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"

"You risked your life four times to kill strangers. Why?"

The cabbie nodded down to the bottles. "Time to play."

Sherlock unfolded his fingers and adopted the prayer position in front of his mouth. "Oh, I am playing. This is my turn. 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 has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts." Sherlock extended his index fingers. "Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing's 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?" Sherlock's eyes widen slightly as he makes his most important deduction. "Oh. Three years ago. Is that when they told you?"

Obviously, John got lost. Not being able to repeat everything Sherlock said out loud, he asked the cabbie directly if it was three years ago when someone told him something important. Very important.

Flatly, the cabbie only answered 'Told me what?'.

"That you're a dead man walking."

"That you are a dead man walking."

"So are you." The cabbie smiled. "Aneurism. Right in 'ere." He lifted his right hand and tapped the side of his head. "Any breath could be my last."

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people. No. No, there's something else. 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."

"This is all about your children." John gave up trying to stay in the same level as Sherlock. Down to hell all that mystery and mind games. He just wanted to leave that place and drink a good cup of tea. How British…

The cabbie looked away and sighed. "Oh. You are good, ain't you?"

"But how?"

"But how?"

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

Sherlock didn't have to say anything. John knew exactly what to say. "Or serial killing."

"You'd be surprised.

"Surprise me." John and Sherlock said it at the same time. Both men flashed a small smile to each other, Sherlock's smile meaning he would let John lead the rest of the dialogue.

Jeff looked up and leaned forwards. "I 'ave a sponsor. 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'd sponsor a serial killer?"

"Who'd be a fan of John Watson? You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man ... And they're so much more than that.

The side of Sherlock's nose twitched in distaste. "What do you mean, more than a man? An organisation? What?"

"There's a name no one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter." He nodded down to the bottles. "Time to choose."

Sherlock looked down to the bottles, his eyes moving from one to the other. John interrupted his train of thoughts.

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

Sighing in a combination of exasperation and disappointment, the cabbie lifted up the pistol and pointed it at John. "You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head." John smiled calmly. "Funnily enough, no one's ever gone for that option."

"I'll have the gun, please."

"John, what are you doing?"

"Are you sure?" The cabbie tilted his head once more.

"Definitely. The gun."

"You don't wanna phone a friend?"

"The gun." John said each word with a dark smile plastered on his face. The cabbie's mouth tightened and slowly, he squeezed the trigger. A small flame burst out of the end of the muzzle and John smiled smugly. Sherlock was too stunned to say anything. "I know a real gun when I see one."

Calmly, the taxi driver lifted the fake pistol and released the trigger, the flame going out. "None of the others did."

"Clearly. I look forward to the court case." John stood up and walked towards the door. He only then noticed Sherlock wasn't following him, but still sitting on the plastic chair where he was before, observing the bottles. John stopped at the door and half-turns towards him. The cabbie did the same on his seat.

"Did you figure it out which one's the good bottle?"

Sherlock immediately answered. "Of course. Child's play."

"I did."

"Well, which one, then? Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you? Come on. Play the game."

Sherlock pointed at the bottle he had chosen and told John to get it. The blonde hesitated, but ended up doing it anyway. Why, he wondered. If Sherlock was the one on his position, he would surely order him to drop the pill and leave that place, but it wasn't. It was him who would take the pill, and he had faith in Sherlock. Faith he would tell him to just let it go and go back to Baker Street, go back home. However, it was slightly possible he would ignore his friend to if, and only if, he told him something like that. After all, he was an idiot. An idiot desperate for adrenaline, blood pumping through his veins, and right now, he was getting a lot of both. John walked back towards the cabbie and Sherlock. When he got to the table, he reached out and swept up the bottle nearest to the cabbie, walking past him. The serial killer looked down at the other bottle with interest, his voice giving nothing away as he spoke.

"Oh. Interesting." He picked up the other bottle as John looked down at the bottle in his own hand. The cabbie opened his bottle and tipped the capsule out into his hand. He held it up and looked at it closely as both John and Sherlock examined John's own bottle.

"So what d'you think?" He looked up at Sherlock. "Shall we? Really, what do you think?" The cabbie stood up and faced John. "Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?" John lifted his gaze from the bottle he's holding and the cabbie continued to hold up his pill as he looked at John. "I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you ..." John undid the lid of the bottle. "So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" John took out the capsule and held it between his thumb and finger. "Still the addict. But this... This is what you're really addicted to, innit?" John began to move the pill closer to his mouth and the taxi driver matched the movement with his own pill. "You're not bored now, are you?"

Just as John was about to put the pill on his mouth, Sherlock jumped at him and knocked him over, just as a bullet ripped through the cabbie's chest, close to his heart. As he fell to the floor, Sherlock got up and screamed at John. "I can't believe you were really going to do that! It was a fifty-fifty chance! Are you that desperate for an almost-death situation again?! You're a complete idiot! If I put a knife in front of you and tell you to cut open your stomach, would you do that?! No! 'Cause that's absolutely ridiculous!" Sherlock turned back and left behind a very shocked John Watson, still on the floor. "Get up. I need you to make some questions to this man while he's still breathing." The cabbie convulsed on the floor, gasping and coughing in pain. A large pool of blood was underneath him and he was staring up at John in shock.

"Ask him if I was right."

"Was I right?" The taxi driver turned his head away in disbelief.

"I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?"

"Answer my question." He doesn't reply and Sherlock snarls at him angrily.

"Ok, ask him about his sponsor. Who was it?"

"Tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me. My 'fan'. I want a name."

"No."

"I am a doctor. You're dying. I can help you. Give me a name and I'll ease your pain." The cabbie shook his head. Grimacing even more angrily, Sherlock nodded towards the dying man and John lifted his foot, putting it onto the cabbie's shoulder, who gasped in pain. "A name." He kept crying out in pain. "Now." The cabbie could only whine in pain. John leaned his weight onto his foot and the man whimpered. "The name!"

"Moriarty!"