When Sherlock got out, his coat and scarf put on and his gloves in his hands, the driver was leaning on his cab, waiting for him. He wasn't unordinary. An old you could walk pass in the street without envisaging at any point that he was capable to kill.
"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock closed the door. "I didn't order a taxi."
"Doesn't mean you don't need one," the driver retorted.
"You're the cabbie," Sherlock stated. "The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you. Not your passenger."
"See, no one ever thinks about the cabbie," the man explained. "It's like your invisible. Just the back of a head. Proper advantage for a serial killer."
Sherlock stepped closer. "Is this a confession?" he asked, glancing at his flat's window where a considerable amount of police officers were.
"Oh yeah," the driver confirmed. "And I'll tell you what else, if you call the copers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."
"Why?"
"Cause you're not gonna do that."
"Am I not?" Sherlock rose his eyebrows.
"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes," the driver said. "I spoke to them. And they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing. I will never tell you what I said." The driver knew he had Sherlock Holmes. How could a genius like him resist the appeal, the thrill, of what he was offering.
Sherlock considered the proposition silently. "No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result," he told the driver who was already walking to his seat.
He stopped. "And you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?" He took place behind the wheel.
Sherlock didn't answer. He pinched his lips and looked at the window again. It could be dangerous. He bent his knew and looked at the driver through the half-opened window. "If I wanter to understand, what would I do?"
"Let me take you for a drive."
"So you can kill me too?"
"I don't wanna kill you, Mr. Holmes. I'm gonna talk to you, and then you're gonna kill yourself."
Sherlock straightened. The appeal… The answer… The danger… He couldn't help himself. He was lost. He was an addict. Besides, John would saw him leave. He would have back up.
The driver smiled in satisfaction as the door opened behind him and someone got in. He started the car.
Upstairs, John was looking at what was happening in the street, his phone held to his hear. He couldn't believe it. "He just got in the cab." He turned to Lestrade. "It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab."
"I told you, he does that," Donovan, who had been talking to Lestrade, said. "He bloody lest again." She spun around and walked to the rest of her colleagues. "We're wasting our time." Lestrade looked at John for answers.
"I'm calling the phone," the doctor said. "It's ringing out." They listened but no phone started to rang.
"If it's ringing, it's not here," Lestrade stated.
John hang up and walked back to the laptop. "I'll try to search again."
Donovan came back. "Does it matter? Does any of it?" she asked Lestrade, her chin up defiantly. "He's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down and you're wasting your time. All our time." As if she hadn't asked to be part of the drug burst. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Lestrade sighed.
"Okay everybody, we're done here," he gave in. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" he asked John once all the officers were busy taking back their stuff and going outside.
John shrugged. "You know him better than I do," he told the detective. He was standing in a military way, hand in his back, head up.
"I've know him for five years and no, I don't," Lestrade said, putting his grey coat on.
"So why do you put up with him?" John inquired. It couldn't be because Sherlock was indispensable to the police, could it?
"Because I'm desperate. That's why," Lestrade answered as he headed to the door. He paused. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very very lucky, he might be a good one."
The police was already gone for a few minute when John's second search completed. He had been grabbing the walking stick — he had almost forgotten about it — and was about to leave and go back home — he had yet to move in — when the laptop beeped. John stopped and turned. He put the stick aside and grabbed the device. Without loosing any second, he rushed downstairs, the walking stick now completely forgotten.
Back in the car, the pink phone rang, but no one answered. Sherlock managed to refrain the satisfied smirk that was taunting his lips. Instead, London was passing behind the window.
"How did you find me?" he asked.
"Oh, I recognised you. As soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes. I was warned about you. I've been on your website too. Brilliant stuff! Love it!"
"Who warned you about me?" Sherlock asked. Somehow, the praise of a serial killer weren't even half as good as John's.
"Just someone out here who's noticed you.
"Who?" Sherlock inquired, leaning forward. It was becoming more and more interesting. "Who would notice me?"
"You're too modest, Mr. Holmes," the cabbie said, looking in the rear-view mirror.
"I'm really not."
"You've got yourself a fan," the cabbie breathed.
"Tell me more," Sherlock said, sounding only mildly interested.
"That's all you're gonna know. In this lifetime." They stayed silent for the rest of the drive.
Eventually, the cab stopped before two twin building. The cabbies turned off the car and got out to open Sherlock's door.
"Where are we?" the consulting detective asked.
"You know every street of London. You know exactly where we are."
"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?"
"It's opened," the cabby shrugged. "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?" The cabbie pointed a pistol at his passenger.
"Oh, dull," Sherlock said, disappointed.
"Don't worry. It gets better."
"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint," Sherlock responded.
"I don't. It's much better than that. Don't need this with you." He lowered the pistol. "Cause you'll follow me." He turned around and headed to the right building. Sherlock grumbled, tired of himself, and followed.
The cabbie led him to a vast classroom with large wood tables and black uncomfortable chairs. "Well, what do you think?" Sherlock looked around, not really interested as to where they were, and shrugged. "It's up to you," the cabbie continued. "You're the one who's gonna die here."
Sherlock turned and looked at him. "No I'm not."
"That's what they all say. Should we talk?" He pulled out the nearest chair and sat. Sherlock did as well with a sight.
"Bit risky, wasn't it?" he asked once they were facing each other. He took off his gloves and put them in his pocket. He liked the feeling of his fingers agains each other when he had to concentrate. "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. This is a risk." The cabbie took a small glass bottle out of his pocket and placed it between them. A white pill with brownish points was waiting in it. "Ooh, I like this bit," he added at Sherlock's lack of reaction. "Cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this." He placed an identical bottle with an identical pill next to the first one. "Weren't expecting that, were you? Oh you're gonna love this."
"Love what?" Sherlock replied. For now, there wasn't anything interesting. On the contrary, the case seemed more and more ordinary with each minute.
"Sherlock Holmes, look at you! Here in the flesh. That website of yours… Your fan told me about that!"
"My fan?" Sherlock repeated.
"You're brilliant," the cabbie continued. "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?"
Sherlock squinted. "Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too!" he said sarcastically.
"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man driving a cab." His word were tinted with an old blurry anger. "But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know." Here it was, the need of an audience. And what better audience than another genius? And what better genius than Sherlock Holmes when you were as serial killer.
"Okay, two bottles. Explain," Sherlock complied.
"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."
"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."
"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?" Sherlock asked.
"I haven'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 smiled. It was getting better. "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." Sherlock looked at the pills, started to try and identify them. "Didn't expect that, did you, Mr Holmes?"
"This is what you did to the rest of them," Sherlock assumed, quite correctly. "You gave them a choice."
"And now I'm giving you one. You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game."
"It's not a game, it's chance," Sherlock retorted.
"I've played four times. I'm alive. 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 pushed the left bottle toward his futur victim. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one." Minutes passed.
"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!" John was talking hurriedly in his phone, in a cab. The computer was on his laps, the Metaphore website showing where the pink phone — and therefore Sherlock — was. "Er, left here, please. Left here."