THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD
by Soledad
Episode 03 – A Study in Pink
Disclaimer: Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun. However, there are a few lines of dialogue borrowed from the unaired pilot, which belong exclusively to Steven Moffat, may his muse never abandon him.
Author's note: I use the pilot version of Angelo's – the warm, old-fashioned, cosy brown-and-gold one – as well as the pilot version of Angelo, simply because I like them better than in the final version. Since this is an AU anyway, I took the poetic licence. Deal with it.
Part 50 – The Invisible Car
Twenty minutes later, John had a plate of excellent food in front of him and was eating from it with great relish – and honestly, who could blame him? It didn't happen often that he'd get delicious Italian dishes and good wine for free. Sherlock's attention was fixed out of the window and he was not-so-quietly drumming his fingers on the table.
"So, no sign of him yet?" John asked, determined not to let his eccentric flatmate ruin his late lunch.
Sherlock shook his head. "I suppose it's a long shot. We'll have to be patient."
John shrugged. He could do patient. There was something that had been nagging on his mind, though. "You said before you don't know who the killer was," he said," but you knew what he was."
"So would you if you'd think about him," Sherlock snapped. "Why won't people just think?"
"Oh, probably because we're stupid," John put a forkful of pasta into his mouth and chewed in delight. Sherlock bit his lower lip in annoyance.
"We know the killer drove his victims, but there have been no marks of coercion or violence on the bodies," he began in his deductive voice, speeding up as he went on. "Each one of those five people climbed into a stranger's car voluntarily. The killer was someone they trusted."
John looked up from his plate. "But not someone they knew?"
Sherlock leaned forward to give his words even more emphasis. "Five entirely different people with no friends in common. Yes, we did find a connection between them, but that was a temporary one; there's no sing of any of them having kept it alive after it served its purpose."
John nodded because that was certainly true.
"And another thing," Sherlock continued. "Lauritson Gardens… did you see it? Twitching curtains, little old ladies… Little old ladies, they're my favourite. Better than any security cameras. But, according to the police, no one remembers a strange car parked outside and empty house; not one person remembered!"
John frowned and looked at the ceiling, thinking. "I see what you're saying…" he paused, his frown deepening. "No, actually, I don't. Are you saying the killer's got an invisible car?"
Sherlock clapped his hands, excited. "Yes, exactly!"
John shook his head. "Okay, I definitely don't see what you're saying."
"Think, John!" Sherlock insisted, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "There are cars that pass like ghosts, unseen, unremembered. There are people we trust, always, when we're alone, when we're lost, when we're drunk. We never see their faces, but every day, we disappear into their cars and let the trap close around us."
He turned on his chair and called out. "A glass of white wine, Angelo, quickly!" Then he turned back to John again, gesturing at the black cab that had just slowed down in front of the house they'd been watching, its light on to indicate that it was available for hire.. "I give you the perfect murder weapon of the modern age: the invisible car – the London cab."
John shook his head, not quite buying the detective's theory.
"There have been cabs up and down this street all night," he pointed out. But Sherlock was too far gone with his idea to listen.
"This one stopped!" he hissed, causing John to roll his eyes.
"He's looking for a fare!" the doctor replied in exasperation, and they both watched a woman get out of the cab, pay the fee and leave.
Their argument was interrupted by Angelo, bringing the requested wine. Sherlock grinned diabolically. John shook his head again.
"We don't know it's him," he emphasized, but he was clearly talking to deaf ears.
"We don't know it isn't," Sherlock turned to Angelo, taking the wine glass from the tablet. "Thank you," he said; with a sudden move, he splashed the wine into his own face, then dabbed it with a folded napkin and reaching for his coat.
"Watch," he ordered, looking at John intently. "Don't interfere," then, to Angelo, he added. "Angelo, Headless Nun."
Angelo nodded, obviously getting the hint while John just gaped at them. "Now, that was a case," he declared in delight and began to roll up his shirtsleeves. "Same again?"
"If you don't mind," Sherlock put on his coat, just in time for Angelo to grab him, drag him to the door and throw him out of the bar.
"Out with you! Cretino!" Angelo shouted. "You're drunk! And stay away!"
Sherlock stumbled over the threshold spectacularly while Angelo continued insulting him in Italian, spun around on the street and performed a very convincing drunk ballet among wildly honking cars more or less straightly towards the suspicious cab.
"What's he doing?" John asked, baffled.
"Sherlock's on a case," Angelo announced with almost paternal pride; then he nodded sagely and smiled. "Bad news for bad people."
John wasn't so sure about that. He watched with increasing anxiety as Sherlock somehow engaged the cabbie in a conversation… well, a drunken argument would have been a better word for it. He played the drunken man very well, and in the end, he ended up in the cab, with the help of the driver, as if it had most likely been his intention.
John, however, didn't like the sight of his flatmate being manhandled onto the back seat of the cab like a sack of potatoes.
"Something's gone wrong," he said, worriedly.
"No. Nonono," Angelo shook his head. "All part of the plan. Sherlock always has a plan.
John's eyes narrowed as he watched the cab leaving.
"Yes, and it's gone wrong," he replied with a certainty that he couldn't quite explain, not even himself.
He jumped to his feet and ran out of Angelo's, to follow the cab as long as he could still see it.
The cane hung on the back of his seat, forgotten.
~TBC~
