Maxine

"Can I ask your name?"

It was such a normal thing to say, and it honestly felt surreal even saying it considering my current situation.

I sat in the back of the cab and my eyes darted from examining the city of London flitting by, to the dashboard where there was a photo of two kids, to the rear view mirror where I could see the cabbie's spectacled eyes. Striking up a conversation with a killer probably wasn't the typical thing to do, especially for someone like me who tried to avoid talking to anyone. However, I still didn't understand; I didn't know why this man was killing people or how he did it. Perhaps I could get him to tell me—maybe as some kind of last request.

"Jeff Hope," the man replied. "And I don't believe I got yours."

"Maxine Watson," I said. As an abrupt afterthought, I added, "Most killers wouldn't want to know their victim's names; not unless they were fully psychotic."

Jeff merely chuckled. "Now, now, let's save the in-depth conversation for later. Wouldn't want anyone to miss out."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked warily.

Jeff suddenly pulled over. We weren't that far from Baker Street. I was a bit surprised and admittedly anxious about the fact that what was potentially my last car ride didn't last longer. However, the cabbie didn't make a move to get out of the taxi. Instead, he looked at me in the rear view mirror.

"You seem fairly calm, Miss Watson," he said.

I shrugged. Truth was, my heart was thrumming against my chest so hard it felt like it could crack a rib, but I still had a dagger in my boot. "I suppose I'm good in high stress situations," I said. "Though, to be honest, this is only the third one I've ever been in. The second was just a few hours ago."

Jeff laughed. "That so? Seems that meetin' Mr. 'olmes 'as set your life on a 'ole new level."

"It has," I agreed softly.

It had set it on such a high level, I realized with staggering discomfort that the last thing I wanted to do right now was die. I hadn't felt this much of... anything in my life. Sherlock Holmes swept in and somehow managed to take my desaturated world and flood it with color. I pressed a hand to my chest, reveling in the pounding of my heart.

Perhaps I could outsmart the cabbie. My eyes darted around the taxi, my mind racing for ideas—solutions—anything. However, no matter what plans came to my head, they kept being stumped by one simple thing: the gun. Unless I was fast—very fast—a mere bullet would be the end of me.

"What was your first high stress situation, if you don't mind my askin'?" Jeff inquired.

I fidgeted slightly in my seat and cleared my throat awkwardly. "It was a long time ago," I said evasively. "Doesn't matter now."

"Fair enough. Do you 'ave any family?" Jeff asked. His tone suggested that we were having this conversation over tea.

I swallowed a lump that started forming in my throat. The anguish that I was feeling over the prospect of dying wasn't exactly all about me—I was picturing John finding my unmoving body. I could see the horror and grief arresting his face... I could see his shoulders shaking with sobs. I didn't want to cause that kind of pain to my brother.

"Is this your game?" I said suddenly. "Get to know your victims on a personal level? Use their lives against them?"

"Ah, just be patient," Jeff replied calmly. He was looking out his side mirrors now, and the lights of an approaching car shone from behind us. "We can continue this in just a moment."

I turned in my seat to see another taxi pull up. When it stopped, someone hopped out of the back and began to walk briskly toward us, leaving the second cab to drive off.

I recognized that curly head of hair and tall lean figure instantly.

"No," I breathed. "This wasn't—you were supposed to take me over him." I shot a glare at Jeff.

"Sorry, but he's necessary," Jeff replied with a shrug.

The door on the far side of me opened and in came Sherlock Holmes. He sat down and looked me over carefully.

"Are you all right, Max?" he asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.

"Why are you here?" I sighed rather than answer. "I got in this cab so you didn't have to."

"Stupid, really," Sherlock told me, his normal demeanor returning. He glanced toward Jeff. "I'm here. Now let Max leave."

"Sorry, Mr. 'olmes, but she's seen my face." Jeff shrugged again. "Miss Watson 'ere was very insistent on takin' your place. Didn't give me any choice, really. Now, the only way she lives, is if you live."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to argue, but the taxi was already pulling away from the curb and driving once again. The detective let out an annoyed exhale and buckled his seat belt. He glanced over at me again and gave a confident nod as if to say, I've got this. Everything will be fine.

To be honest, the presence of someone else alone was doing wonders for my nerves. I let my shoulders relax a little and I stopped worrying the fabric of my scarf.

"So." Sherlock turned his attention to Jeff. "Let's start with the basics: what do you want?"

"I just want to play a little game, Mr. 'olmes," Jeff said. "You've got to be curious, I'm sure. See, I didn't kill those four people. I spoke to 'em... and they killed themselves. Don't you want to know what I said?"

Sherlock didn't reply at first. I had to admit, I was curious. Was the cabbie actually capable of talking people into willfully killing themselves? Was that why he was asking about past and my family? Did he dig into people's lives and force them to agonize over the negative aspects of them so much that they committed suicide?

No, no... Jennifer Wilson didn't willfully die. She carved a message into the floor boards for us—a message I still didn't understand, but surely it was an attempt to lead us to Jeff.

"How did you find me?" Sherlock asked, electing to ignore Jeff's question.

"Oh, I recognized you, soon as I saw you chasin' my cab," Jeff said. "Sherlock 'olmes! I was warned about you. I've been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!" Jeff smiled at him in the rear view mirror.

"Who warned you about me?" Sherlock frowned.

My mind immediately went to the man that kidnapped John and me earlier. Would he really do that to Sherlock? Were the two so at odds that this man warned serial killers about the detective?

"Just someone out there who's noticed you," Jeff replied.

So not the guy from the warehouse, then. That was too bland of an answer—unless Jeff didn't know the real connection between him and Sherlock.

"Who?" Sherlock's voice was growing sharper and more insistent. "Who would notice me?"

"You're too modest, Mr. 'olmes," Jeff said.

In the same moment, Sherlock and I spoke. While he stated: "I'm really not." I said, "He's really not."

This earned me a shocked and affronted look from the detective.

"What?" I shrugged innocently. "You just said it yourself."

Jeff chuckled. "Miss Watson says you two 'aven't known each other long, but you both certainly act like old friends."

"Who is that you're talking about?" I said, trying to bring the cabbie back to our previous topic.

"Mr. 'olmes got 'imself a fan," Jeff declared, smiling again.

"Tell me more," Sherlock prompted calmly as he leaned back in his seat.

"That's all you're gonna know," Jeff paused for a moment, as if to raise our anticipation. "... in this lifetime."

"Bit too dramatic, don't you think?" I muttered.

Sherlock cast me a slightly surprised look. I shrugged back at him, wondering what he was so shocked about.

"Drama is what it's all about," Jeff said. "Isn't that why you got in my cab even when I got in the driver's seat?"

I glanced out the window. "The reason I got in your cab was so Sherlock Holmes would stay out of it," I muttered.

"Which I still find curious," Jeff replied.

We drove on in silence for a while. I recalled that this was my second time within twenty-four hours being taken by force in a vehicle. Sherlock's life certainly seemed to hold some interesting events. With one glance at the detective, I could tell that he didn't seem worried or concerned in the least. His eyes were sharp and darted around the cab, not with distress but with calculation. He'd been in situations like this before—life-threatening situations.

After about fifteen minutes, Jeff pulled in front of a set of two buildings. They were so identical that I felt they could be referred to as twins. The cabbie shut off the engine and stepped out of the car. He went to Sherlock's side, since the detective had been sitting directly behind him, and opened it like any good cabbie would.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked.

"You know every street in London," Jeff said with a small smile. "You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College," Sherlock murmured. "Why here?"

"It's open," Jeff explained nonchalantly. "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?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes skeptically. "How?"

"Probably with the gun," I said.

"The gun?" Sherlock shot me a curious look before turning back in time to see Jeff raise his pistol. The detective rolled his eyes and glared at the back of the driver's seat in front of him. "Oh, dull," he breathed.

"Don't worry, it gets better than that," Jeff assured. He glanced at his gun for a moment as a long breath exhaled from his nostrils. "Now remember, you either both die or you both survive. If it were just Mr. 'olmes, I wouldn't need the gun, but Miss Watson has presented a new variable to this. So c'mon. Let's get goin'."

He gestured with the pistol for Sherlock to get out. The detective gave a tight sigh and obeyed. After he exited the cab, I slid across the seat and stood at his side. Jeff kept his gun close to his hip as he led us into the building. Inside, Jeff took us to a large classroom with long fixed wooden benches and free-standing plastic chairs. All of this was illuminated for us after the cabbie hit the switches near the door. Jeff closed the door behind us and gestured around the room.

"Well, what d'you think?" he asked.

Sherlock and I stepped further into the room. The detective glanced back toward Jeff and gave him a small shrug.

"I don't like the smell of schools," I muttered mostly to myself.

"Well, it's up to you," Jeff said. "You're the ones who're gonna die 'ere."

Sherlock turned to face him. His posture was confident and his green gaze didn't hold a single shred of doubt or fear. "No we're not," he said simply.

"That's what they all say." Jeff gestured to one of the benches. "Shall we talk?"

Without waiting for a response, the cabbie sat down in one of the chairs. Sherlock strode over and gripped two of the chairs from the bench in front of the one Jeff sat at and flipped them around to face him so we could sit across from the cabbie. I nodded my appreciation and sat down next to the detective.

"Bit risky, wasn't it?" Sherlock queried. "Took Max away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs. Hudson will remember you. Not to mention John—John who will probably put two and two together soon enough when he realizes a cabbie is who took his little sister. I doubt he'll be fun to deal with."

"You call that a risk?" Jeff scoffed. "Nah." He reached into his cardigan's pockets and produced a small glass bottle with a metal cap and placed it on the table. The clack resounded off the white walls around them. Inside the bottle was a single capsule with white and black substance inside. "This is a risk," the cabbie declared.

I couldn't help but lean forward to examine the bottle. Cyanide maybe? I couldn't be certain; I wasn't familiar with these kinds of things, I only read about them in fiction novels and manga. I doubted there was a cure for anything like that. Perhaps inducing vomiting in time could help, but I wasn't a chemist. I didn't understand how quickly chemicals could effect the body.

"Ooh, I like this bit," Jeff confessed with a giddy glint in his beady eyes. "'cause you don't get it yet, do ya? But you're about to. I just have to do this."

From his other pocket, Jeff produced an identical bottle to the one on the table and set it next to it. The pill inside appeared exactly the same; twins in every regard. I suddenly had new respect for this location. Was it on purpose or were the twin buildings a poetic coincidence? I forced myself to focus back on the bottles. Two pills, and usually it was just Jeff and his one victim. There was only one explanation.

"You weren't expecting that, were ya?" Jeff crowed as he leaned forward. "Ooh, you're gonna love this."

"Love what?" Sherlock asked with his brows furrowing.

Jeff exhaled and leaned back in his seat. I couldn't see his gun from here, but I assumed it was on his lap. There were two of us, and we were both more physically fit than the cabbie, but all the same, a gun was a gun. One wrong move and someone's life was gone. Besides, I had to admit part of me was curious. I could see the majority of Jeff's method, but I didn't understand how he was still alive.

"Sherlock 'olmes," Jeff murmured wistfully. "Look at you! 'ere in the flesh. That website of yours; your fan told me about it."

"My fan?" Sherlock repeated incredulously.

"You are brilliant," Jeff said. "You are. A proper genius. 'The Science of Deduction.' Now that's proper thinking. Between you and me sittin' 'ere, why can't people think?" His gaze darted down and his brow wrinkled up with anger. "Doesn't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?"

All the time, I thought, but I didn't bother voicing it. Clearly, I was the third wheel here.

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

Sarcasm, I noted. It was one of the most difficult types of humor for me to follow since I often didn't catch when someone was using it.

"Don't look it, do I?" Jeff said. "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."

I was beginning to get annoyed with Jeff's theatrics. I didn't appreciate him stringing us along like this; I wanted him to get to the point and present us with the problem so I could work out a solution.

"But now here we have yet a third genius among us," Sherlock said. "Does that make it awkward?" He glanced toward me.

I blinked a few times, wondering if he was using sarcasm again or paying me a compliment.

"'er?" Jeff glanced toward me.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "Max might not be on my level, but she was able to realize you were the killer the moment she saw you waiting for me. She even convinced you to take her along in your cab instead of me."

"Well, one text and you still came scamperin'." Jeff smiled.

I turned my attention to Sherlock with a questioning stare. The detective exhaled through his nostrils and took out his mobile. He slid it open and showed me the screen. He had a message from Jennifer Wilson's phone number that said: 113 Anderson St. I think Miss Watson wants to see you one last time. Come alone.

"I didn't say anything like that," I stated.

"Of course you didn't," Sherlock said. "It was clearly a ransom. Come along and get a shot at saving your life."

I chewed on my tongue for a moment before shaking my head. "Well clearly you didn't understand what I did was so you wouldn't come."

"I understood that perfectly the moment I saw your expression when you saw me," Sherlock replied.

"The point was that I let her in my cab instead of you 'cause I knew I'd still get you in the end," Jeff interjected. I got the impression he didn't appreciate it when the spotlight moved from him.

"With a cheap ploy, yes," Sherlock drawled.

"I'm still trying to put it together, y'see," Jeff said. "Accordin' to 'er, you've only known each other for less than two days. So why was Miss Watson so willin' to give her life for yours? She clearly didn't think you'd come along after 'er."

Sherlock's eyes darted toward me and I schooled my face into one of indifference.

"Maybe I was curious," I said.

"Nah." Jeff shook his head. "Maybe a bit, but that wasn't all. I saw the look on your face when you saw the gun. This is all new to you and yet, you're still... calm."

I leaned forward on the table and kept my gaze piercing directly into the cabbie's. "Maybe I was certain I could outwit you." My mind's eye flashed to the dagger in my boot.

Jeff chuckled. "Now that is a laugh."

Sherlock wrapped his knuckles on the table suddenly. "I think we have other things to discuss," the detective said. He gestured to the bottles on the table. "Two bottles. Explain."

Jeff seemed irritated for a few seconds, but then he gestured to the bottles on the table as if he were a proud kid showing off his science fair project. "There's a good bottle and a bad bottle," he explained. "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," Sherlock noted.

"In every way," Jeff confirmed.

"And you know which is which," Sherlock said.

"Of course I know," the cabbie replied.

"But I don't."

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

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

"I 'aven't told you the best part yet," Jeff said. "Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one—and then, together, we take out medicine."

To my astonishment, Sherlock started to grin. Jeff had finally captured the detective's attention. It was a game of life and death and the odds were 50/50. Certainly, that had its own sense of thrill, but what was the point? Guessing took no effort; there was no payoff.

"I won't cheat," Jeff assured. "It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. Didn't expect that did you, Mr. 'olmes?"

Again with that phrase. My brow twitched. Sherlock certainly flaunted his intelligence, but I found that he did it with a sense of... style. Jeff had to be smart, he'd gotten away with four murders after all, but a part of me believed that he was too eager to show off—too eager to point out how clever he and everything he did was.

Sherlock was now concentrating on the bottles on the table. I stared too, trying to see if there was some way to tell them apart. I didn't see any differences at all—and finding minute detail was something any decent artist had to be good at.

"This is what you did to the rest of them, you gave them a choice," Sherlock murmured.

"And now I'm givin' you one," Jeff said. "Of course, if you end up with the bad bottle, I'll 'ave to take care of Miss Watson here afterwards by less theatric means."

Death by gunshot, I was guessing. At least that crime scene would be harder to clean of evidence. Maybe Lestrade and his comrades could figure that one out.

"You take your time. Get yourself together," Jeff went on, licking his lips with anticipation. "I want your best game."

"It's not a game, it's chance," Sherlock snapped irritably. Clearly he was disappointed like I was.

"I've played four times," Jeff reminded us. "I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this... this... is the move."

Jeff reached up and slowly slid the bottle on our left toward us. He grinned a bit, his eyes dancing with delight.

"Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle?" he said. "You can choose either one."

John

The taxi wasn't going fast enough. There was no feeling in my legs—which I supposed was nice compared to the pain I'd been experiencing.

"I can patch you through to Officer Morgan," the female voice on his phone said.

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade!" I insisted while my eyes darted between the screen of Sherlock's laptop and out at the dark streets of London. "I need to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!"

The location on the map blipped again. It had stayed in the same spot for about ten minutes now. The killer had stopped moving, and was located at an educational college.

"Er, left here, please," I stammered hurriedly to my cabbie. "Left here."

The driver nodded and obeyed, but I was still pretty far off. If I didn't get there in time—if Maxine or Sherlock were...

I reached back and touched the butt of my handgun. I would get there, I would keep my sister safe—hell I'd keep our new odd flatmate safe—and if I somehow showed up too late, well... I was a damned good shot either way.

Maxine

"You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?" Jeff eyed Sherlock with heightened anticipation.

The detective's face pinched in annoyance. "Play what? It's a fifty-fifty chance!"

"Can't be," I said abruptly with a small shake of my head. "It makes no sense, it doesn't add up."

"I think Miss Watson is showin' 'er genius now," Jeff said. "You're not playin' the numbers, Mr. 'olmes, 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," Sherlock insisted.

"Four people in a row? It's not just chance," Jeff replied coyly.

"Luck," Sherlock corrected.

"It's genius. I know 'ow people think. I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map in my 'ead." Jeff's expression was lax and his smirk was light.

Sherlock's expression was exasperated. Jeff scoffed softly at it.

"Everyone's so stupid, even you," he said.

That hit a nerve. I observed as Sherlock's gaze sharpened and his posture stiffened.

Jeff gave an amending shrug. "Or, maybe God just loves me."

"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie," Sherlock said.

"No," I said; once again, my voice was abrupt. "No, no, no, now it's really wrong."

"What d'you mean?" Sherlock asked me.

"He presents us with these two bottles and claims that he has his victims choose which pill they take while he takes the other—they take the meds at the same time. He's won this game of his four times now." My words came faster and faster as I went on. "With how much confidence he was showing, I was certain there was more to it. Perhaps riddles or clues he'd give to his victims. But now he's legitimately saying that he won all those games through bluffing. It isn't possible, simply isn't. Every single person thinks differently—there would be no sure-fire way to ensure that they didn't pick the good bottle. Someone this confident doesn't deal with chance or luck; they only court the absolutes. So, if we're going on the notion that this really is a game of chance—which that's seeming more and more likely every second—then something else is going on to influence his composure; to bolster that confidence of his."

There was a long silence and I ended up warily glancing from Sherlock to Jeff. Every so often, I would go off like that. John called it my "bonus track." It was nothing like the rest of the songs in my album, according to him, and it usually came after a long pause. I supposed if my brother was referring to my average behavior as songs, then he was correct: these outbursts weren't like the normal me at all. Whenever these urges came on, words would just tumble out of my mouth without restraint. There were a few times where the topic was a bit sensitive and I said some things that John told me weren't appropriate for public.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and he started to smile. He actually looked impressed.

"You see?" he said to Jeff. "A third genius. So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"

Jeff's expression only faltered for a heartbeat; his brows lowered a touch and the lines around his eyes creased. Then he was back to being completely stone-faced and gestured to the bottles. "Time to play," the cabbie insisted.

John

The night air nipped at the nape of my neck when I stepped out of the cab and looked up at the two buildings. Glancing back down at the laptop, I found that the GPS signal wasn't precise enough to tell me which one it was in.

Two completely identical buildings side by side for a school, why? I thought bitterly.

The taxi drove away as I twisted my head back and forth between the two structures. It was a fifty-fifty chance I chose the right one and I didn't have time to contemplate. I closed the laptop, tucked it under my arm, and moved forward.

Maxine

Sherlock pressed his hands together as if in prayer in front of his mouth. It seemed like this was a pose that he was fond of when he was thinking.

"Oh, I am playing," he told Jeff. "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."

Well, at least I noticed the picture, but I hadn't seen any sign of it being cut. Normally, my eyes could detect that sort of thing. I had been under an unusual amount of stress, so for now I let that be my excuse. Sherlock was used to using his mind critically even when there was a gun involved. I needed to have him teach me how he did that.

"The photograph's old but the frame's new," Sherlock went on. "You think of your children but you don't see them."

Jeff's eyes instantly slid away and for the first time, I saw something human in his eyes: pain.

"Estranged father," Sherlock murmured. "She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts."

It still didn't explain why Jeff would risk death; if he loved his kids, then why would he want to die and leave them.

"Ah, but there's more," Sherlock said as he extended his index fingers. "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?"

The detective stared for a few moments longer and then those startling eyes of his widened. He'd realized something—and in the next heartbeat, so did I.

"Oh." I stood up so fast from my chair that it toppled to the ground behind me.

In retrospect, it probably wasn't wise to make sudden movements with a killer wielding a gun sitting across the table. However, to my surprise, Jeff didn't instantly go for his pistol. Sherlock blinked and looked between Jeff and me; I managed to catch him off guard.

"You're dying," I said as I turned and picked up my chair. I carefully set it back down and tried to sit as delicately as I could in a vain attempt to cover up my clumsiness. I then pointed at Jeff and repeated, "You're dying."

Sherlock sat back in his chair and nodded at me before turning his green gaze back on Jeff. "Three years ago—is that when they told you? That you're a dead man walking?"

"So are the two of you," Jeff replied coolly. "Or, woman in Miss Watson's case."

"You don't have long, though," Sherlock retorted. "Am I right?"

Jeff smiled wanly. "Aneurism." He lifted his right hand and tapped the side of his head. "Right in 'ere."

Sherlock smiled, clearly satisfied he'd guessed correctly.

"Any breath could be my last," Jeff said.

Sherlock's smile faded back into a frown; clearly a new curiosity had struck him. "And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people."

"I've outlived four people," Jeff corrected. "That's the most fun you can 'ave on an aneurism."

"No. No, there's something else," Sherlock murmured as his brow furrowed. "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."

I blinked. How did he figure that? Who would go our murdering for their kids? However, it seemed the detective was correct yet again. Jeff sighed heavily and looked away.

"Ohh," he breathed before returning his gaze to Sherlock. "You are good, ain't you?"

"But how?" Sherlock demanded.

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

"Or serial killing," Sherlock pointed out.

"You'd be surprised," Jeff replied.

"Surprise me." Sherlock's gaze was sharp and hungry.

I suddenly understood why he might have an issue with narcotics. the detective had an addictive personality; it was plain in his posture and expression. In this case, he craved information—he needed secrets and the answers to problems. Donovan had said that he got off on solving crimes, but she wasn't thinking of it in the right fashion. Donovan believed Sherlock wanted them like an animal seeking and mounting a mate; but I could see it was deeper than that. This wasn't something Sherlock wanted. It wasn't some conquest for an aroused college student.

Sherlock Holmes needed this. He needed to solve and pick apart puzzles and throw himself into perilous situations like a starving wolf needed meat. It sustained him on a level that someone like Donovan couldn't comprehend. I had come across so many like her in my life—people who were lucky enough to not realize it was possible to need more sustenance than just water and food to survive.

It finally made sense why I felt such a connection to the detective: his mind was like mine. I wasn't nearly as clever or observant, but neither of us were satisfied with mere day to day living. We carried something primal and untamed; something that needed things to stimulate us. In fact, there was a good chance my brother John had a bit of that need in him as well.

Jeff leaned forward on the table. His smile was small and giddy, as if even he didn't full believe the words that left his mouth. "I 'ave a sponsor."

"You have a what?" Sherlock clearly hadn't been expecting that, but his eyes only focused more.

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

"Four people are dead, I'm not sure that qualifies as nice," I said. It sounded more like John's words than my own, but somewhere along the line I think I did adopt at least a piece of my brother's empathy.

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes?" was Jeff's immediate response.

The two of them stared at one another for a moment. I glanced between the two as my brain churned. I couldn't help but think of the man in the warehouse again. It seemed almost too perfect that he'd try and intervene on this if he was the "fan" Jeff was talking about. However, there were several things that didn't add up. The man had seemed almost proud to declare he was an "enemy" of Sherlock Holmes, so why would he change the term to "fan?" Then there was the fact that Sherlock had seemed surprised by the word and even the concept. He knew the man in the warehouse and clearly if all this was throwing him for a loop, that man couldn't be involved; at least, that was the most probable outcome.

"You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder," Jeff finally said. "There's others out there just like you, except you're just a man... and they're so much more than that."

Sherlock's nose twisted with distaste. Clearly, he wasn't impressed. "What d'you mean, more than a man? An organization? What?"

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

John

"Maxine? Sherlock?"

I sprinting down the corridors of the college. Nothing- there was no-one here, not staff, not his sister or their new flatmate, not any murderers. I peered into each door's window as I passed, trying to glimpse if there was anyone inside, but all of them were vacant and dark.

"Maxine!" I bellowed. "Sherlock!"

Maxine

"What if I don't choose either?" Sherlock queried.

Jeff sighed with disappointment and lifted his pistol. "You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no-one's ever gone for that option."

Ah, the gun. I eyed it and considered the distance between me and the cabbie. I could potentially lunge across the table and attempt to disarm him but I didn't think they way Miyako taught me would work with a huge hunk of wood between me and my opponent. I was used to my feet being on the ground and being able to easily roll away; not to mention, I'd never actually disarmed someone that actually had a gun before. I hadn't been able to take any of Miyako's training into the real world at all.

Sherlock smiled calmly. "I'll have the gun, please."

I blinked. Was Sherlock insane? What was he trying to bluff or something? I contemplated how fast I could jump across the table; real world training or not, this detective was going to get himself killed if I didn't do something.

"Are you sure?" Jeff asked, raising a brow.

"Definitely." Sherlock continued to smile. "The gun."

Jeff blinked, clearly astonished by the detective's decision. However, after only a few heartbeats, he began to smile. With a smug gleam in his eyes, the cabbie moved his arm to point the gun at me right when I was bunching my muscles to lunge.

"How about now?" Jeff asked.

At first, my heart leapt up into my throat and the jolt of it shot through my whole body. Then something occurred to me: why in the hell would Sherlock willingly ask for the gun if he fully believed that Jeff would shoot him? Or if the gun was a threat at all? Yet another part of me remembered how cold and indifferent Sherlock was when it came to a lot of things. Would he willingly let me be sacrificed to prove a point? No- no, it didn't make sense. What point would he even be proving?

Sherlock eyed Jeff with a new level of intensity. Slowly, the detective leaned forward on the table, all the while keeping his eyes on the cabbie.

"The gun," he whispered.

My eyes darted between Sherlock, Jeff, and the barrel of the gun; here's to hoping I was right.

Jeff pursed his lips and squeezed the trigger. There was a click, and a little flame lit at the end of the pistol's muzzle; it was a lighter.

Sherlock smiled smugly as he leaned back in his seat. "I know a real gun when I see one."

"You knew this entire time that he didn't actually have a gun?" I murmured.

Sherlock shrugged, though nothing about his demeanor was apologetic. "I wanted to know how he did it," he said. "Now I know."

Jeff released the trigger and the flame went out. He set it down with a small shake of his head. "None of the others noticed," he muttered.

"Clearly," Sherlock replied. "Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case."

With that, the detective got to his feet and gestured for me to follow. I obeyed, standing up and politely pushing my chair in. My heart was still thrumming away in my ears and I was astonished at the level of... satisfaction that flowed through me. I had thought this was a lethal adventure, but in the end Sherlock had used his wit and intelligence to get us out of it. I felt exhilarated; alive.

When I left Japan, I thought I was leaving behind the only thing that had made me feel like I had air in my lungs; like I could feel just like everyone else. However, Sherlock Holmes proved to me that the entire world held hidden dangers that were just waiting to be poked and prodded. Admittedly, it wasn't the best way to live- in fact it probably lowered my life expectancy by several years- but what was the point in living without... well, living?

Miyako would be so pissed if she knew she'd gotten me out of danger only for me to leap right back in. She'd given me my first taste and now I simply couldn't stop.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out?" Jeff called after us.

Sherlock paused right before he reached the door and glanced back curiously.

"Which one's the good bottle?" Jeff clarified.

"Of course," Sherlock replied confidently. "Child's play."

I frowned. How was it child's play? Didn't we figure out that Jeff Hope was a dying man desperate to get money to his children and was perfectly fine with going up against fifty-fifty odds?

"Well, which one then?" Jeff prompted.

Sherlock was at the door now and began to open it. However, at Jeff's words, he paused. I walked to his side and narrowed my eyes at the detective.

"Sherlock..." I began. I was all for the life-threatening danger, but this was something else. This was blatant stupidity if the detective was thinking what I thought he was.

"Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?" Jeff asked.

Sherlock closed the door.

"What're you doing?" I whispered.

"Come on, play the game," Jeff urged with a small chuckle.

The detective turned and began to walk back toward the table. I trotted after him.

"Are you mad?" I demanded.

Sherlock ignored me as he snatched up the bottle closest to Jeff and strode a few paces away. Jeff stared down at the remaining bottle with mild interest.

"Oh," he said calmly. "Interesting."

Neither his tone, posture, or expression gave away anything. I went to Sherlock and gripped his arm.

"That's enough, you already beat him," I said softly, but my gaze was unrelenting as it burrowed into his.

The detective stared back at me but said nothing. He tugged himself out of my grasp and returned his attention to the bottle. At the table, Jeff opened his bottle and delicately tipped the pill into his hand. He held it up and peered at it closely while Sherlock did the same with his own bottle.

"So what d'you think?" the cabbie asked. "Shall we?"

Jeff got to his feet and faced Sherlock; his expression still showed nothing but mild indifference.

"Really, what do you think?" he queried with a dangerous glint hitting his eyes. "Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?"

"He's playing you," I insisted. "Sherlock, stop—we've won—you've won. There's nothing left to prove!"

"I bet you get bored, don't you?" Jeff said. "I know you do. A man like you..."

Sherlock began to unscrew the lid of his bottle.