Dinner at Angelo's
The hour and a half round trip was acceptably inefficient given the alternative scenarios. Had Sherlock lost John back in Brixton and needed to summon him from his gloomy little flat it likely would have taken even longer. Sherlock wouldn't have contacted him until after he'd fully formed the plan, would have then needed to devise a way to convince John to come back and implement that plan, and finally wait for the limping man to come to him. True, having John in the room was slightly more distracting, but talking to him seemed to clarify things very easily so that was a wash. John also seemed to move much faster when Sherlock was leading him compared to his pained waddling around he'd managed at other times. The white noise of the cab rides was very good for brain work and John had generally left him to it.
When they were halfway to Angelo's Sherlock prompted John to send the text that would lead the killer to them. He looked over John's shoulder while he murmured the instructions, glad that John leaned in so that he could clearly see the text appearing on the screen. John typed out: 'What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Terr. Please come.' And then all there was left to do was wait. The silence was tense until the phone rang, proving Sherlock correct. The killer had the phone and was panicking. John gave Sherlock's manic grin an odd look as he let it ring out. Sherlock immediately urged him out of the taxi, the process of paying the driver using his card annoyingly slow now that he was so close to the killer. He needed to move - walking the last block to Angelo's would burn off some of the adrenaline.
"You see, John, it is only a few hours since his last victim. Now, he has received a text that can only be from his victim. An innocent man would ignore that text, assume it was an inebriated mistake," Sherlock explained.
"You think he's stupid enough to come looking for her?" John asked.
"I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones, always so desperate to get caught," Sherlock explained, gesturing excitedly.
"Why?"
"Appreciation. At long last the spotlight. To you it's an arrest; to them, it's a coming-out party. That's the frailty of genius: it needs an audience."
"Yes," John agreed immediately, "I suppose it does." Sherlock steers the shorter man into Angelo's and goes directly for his preferred table. He drops into a chair facing away from the large plate glass window and urges John into the seat across from him.
"Twenty-two Northumberland Terrace, keep your eyes on it," he instructs with a wave at the window behind him.
"Don't you want to keep your eyes on it?" John asked. Sherlock pointed at a large and quite obvious mirror hung on a pillar not far behind John and answered irritably.
"I am."
"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad," John asked.
"He has killed four people. Still, he'll pass by a couple of times looking for the loose end, might even loiter."
"Half of London is passing by. How will you know who he is?"
"I know what he is," Sherlock said with deep satisfaction.
"Sherlock!" the loud, boisterous voice of the restaurant's owner interrupts the conversation. Angelo continues in a lower, more conspiratorial tone. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. All on the house, for you and your date."
"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asks, ignoring the implications easily now that he has finally gotten his mind focused on the case.
"I'm not his date." The defensive tone of the words echoes in parts of Sherlock's memory that have no place in the present moment. He takes a moment as Angelo rambles on to squash the feelings of offense and disappointment before they can properly begin. They had already been through this once this evening. John has been in the closet most of his adult life; Sherlock established that his work is his focus. It is a clear fact that this is not a date and John's tone is likely simple reflex.
"This is Angelo. Three years ago I successfully proved to Inspector Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of town, carjacking," Sherlock introduced the excitable Italian as the man shook him in a one-armed hug.
"He cleared my name," Angelo insists.
"I cleared it a bit," Sherlock clarified.
"Anything on the menu, I cook it for you myself," Angelo said, setting down two menus with a flourish.
"Thank you, Angelo." Sherlock's dismissal goes completely unnoticed as Angelo is speaking only to John.
"But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."
"You did go to prison," Sherlock clarifies again, trying to cut off the unnecessary conversation. John appears mildly amused by the entire exchange, quirking up only one corner of his mouth so Angelo won't think John is laughing at his expense.
"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic," Angelo says to John after a bit more fussing. Sherlock is fairly certain it is said with a wink.
"I'm not his date!" John answers indignantly to Angelo's back.
"You may as well eat. We might be waiting a long time," Sherlock says, voice flat.
"Hmm. Are you going to?" John asks, pursuing the menu instead of watching the street.
"What day is it?" Sherlock asks distractedly, his mind focused on scanning and categorizing the people walking past on the street. Teacher, Office worker, Secretary, Student, Yoga instructor...
"It's Saturday."
"I'm okay for a bit."
"Wait. You haven't eaten today? For God's sake, you need to eat," John sounds worried. He is a doctor, he would have that reaction to anyone saying such a thing.
"No, you need to eat. I need to think. The brain's what counts. Everything else is transport," Sherlock dismisses, taking his attention away from the street long enough to make proper eye contact and get his point across. A crease appears between John's eyebrows and his mouth turns down into a disapproving frown. Angelo comes back just then with a taper candle stuck in the neck of a bottle and sets it on the table.
"You might consider refueling," John is saying before the candle catches his eye and completely distracts him from whatever he was going to follow up with. He sighs and takes another moment to pick out a meal before setting the menu aside and getting back to the task at hand. His food arrives, Sherlock peripherally notices it is meatless just like the shopping list. He also notes that the doctor is capable of decent multi-tasking since he seems to be able to consume his meal without being distracted from watching the street outside the window. The breadsticks are eventually pushed close to Sherlock's elbow and at some point, his unused bread plate acquired a fork. Wasn't sharing tastes of another person's meal considered an intimate act despite its practicality given the large portion sizes and varied menu in many establishments?
"No sign yet, then?" John asks when he is about halfway through his aubergine pasta.
"I suppose it is a long shot. We have to be realistic," Sherlock admits, realizing that he'd started drumming his fingers on the table. His visible impatience likely prompted the renewed conversation so he straightens up in his chair.
"You said before you didn't know who the killer was but you knew what," John prompts.
"So do you if you think about it," Sherlock answers, shaking his head slightly and squinting irritably. "Why don't people just think?"
"Oh, because we're stupid," John answers. His expression is sufficiently deadpan that Sherlock can't tell if he has genuinely taken offense or is just teasing. Sherlock bites his lip as John casually takes another bite of his meal. Perhaps he should have taken advantage of the implied invitation to share the food. The longer they wait the less likely it is that the killer has taken the bait, and while the chance of catching the killer dwindles so too does Sherlock's ability to block out the irritating demands of his transport. A few nibbles would not slow him down, though sometimes a small snack only serves to give his body the energy to demand a full meal.
"We know the killer drove his victims, but there were no marks of coercion or violence on the bodies. Each one of those five people climbed into a stranger's car voluntarily. The killer was someone they trusted," Sherlock explained, gesturing deliberately with his hands as he spoke to keep them from fidgeting.
"But not someone they knew?" John asks, and it does look like he is trying to work it out despite the continued failure.
"Five completely different people. They had no friends in common, and another thing I mentioned earlier: Lauriston Gardens. Twitching curtains all around. Little old ladies, they are my favorite. Better than any security cameras, but according to the police, no one remembers a strange car parked outside an empty house. Not one person remembered even though someone must have seen." Sherlock leaned forward, watching the crease between John's eyes deepen in thought.
"I see what you're saying," John starts, slowly. Sherlock fidgets in his seat expectantly, waiting for John's guess. He doesn't seem at all sure and looks down to poke at his pasta before looking up and admitting, "No I don't. What are you saying: that the killer's got an invisible car?"
"Yes. Yes! Exactly!" Sherlock says excitedly. How could John understand so perfectly and still be so confused?
"Then I definitely don't see what you're saying." Sherlock huffs out a sigh at the unfairness of John's imperfect understanding but refuses defeat. He fixes John with a steady gaze.
"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." Sherlock's gaze wanders back to the mirror as he talks, and he sees a cab pull up and pause a moment in front of the building across the street.
"Angelo, a glass of white wine, quickly," he calls out as he watches the cab carefully in the mirror, sparing a quick glance at John to ensure the other man is paying proper attention to the correct details. "I give you the perfect murder weapon of the modern age, the invisible car: The London Cab." The cab pulls away into a narrow side street and stops just a few yards down the road.
"There's been cabs up and down this street all night," John points out.
"This one's stopped," Sherlock says, nodding toward the mirror.
"He's looking for a fare." A woman walks towards the cab and leans down to the left-hand front window to talk to the driver as Angelo walks towards their table carrying the requested glass of wine. Out in the street, the woman straightens up again and walks away and the cab's light turns off. Sherlock grins.
"We don't know it's him," John points out.
"We don't know it isn't," Sherlock responds, and that is the more important point. Angelo puts the glass down in front of Sherlock, about to suggest a meal to go with it. "Thank you," Sherlock says before the chef can start. He picks up the glass, closing his eyes and throwing the wine into his own face. A few dabs with the napkin to ensure he isn't visibly dripping or in danger of getting any of the alcohol in his eyes and he looks over at John's befuddled face. "Watch. Don't interfere." Then, to Angelo, he says: "Headless nun."
"Ah, now that was a case!" Angelo says wistfully and begins to roll up his shirtsleeves. Sherlock puts his coat on. "Same again?"
"If you wouldn't mind." Instantly Angelo leans forward, seizes Sherlock by the scruff with one hand and a fistful of his coat in the other and drags him out of his chair.
"Out of my restaurant! Cretino! You're drunk!" Sherlock stumbles clumsily across the floor as Angelo bundles him toward the door, continuing to insult him in Italian and making a splendid scene until he shoves Sherlock out into the street. "And stay away!"
Sherlock staggers around on the pavement as if he is drunk and trying to get his balance. He totters to the curb and almost falls down it before stumbling out into the road, causing a car to slam on its brakes to avoid hitting him. The driver blares his horn as Sherlock holds out his hands apologetically. Holding his fist to his mouth as if trying not to vomit, Sherlock continues his drunken walk down the street. Reaching the driver's window, he raps on the glass with both hands as if drumming a beat. The driver inside, a much older man estranged from his wife wearing well-worn clothing, shakes his head.
"Hey, hey! Come on!" Sherlock slurs in his false drunkenness, drawing out the last word. After a moment the window rolls down halfway.
"Sorry, mate, off duty," the cabbie says politely.
"Two two one," Sherlock says slowly as if he is too drunk to understand, pretending to stifle a burp, "B-Baker Street."
"I'm not on duty, mate. You see the light?" The cabbie says a bit irritably, pointing up to the roof.
"Jus' round the corner! It's Baker Street!" Sherlock slurs, wobbling around a bit unsteadily as if he can't quite manage flat pavement.
"There's plenty of other cabs round 'ere. Get another cab."
"Two-two-one B!" Sherlock pleads, an exact duplication of the actions of the entitled idiots he'd gone to Uni with, stumbling a bit against the side of the cab.
"I'm not on duty, an' I don't do drunks," the old man says with finality. Sherlock pretends to fully lose his balance and rolls along the side of the taxi until he is facing the rear of the vehicle. Reaching into his coat pocket, he takes out his phone and dials the victim's phone. He holds the phone to his ear as, inside the cab, another phone starts to ring.
"'ello?" Sherlock hears both from his own phone and from the cab window behind him.
"How do you make them take the poison?" Sherlock asks, dropping the act completely. Through the window, he can see John watching him in his moment of triumph. It makes him smile.
"What? What did ... what did you say?" Spinning around, Sherlock swiftly grabs at the cabbie's jacket with both hands to ensure he can't drive off.
"I said, how do you make them take the poison?" Sherlock asks again, his tone firm. He'd found the murderer, now he just needed to figure out how he'd done it.
"Oy! Who are you?" the elderly man asks.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Do a lot of drugs, Sherlock 'olmes?" the cabbie asks. That is an odd question.
"Not in a while," he answers honestly, a bit confused by the sudden change of topic.
"I ask 'cause you're very resilient. Most people would have passed out by now." Sherlock blinks, looking down at his arm. He had thought it was pinched against the window glass, but something about the sensation isn't right. He reels away from the cab as he sees a hypodermic needle hanging from the underside of his left upper arm. He shouts wordlessly in shock, flailing as he tries to reach towards it to take it out. As the drug begins to take effect Sherlock feels his legs fold under him. The cabbie gets out and reassures nearby passers-by who have stopped to watch what's going on. "It's okay. He's just had a few," the old man explains as he manhandles Sherlock. Sherlock tries to wave his arm towards where he'd seen John watching, but whatever he'd been given was strong. The world is swiftly getting too hazy to keep track of, and he tries to call for John.
"Trouble is, your friends all think you're acting," the cabbie taunts him as he struggles to sit up, recognizing dimly that he is now in the back of the cab. The last things he is aware of before losing the fight with the sedative is the sound of the engine starting and the cabbie's voice from the front seat: "That's the thing about people. They're all stupid."