Baker Street
Sherlock wakes slowly. Things are fuzzy, and being warm and fairly comfortable isn't helping him wake up. His scull comes into focus on the mantel above the lit hearth. Back in Baker street, in his own chair. Had John realized things had gone wrong and brought him home?
"I 'ope you don't mind. Well, you gave me your address," the voice of the cabbie drifts over his shoulder. Sherlock heaves himself out of the chair, fighting for equilibrium and nearly losing the battle as the older man continues. "You've only been out for about ten minutes. You're strong. I'm impressed." Sherlock manages to stand reasonably straight, holding his head up by propping his elbows on the mantel. " That's right – you warm yourself up. I made everything nice and cozy for you."
"This is my flat," he says weakly. Obvious, dull, but it should buy a bit of time talking while his head clears up.
"Course it is, yeah. Found your keys in your jacket. I thought, well, why not? People like to die at 'ome." There is the tinkle of keys dropping onto a table. Thinking that the room has stopped spinning so it might be safe to put all his weight onto his legs, he immediately loses his balance and crashes to the floor face down.
"Now, now. The drug's still in your system. You'll be weak as a kitten for at least an hour," the old cabbie sayas, walking over to loom over Sherlock as he tries to right himself. "I could do anything I wanted to you right now, Mr. 'olmes. Anything at all." Whimpering from the effort of fighting the drug, Sherlock manages to get up onto his knees and elbows. "But don't worry. I'm only gonna kill yer." Suddenly, he grabs Sherlock around the waist and hauls him to his feet before dragging him a few paces across the room and dumping him onto a wooden desk chair. The small wooden desk has another chair on the other side of it, a partner's desk he'd taken as payment after a simple inheritance-related case for when his clients have documents they want to review with him. Sherlock slumps forward onto the table but then he manages to sit up. He thinks of Mrs. Hudson and turns to reach vaguely towards the door behind him, mostly on instinct. The cabbie walks around the table towards the other chair.
"The whole 'ouse is empty. Even your landlady's away, so there's no point in raising your voice. We're all locked in, nice and snug," the condescending words drip from the man's mouth.
"Still, bit of a risk, isn't it? Here?" Sherlock says, his voice trembling. His mind is still fuzzy, and he is operating mostly on autopilot.
"You call that a risk?" hesays and reaches into both of his trouser pockets and takes out a small brown bottle from each of them. "This is a risk." Sherlock looks at him blankly. The cabbie puts the identical bottles onto the table in front of him, then unscrews the lid of the right-hand one and tips out one of several small capsules from inside it. Putting it onto the table in front of the bottle, he then picks up the left-hand bottle and takes out another identical capsule and puts it in front of that bottle. "You wanted to know 'ow I made 'em take the poison. You're gonna love this!"
"How?" Sherlock asks the obvious question. All he can think to do is to stall until he can stand well enough to get out and lock the man in while he calls Lestrade or come up with a better plan.
"Take a moment," the man says like he';s setting up a side-show at a circus. Sherlock sighs, utterly disgusted by the rediculous showmanship. "Get yourself together. I want your best game."
"My ... my best what?" He leans forward, but misjudges how well he can sit up straight and ends up laying his head down on one hand on the table. It is going to be a bit difficult to spot an opening while inspecting the woodgrain, but it was this or fall forward.
"I know who you are, Mr. 'olmes. The moment you said your name, I knew. Sherlock 'olmes," the cabbie says, wandering around the room and messing with Sherlock's belongings. "I've been on your website loads of times. You are brilliant." Tiredly, Sherlock manages to turn his head to look at him. "You are. Proper genius." Sherlock's head slumps down onto his hand again. The man is properly nuts, uncaring of who he hurts and only desiring the feeling of power he gets toying with his victims before death. The cabbie turns and walks back to the table.
"'The Science of Deduction.' Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me, why can't people think?" a hint of real anger comes into the man's placid and patronizing voice, his face scrunching. "Don't it drive you mad? Why can't people just think?"
"Oh, I see," Sherlock says, his words slurred as he watches the man from his sideways perspective. He points a finger towards the cabbie, which wavers drunkenly. "So you're a proper genius too."
"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man, drives a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know," the cabbie says smugly. Sherlock finally gets his head up and glares up at the man.
"Who are you?"
"Nobody. For now, but I won't die a nobody, now will I?" Sherlock can't argue with that, and tiredly leans back in his seat. He blows out a long breath through his nose, trying to concentrate. Having gathered himself as much as he can, he points to the capsules on the table.
"Two pills."
"There's a good pill and a bad pill. You take the good pill, you live; take the bad pill, you die."
"And you know which is which," Sherlock adds quickly.
"Course I know."
"But I don't."
"Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses," the elderly cabbie keeps up the rapid-fire explanation.
"It's not a game. It's chance."
"I've played four times. 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." With his right hand he slides the right-hand pill across the table towards Sherlock, then pulls his hand back and leaves the pill where it is.
"Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? You can choose either one." The words are delivered casually, almost lazily after the last bit of rapid speech. Sherlock looks at him for a long moment.
"That's what you did, to all of them. You gave them a choice," Sherlock realizes. There has to be some catch or trick.
"You've gotta admit, as serial killers go I'm verging on nice! Anyway, time's up. Choose."
"And then?"
"And then, together, we take our medicine," he says expectantly and licks his lips. "Let's play."
"Play what? It's a fifty-fifty chance," Sherlock says, leaning forward onto his elbow, not keen on another face-plant no matter how gracefully he managed the second one.
"You're not playin' the numbers, you're playin' me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill?" Sherlock blinks slowly, feeling slow. He hates feeling slow, even with the drug to blame.
"Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?"
"It's still chance," Sherlock argues, shaking his head hoping to clear it.
"Five people in a row? It's not chance."
"It's luck."
"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." Sherlock turns his head away, looking exasperated. "Everyone's so stupid – even you." Sherlock looks back at the man sharply, but his head is still stuffed with the sort of drugs he has never enjoyed and he can't help feeling that he's missing something obvious. He drops his gaze too quickly, the clues he'd observed about the man's life floating uselessly in the murky soup filling his mind.
"Course, maybe God just loves me."
"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie," he tries some flattery. Rubbing his fingers across his chin, he drops his hand but is now strong enough to keep his head up. He looks at the cabbie. "How did you choose which ones?"
"Anyone who didn't know where they were going, 'cause they were drunk or lost or new in town," he chuckles. "Anyone I could walk through the wrong door."
"You risked your life five times just to kill strangers," Sherlock says with a frown. "You're dying, aren't you?" The cabbie's eyes flicker but he manages to hold Sherlock's gaze.)
"So are you."
"You don't have long, though. Am I right?"
"Aneurysm," the cabbie confirms with a smile. He lifts his right hand and taps the side of his head. Sherlock smiles in satisfaction. "Right in 'ere. Any breath could be my last. It's your own 'ope, Mr. 'olmes. Bet on the aneurysm."
"I'm not a betting man."
"D'you think I'm bitter?"
"Well, you have just murdered five people," he answers sarcastically.
"I've outlived five people. That's the most fun you can 'ave with an aneurysm," the cabbie says, leaning forward like he is sharing a secret. Outside in the street, a vehicle can be heard coming to a halt with a screech of brakes. The flashing lights of a police car come through the window. Sherlock's gaze flickers briefly to the window but then he turns his attention back to the cabbie.
"What if I refuse to play?" Sherlock asks.
"Then I choose for you, and I force it down your throat. Right now, there's nothing you could do to stop me." Sherlock blinks at this, aware that he is probably too weak to fend the man off. Just then the landline phone begins to ring. "Funnily enough, noone's ever gone for that option. And I don't think you will either." Sherlock looks across to the phone.
"Especially as that's the police," he says with some relief.
"I know." He turns his head to glance over his shoulder at the flashing lights reflecting on the window pane. "I'm not blind."
"Good old Doctor Watson. I underestimated him," Sherlock says. In the mirror above the mantel he catches sight of the wistful smile on his face. That will never do. He turns in his chair and prepares to stand up.
"You make the slightest move towards that phone, I'll kill yer."
"Oh, I don't think so. Not your kind of murder," Sherlock says as he slowly hauls himself to his feet, then looking down at the cabbie and smiling.
"You wanna risk it?" The phone stops ringing. The cabbie nods down to the pills. "Wouldn't you rather risk this?" The phone beeps as it goes to voicemail. Sherlock looks down at the pills thoughtfully. "Which one do you think? Which one's the good pill?" Sherlock blinks, trying to drag his eyes away from the pills but finds himself unable to, too tempted by the challenge. "Come on. I know you've got a theory." Sherlock raises his gaze and the two men lock eyes. After a few seconds Sherlock looks down to the pills again and raises his hand, his fist clenched above the table for a moment before he extends his arm and points to the pill on the cabbie's left, the one which wasn't pushed across the table towards him. The cabbie looks at the pill with interest, but his voice gives nothing away as he speaks.
"Oh. Interesting." He reaches out and slides the left-hand pill across the table while pulling the righthand one back towards himself. Releasing the left-hand one, he picks up the other pill and looks at Sherlock.
"So, what d'you think? Shall we?" Sherlock sinks into the chair. His focus is entirely on the man in front of him. "Really, what do you think? Can you beat me?" Sherlock blinks several times, his head still swimming a little, but reasonably certain of the bluff. He lowers his gaze and picks up the pill in front of him. Both men prop their elbow on the table, holding their pill a few inches from their mouth. "I bet you get bored, don't you? A man like you, so clever. I'll bet you're not bored now." Sherlock's gaze drops to the pill in his hand and he begins to breathe heavily in anticipation. It is a thrill, and the adrenaline has cut through the haze in his head. This is the right one, he's smarter than this man - he's caught this man. He beat him once tonight and he can do it again. "This ... this right now – this is what you live for, innit, not being bored?" Sherlock continues to breathe heavily, his gaze locked on the pill. Slowly he begins to move the pill closer to his mouth. The cabbie matches the movement with his own pill, his eyes fixed on Sherlock who opens his mouth as the pill gets nearer.
Just as the pill reaches Sherlock's mouth a gunshot rings out and the window behind the cabbie shatters as a bullet impacts his chest, then goes through his body and smashes into the wall behind Sherlock. As the cabbie slumps forward onto the table, dropping his pill, Sherlock drops his own pill and scrambles back onto his feet in shock. Staring down at the dead man for a moment, he then hurries over to the window as police sirens begin to sound outside. Down in the street another police car screeches to a halt and Inspector Lestrade jumps out of the passenger seat, calling out to the other police officers already gathered.
"Did anyone see it? Where did it come from? Who is firing? Who is firing?" Sherlock looks across the road to the building opposite. Most of them are in darkness but one room is well lit, and the sash window is slightly open. "Clear the area! Clear the area now!" Sherlock turns back and looks again at the dead cabbie, then turns and looks across to the open window opposite. Moving as quickly as he can, he chucks his keys out the smashed window and looks down as pandemonium continues down in the street below, panting slightly as reality re-asserts itself and his brain finally kicks out how the game is rigged. One of the officers scoops up his keys and shouts, pointing up at him. He slumps down, first leaning on the window frame and then crunching onto the floor amid the glass, closing his eyes.