Capsules and Cabbies
The ride back to Baker Street is agonizing. A pit is forming in my stomach and I'm anxious to get there. The woman sitting next to me takes no notice, still concentrating on her phone. As we pull up, I open the door and dash up the stairs, dodging officers as they head out. I get through the door to find John and Lestrade talking. Lestrade picks up his coat. Neither notice me.
"Why did he do that?" he asks John. "Why did he have to leave?" John shrugs.
"He said he got a text from Kat, and he had to meet her somewhere," John answers. "Said it was important." My jaw drops.
"That idiot!" I yell, causing both men to jump. I turn on my heel and head back towards the street. I stop on the sidewalk and close my eyes, focusing.
"Where are we?" I hear Sherlock ask.
"You know every street in London," the cabbie answers. "You know exactly where we are."
"Roland-Kerr Further Education College," Sherlock responds. "Why here?"
My eyes snap open and I head to the curb and hail a taxi.
"Roland-Kerr Further Education College, please," I say as the taxi pulls up. "And there'll be an extra tenner in it for you if you get me there quickly."
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We pull up to two identical buildings, and I pay the cabbie. I look around for a moment before heading into the building on the right, knowing that that's where the cabbie will take Sherlock. I don't see another car in the area, so I know I've beaten them here. I walk towards the room they'll be headed to, open the door and take a seat at one of the tables. I leave the lights off.
I text John, let him know to keep an eye on the Mephone website that was on Sherlock's laptop. And then I wait.
After a few minutes, I hear footsteps coming down the hallway towards the room I'm in. I hear the door open, see a shadow holding the door and see Sherlock's shadow enter the room. Showtime. The cabbie walks over to the switches on the wall and turns on the lights. I blink.
"Oh, sorry," the cabbie says. "I didn't realize anyone would be here."
"Kat?" Sherlock asks, surprised. "What are you doing here?" I gesture around the room.
"You told John you were meeting me somewhere," I respond, glaring at him. "You told him it was important. Well, here I am. I figured I'd get here early."
"How did you know we'd come here?" The cabbie asks. I shrug.
"I'm just special like that," I answer. I take a closer look at the cabbie and recognize him. "You're the cabbie from yesterday morning! The one who dropped me off at the Yard." He looks at me in surprise.
"You're the one who gave me an extra tenner," he responds. "Well, how's that for coincidence." I raise my eyebrows as Sherlock looks around the room. "I was gonna make you the next, instead of that pink lady," he says with a sneer, and I feel a flash of anger go through me. It's not my own. He turns to Sherlock. "Well, what do you think?" Sherlock shrugs. "It's up to you. You're the one who's gonna die here."
"No, I'm not," Sherlock replies.
"No, he's not," I say at the same time. The cabbie stares at us blankly.
"That's what they all say," he says. He gestures to the table I'm sitting at. "Shall we talk?" He pulls out a chair across from me and sits down. Sherlock walks over and pulls out the chair next to me so he's opposite the cabbie, and sits down. He sighs dramatically and I roll my eyes at him.
"Bit risky, wasn't it?" he asks the cabbie. "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?" the cabbie scoffs. "Nah." He reaches into the left pocket of his cardigan. "This is a risk."
He takes out a small glass bottle and puts it on the table between him and Sherlock. The bottle has a screw top, and inside is a single large capsule. I stiffen, and Sherlock glances at me.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Nope," I respond. "This is how he kills them. He's going to poke fun at you because you don't see it yet." I pause as the cabbie looks at me, his eyes wide. "He's got a second bottle, an identical bottle in his other pocket." The cabbie's eyes widen further.
"How-?" he asks.
"Special," I answer. I see Sherlock roll his eyes. The cabbie pulls the second bottle out and places it next to the first bottle. I lean back and fold my arms just as the cabbie leans forward. He looks at me, shakes his head and turns to Sherlock.
"Ooh," he says, "you're going to love this."
"Love what?" Sherlock asks. The cabbie sits back again.
"Sherlock 'olmes," he says, missing the H. "Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours: Your fan told me about it." Fan? That doesn't sound good.
"My fan?" Sherlock asks. The cabbie ignores him.
"You are brilliant," he says. "You are. A proper genius. 'The Science of Deduction'. Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think?" He looks down angrily. "Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?" He looks back up and his eyes meet Sherlock's. Sherlock looks back at him for a moment, his eyes narrow. He makes a realization about the cabbie.
"Oh, I see," he says sarcastically. "So you're a proper genius, too."
"Don't look it, do I?" the cabbie asks. "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." Sherlock stares at the cabbie for a second, and then looks down at the bottles on the table.
"Okay, two bottles," he says. "Explain." I cut in.
"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle," I say. Sherlock raises his eyebrows at me. "One pill is full of poison, the other's nothing. He's going to make you choose one, and whichever one you choose, he'll take the other. You'll both take the pills at the same time, together. Both bottles are identical, and he knows which is which."
"Course I know," the cabbie interrupts angrily. He's upset I gave the explanation.
"But I don't," Sherlock responds.
"Wouldn't be a game if you knew," the cabbie replies. "You're the one who chooses. I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." Sherlock looks down at the bottles, concentrating properly. "Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. 'olmes?"
"This is what you did to the rest of them," Sherlock responds. "You gave them a choice."
"Yes," I say sadly, feeling the weight of their deaths. "Sir Jeffrey Patterson, James Philimore, Beth Davenport and Jennifer Wilson. All four victims. All the same choice."
"And now I'm givin' you one," the cabbie says. Sherlock looks up at him. "You take your time. Get yourself together," the cabbie encourages, licking his lips in anticipation. I grimace. "I want your best game."
"It's not a game," Sherlock argues. "It's chance."
"I've played four times," the cabbie retorts. "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 one hand, he slides one bottle across the table towards us. He licks his top lip as he pulls his hand back. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one." We sit for a minute, Sherlock inspecting the bottles. "You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?"
"Play what?" Sherlock asks, exasperated. "It's a fifty-fifty chance."
"You're not playing the numbers, Sherlock," I answer. "You're playing him." The cabbie nods.
"Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill?" he asks. "Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?"
"Still just chance," Sherlock says.
"Four people in a row?" the cabbie fires back. "It's not just chance."
"Luck," Sherlock insists.
"It's genius," the cabbie replies. "I know 'ow people think." Sherlock and I both roll our eyes. "I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead." Sherlock looks exasperated. "Everyone's so stupid—even you." Sherlock looks at him sharply. "Or maybe God just loves me." Sherlock straightens up and leans forward, his hands folding in front of him on the table.
"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie," Sherlock says. He lifts his folded hands in front of his mouth and stares at the cabbie intently. "So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?" The cabbie nods down to the bottles.
"Time to play," he says. Sherlock unfolds his fingers. His hands steeple in front of his mouth.
"Oh, I am playing," he responds. "This is my turn." I can see the rapid-fire explanation coming. Let's see if he sees what I saw yesterday. "There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you." Okay, hadn't seen that. "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." Did see that. "The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old, but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them." The cabbie looks away from Sherlock, and I feel a bit of sympathy for the man. "Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts." He holds his pointer finger up. "Ah, but there's more." The cabbie looks at Sherlock again as Sherlock points at the cabbie. "Your clothes: Recently laundered but everything you're wearing's at least…three years old?" Saw that. "Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?"
"He's dying," I cut in. Both men look sharply at me. "Aneurism." The cabbie taps himself on the side of the head.
"Right in 'ere," he says. "Any breath could be my last." Sherlock frowns.
"And because you're dying," he says, "you've just murdered four people."
"I've outlived four people," the cabbie corrects indignantly. "That's the most fun you can 'ave on an aneurism."
"Or you could visit your kids," I argue quietly. The cabbie looks down. Sherlock looks thoughtful.
"You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter," he says. "Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator."
"Oh," the cabbie sighs. He looks up at Sherlock. "You are good, ain't you?"
"But how?" Sherlock asks.
"When I die," the cabbie answers, "they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money driving cabs."
"Or serial killing," Sherlock interrupts.
"You'd be surprised," the cabbie responds.
"Surprise me." The cabbie leans forward.
"I 'ave a sponsor," he says.
"You have a what?" Sherlock asks.
"For every life I take, money goes to my kids," the cabbie explains. "The more I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think." I shake my head in disgust as Sherlock frowns.
"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?" Sherlock asks.
"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes?" The cabbie fires back instantly. They look at each other for a moment before the cabbie turns to look at me. "He didn't say anything about you, though." He turns back to Sherlock. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. 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 twitches.
"What d'you mean, more than a man?" he asks. "An organization? What?"
"There's a name no one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either," the cabbie says before nodding to the two bottles. "Now enough chatter. Time to choose." Sherlock looks down at the bottles again, his eyes moving from one to the other.
"What if I don't choose either?" Sherlock asks. "I could just walk out of here." The cabbie sighs in disappointment. He lifts up a pistol and points it at Sherlock for a moment, before moving his arm to point it at me. I take a close look at the gun and instantly relax.
"You can take your fifty-fifty chance," the cabbie says, "or I can shoot your girlfriend in the head." I see Sherlock smiling calmly. "Funnily enough, no one's ever gone for the gun."
"I'll have the gun, please," I say, surprising both men.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock asks.
"Definitely," I answer confidently. "The gun."
"You'd really take a bullet to the head for this man?" the cabbie asks, incredulous.
"The gun," I respond. The cabbie grimaces slightly and slowly squeezes the trigger. A small flame bursts out of the end of the barrel. I smile smugly.
"I worked for Scotland Yard," I say. "It's not really your M.O. anyway. You take people's lives by giving them poison, not a bullet to the head. Besides that, the weight was off: If you'd been holding a real gun, it would've put more of a strain on your arm. And, you can clearly tell—if you're paying any attention at all—that there is no magazine. It doesn't come out." I pause, smiling. "I know a real gun when I see one." I see Sherlock smiling smugly. The cabbie lifts the gun and releases the trigger. The flame goes out.
"None of the others did," the cabbie says.
"Clearly," Sherlock says, bored. "Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." We both stand up and walk towards the door.
"Just before you go, did you figure out…" the cabbie starts to say. Sherlock stops at the door and half turns towards the cabbie. "…Which one's the good bottle?"
"Of course," Sherlock answers. "Child's play."
"Well," the cabbie asks, "which one, then?" I open the door a little and Sherlock looks at me. I shake my head.
"Don't do it," I whisper.
"Which one would you 'ave picked," the cabbie asks, and Sherlock looks back at the cabbie, "just so I know whether I could have beaten you?"
"Sherlock," I say and Sherlock looks at me again, "don't do it. He's manipulating you, and someone's going to die because of it." I shiver. "Please, don't do it." The cabbie chuckles.
"Come on," the cabbie goads. "Play the game." Sherlock turns to me. He looks past me and closes the door. He turns and walks slowly back towards the cabbie. When he gets there, he reaches out and quickly picks up the bottle closest to the cabbie. He walks back towards me, and I feel a sense of dread.
"Oh," the cabbie says. I look over to him and see him looking at the other bottle. "Interesting." He picks the other bottle up as Sherlock looks down at the bottle in his hand. The cabbie opens his bottle and tips the capsule out into his hand. He holds it up and looks at it. Sherlock is examining his own bottle closely. "So what d'you think?" The cabbie looks up at Sherlock. "Shall we? Really, what do you think?" The cabbie glances at me, smirking, before turning back to Sherlock. "Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?" Sherlock looks up at me and I shake my head. Don't do it. "I bet you get bored, don't you?" Sherlock looks sharply at the cabbie. "I know you do. A man like you…." Sherlock twists the lid of his bottle, opening it. "…So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" Sherlock takes the capsule out of the bottle and holds it between his finger and thumb, raising it to the light to examine it more closely. "Still the addict." Slowly Sherlock lowers the pill again, holding it at eye level. "But this…this is what you're really addicted to, innit?" Sherlock looks up at me over the top of the capsule. Don't do it. "You'd do anything…anything at all…to stop being bored." Slowly, Sherlock begins to move the capsule closer to his mouth. The cabbie matches the movement. "You're not bored now, are you?" I close my eyes. I can't watch this. "Innit good?"
Bang!
I hear the gunshot and my eyes snap open. I look at Sherlock to see him dropping his capsule in surprise before turning towards the window. Seeing he's okay, I turn to the cabbie, who falls to the floor. I run to him and kneel down beside him, taking his hand. I hear Sherlock walk up behind me. He kneels down on the other side of the cabbie, one of the capsules in his hand.
"Was I right?" he asks. I look at him in disbelief. "I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" The cabbie doesn't reply. Sherlock angrily throws the capsule across the room and stands up. "Okay, tell me this: Your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me—my 'fan'. I want a name." I glare at Sherlock.
"No," the cabbie gasps.
"Sherlock," I warn. Sherlock ignores me.
"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you," Sherlock says. "Give me a name." The cabbie shakes his head. Sherlock grimaces angrily, lifting his foot and putting it onto the cabbie's shoulder, and the cabbie gasps. "A name. Now." I jump up from where I was kneeling.
"Sherlock!" I shout, pushing him off the cabbie. He stumbles back. "Back off! The man is dying on the floor, and you're torturing him!" Sherlock stares at me, stunned. I turn back, kneel down and take the cabbie's hand again. "You're okay, I've got you," I whisper. I look at him meaningfully. "You don't have to say the name, just think it. Just think, okay?" The cabbie nods, and I hear him.
Moriarty.
"Moriarty?" I whisper, just loud enough for only the cabbie to hear. He nods, and his eyes widen. "Alright, now you just relax. Relax, and remember happy times. Before your wife took the kids, before everything bad happened. Just relax and remember." The cabbie closes his eyes, remembering. I catch glimpses of what he's seeing, but I mentally pull back. Those are personal. He smiles slightly just as he goes limp. He's gone. Tears start forming in my eyes.
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The police and paramedics come. The police separate Sherlock and me. We are both taken to different ambulances. The police question me, but I refuse to speak. I hear one of the paramedics behind me mention "shock", and suddenly there's a blanket around my shoulders and most of the officers around me leave. I ask for Lestrade. They tell me he's on his way.
Five minutes later, I hear footsteps heading my way. I look up and see Lestrade.
"You okay?" he asks. I stare at him blankly. "Yeah, thought so. What happened?" I talk. I tell Lestrade—almost—everything. I leave out the bit with Sherlock hurting the man at the end, and I leave out the name. Just thinking that name makes me cold. There's real evil attached to it.
When I finish explaining, Lestrade stands there for a minute before speaking again.
"I know you're not okay now," he says, "but will you be okay?" I nod.
"I'll text Molly as soon as I leave here," I say. "I'll let her know what happened, and that I hope she's up for ice cream tonight." I manage a grin towards the end, and Lestrade chuckles.
"Chocolate ice cream?" he asks.
"Yep!" I answer, popping the "p". He laughs.
"Alright," he says. "So long as you'll be okay." I nod.
"Not the worst thing I've ever been through," I respond. He nods.
"Alright," he says. We stay silent for a moment before I speak up.
"Go talk to Sherlock," I suggest. "He might have already figured out who the shooter is." Lestrade nods before walking away, heading toward Sherlock. I hear Sherlock ask about the blanket he's wearing. Lestrade says something about "shock" and Sherlock argues. Lestrade mentions something about the guys wanting to take pictures. I look a distance away from where Sherlock and Lestrade are, and—sure enough—there are five officers with their mobiles out. I chuckle.
"Are you alright, Miss?" I hear a familiar voice ask, and I stiffen. I look up to see Sean, but he doesn't seem to recognize me at first. I just shake my head and look down, missing his eyes widening. "Kat?!" I look back up. "What're you doing here? Do you have any idea how worried I've been? You never came home last night and you've been ignoring my calls! I thought something had happened to you! What happened?!" I just stare at him blankly. I'm really going to need that ice cream tonight. "Kat?"
"I'm really not in the mood to deal with you right now," I say. He looks offended.
"Deal with me?" He shouts. "I'm your boyfriend, and you're not in the mood to deal with me? What the hell is wrong with you?!" I shrug.
"Ex-boyfriend, actually," Sherlock's voice says, startling both me and Sean. Sean looks at Sherlock incredulously.
"Who're you, mate?" Sean asks. "Mind your own business." Sean turns back to me, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. "We're going home." I pull my arm back and glare at him. I've had enough.
"I am not going anywhere with you!" I snap venomously, and both Sean and Sherlock take a step back. "You are not the boss of me, you do not tell me what to do or where to go and you are not my boyfriend! Not anymore." Sean looks hurt.
"Why?!" he asks. I scoff.
"Why don't you ask the new girl why?" I fire back, taking a step forward. He stiffens and takes another step back. "I saw the both of you, yesterday morning. I saw!" I take another step forward. "If I ever see you again," I threaten, my voice low, "if you ever even think of speaking to me—ever—I can guarantee your next girlfriend won't have to wonder if you're cheating on her." I smile brightly, and Sean's eyes widen in horror. "Is that understood?" Sean nods quickly. "Good. Now: Go. Away." Sean turns and walks—runs—away from the two of us. I sigh. Sherlock shuffles nervously next to me, and I look at him.
"Remind me to never piss you off," he says. I raise my eyebrow at him, and he looks away.
"Maybe you were right," I respond, and he looks back at me, confused. "Maybe I do have a bit of a temper." I crack a smile and he smirks back at me. "C'mon, let's get out of here. I could really use some chick flicks and ice cream." Sherlock grimaces at the thought and I laugh. We walk towards the police tape where John is waiting. Sherlock takes the blanket from around his shoulders and bundles it up. He tosses it into the open window of a police car. I do the same. When we get to the police tape, Sherlock holds it up so I can duck under, then ducks under it himself.
"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills," John says when we walk up. He looks guilty. "Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful." Why does he look guilty? Sherlock looks at him for a moment before speaking.
"Good shot," he says quietly. Oh. That's why he looks guilty.
"Yes," John replies. "Yes, must have been, through that window."
"Well," I say. "You'd know." Sherlock nods.
"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers," he says. "I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." John clears his throat and looks around nervously.
"Are you alright?" I ask him.
"Yes, of course I'm alright," he answers.
"Well," Sherlock responds, "you have just killed a man."
"Yes, I…." he trails off. "That's true, innit?" John smiles and Sherlock watches him carefully. "But he wasn't a very nice man." Sherlock nods in agreement.
"No," he says. "No, he wasn't really, was he?"
"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie," John continues. Sherlock chuckles and turns to lead us away.
"That's true," he says. "He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here. We had a head start and Kat still beat us!" John giggles and Sherlock smiles.
"Stop!" I reprimand. "Stop, you can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"
"John's the one who shot him," Sherlock argues. "Don't blame me."
"Keep your voice down!" John hisses as we walk past Donovan. "Sorry—it's just, um, nerves, I think."
"Sorry," Sherlock calls to Donovan. I can tell he's not. John clears his throat again.
"You were gonna take that damned pill, weren't you?" he asks Sherlock. Sherlock looks at him.
"Course I wasn't," he replies, and I roll my eyes. "Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."
"No you didn't," John argues. "If Kat had said that, I might believe it. It's how you get your kicks. You risk your life to prove you're clever."
"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asks.
"Because you're an idiot," I cut in. Sherlock grins at me before forcing the smile down.
"Dinner?" he asks.
"Starving," John answers. I don't answer, and they both look at me.
"Can't," I reply. "I need to meet up with Molly." I turn to Sherlock. "Chick flicks and ice cream, remember?" He grimaces and John laughs. Sherlock turns to John and starts telling him about this Chinese place and how you can tell a good Chinese place by the bottom third of the door handle. While they're talking, a car pulls up, and Mycroft gets out. John and Sherlock both look up at him, John surprised, Sherlock annoyed. I head straight for him.
"Hello, Mycroft," I greet. "Lovely to see you again." He nods his head at me before turning to Sherlock, speaking pleasantly.
"So, another case creaked," he says. "How very public spirited…thought that's never really your motivation, is it?"
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks.
"As ever, I'm concerned about you," Mycroft replies. He pauses. "However, that is not why I'm here. I came to speak with Miss Wilson." He turns to me. "I must apologize for my behavior earlier. I am merely concerned for his well-being, though he has a hard time believing it. This petty feud between us is simply childish, and people will suffer…." He turns back to Sherlock. "And you know how it always upset Mummy." Sherlock looks at him angrily.
"I upset her?" he asks. "Me?" Mycroft glowers at him. "It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft. It wasn't me that started this 'petty feud'."
"How did it start, anyway?" John asks. Mycroft sighs.
"It started with a girl of all things," he says. "Fifteen years ago, mother and father took us on a trip. I'd just graduated school, and we were celebrating my top honors. Sherlock met a girl there, and it changed him. He'd always been good at deducing people, but one conversation with her and he became obsessed with detective work. He seems to think she'll find him one day, and they'll live happily ever after." Mycroft sneers the last three words and Sherlock glares at him.
"Good evening, Mycroft," Sherlock says, turning away. "Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic." He walks away, and John starts to follow.
"Have a good night, Mycroft," John calls, waving. I stand there for a moment, watching them go.
"I'd better go," I say, turning to Mycroft. "Thank you for the apology. Have a good night." I turn to walk away, heading in the same direction as John and Sherlock. "Sherlock, John! Wait up!" I run after them as they stop and turn to wait for me.
"So," John says when I catch up. "Dim sum." Sherlock nods.
"Mm," he hums. "I can always predict the fortune cookies." I shake my head.
"No you can't," John argues. I jump in.
"I can," I say. They both look at me. I start listing my gifts off one by one, counting them on my fingers. "Post-cognition, Psychometry, Pre-cognition, Telepathy and Psychokinesis. Four of which I've used today."
"Post-cognition and Psychometry were earlier today in Lauriston Gardens," Sherlock says, trying to piece it all together. "Pre-cognition? So that's how you got here before us." I nod. "Telepathy?" He asks.
"Moriarty," I answer. He and John both look at me, confused. "That's the name," I explain, and Sherlock's eyes widen in understanding. John still looks confused. I hail a cab and give the cabbie Molly's address. "Sorry, boys. This one's all mine." I smile. "Enjoy your Chinese!"
I get in the cab and leave them behind.
A/N: Here we are, the end of A Study in Pink. The Blind Banker is next. Oh, the plans I have! *Rubs my hands together and cackles maniacally* Oops! Did I just do that...? ;P