Chapter 8

We walk down numerous hallways and finally the cabbie opens a door leading to a room. He stands aside to let us in. Uncle Sherlock looks at him closely and steps inside. I follow and the cabbie steps in and shuts the door behind him. He walks over to a wall and switches the lights on. I look around to see a large classroom with long wooden benches and plastic chairs. Uncle Sherlock walks further into the room, inspecting it. I stay by the doors. I can see everything well enough anyways.

"Well, what do you think?" The cabbie asks. Uncle Sherlock raises his hands and shrugs. "It's up to you. You're the one who's gonna die 'ere." Uncle Sherlock turns to him.

"No, I'm not."

"That's what they all say." The cabbie says as he gestures to one of the benches. "Shall we talk?" He asks as he sits down in one of the chairs.

Uncle Sherlock grabs a chair, turns it around, and sits down opposite of the cabbie. The cabbie looks at me.

"Come now, Liza. Take a seat." I stare at him for a moment and look at Uncle Sherlock. He nods his head in approval and I walk over and take a seat next to Uncle Sherlock. Uncle Sherlock sighs dramatically.

"Bit risky, wasn't it? Took us 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? Nah." He reaches into the left pocket of his cardigan. "This is a risk." He takes out a small glass bottle and puts it down on the table. I see a large capsule inside. Uncle Sherlock doesn't seem to react to it, but I start to get nervous. "Ooh, I like this bit. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do yer? But you're about to. I just have to do this." This time, he reaches into his right pocket and takes out an identical bottle with an identical capsule and sets it down next to the other bottle. "You weren't expecting that, were yer?" He leans forward. "Ooh you're going to love this."

"Love what?" He sits back.

"Sherlock 'olmes! Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it."

"My fan?"

"You are brilliant. 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?"

"…oy!" I say. He looks down angrily.

"Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?"

"You wanna know what I'm thinking right now?" I ask sarcastically.

"Liza." Uncle Sherlock scolds. I look at him and pout. The cabbie looks into Uncle Sherlock eyes and Uncle Sherlock looks back at him for a long moment. He narrows his eyes and makes a realization. "Oh. I see. So you're a proper genius too." Uncle Sherlock says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man drivin' a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last think you'll ever know." Uncle Sherlock holds his gaze for a moment and looks down at the table.

"Okay, two bottles. Explain."

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. 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."

"In every way."

"And you know which one is which."

"Course I know."

"But I don't."

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

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

"I 'avent told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one – and then, together, we take our medicine." I look at Uncle Sherlock as he starts to grin. 'Aw hell…' I think to myself. "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." Uncle Sherlock looks down at the bottles, concentrating. "Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. 'olmes?"

"This is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice."

"And now I'm givin' you one." Uncle Sherlock looks up at him. "Take your time. Get yourself together." He licks his lips in anticipation. "I want your best game."

"It's not a game. Its chance."

"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. 'olmes, its chess. It's a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this… this… is the move." He uses his left hand to slide one of the bottles across the table towards Uncle Sherlock. He pulls his hand back and leaves the bottle where it is. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one." The cabbie looks down at the bottles and looks up at Uncle Sherlock. "You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?"

"Play what? It's a fifty-fifty chance."

"You're not playin' the numbers, 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."

"Four people in a row? It's not just chance."

"Luck."

"Its genius. I know 'ow people think." Uncle Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'Wow, self-confident much?' I think to myself. "I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone's so stupid – even you." I see Uncle Sherlock gaze sharpen. "Or maybe God just loves me." Uncle Sherlock straightens and leans forward. He folds his hands on the table in front of him.

"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie." He lifts his folded hands up in front of his mouth and gazes at the cabbie. "So you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?" The cabbie nods down to the bottles.

"Time to play." Uncle Sherlock unfolds his fingers and puts his hands in a prayer position in front of his mouth.

"Oh I am playing. 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. You think of your children but you don't get to see them." The cabbie looks away from Uncle Sherlock. I can almost see the pain in his eyes. "Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts." He extends his index fingers. "Ah, but there's more." The cabbie looks back at Uncle Sherlock. "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 cabbies expression is blank as he stares at Uncle Sherlock. Suddenly, Uncle Sherlock's eyes widen as he makes another deduction. "Ahh. Three years ago – is that when they told you?" Uncle Sherlock asks softly.

"Told me what?" I look at Uncle Sherlock.

"That you're a dead man walking."

"So are you."

"You don't have long, though. Am I right?" The cabbie smiles.

"Aneurism." He raises his right hand and taps the side of his head. "Right in 'ere." Uncle Sherlock smiles in satisfaction. "Any breath could be my last." Uncle Sherlock frowns.

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people."

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

"No. No, there's something else. 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." Uncle Sherlock says thoughtfully. The cabbie looks away and sighs.

"Ohh." He looks at Uncle Sherlock. "You are good, aint you?"

"But how?"

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

"Or serial killing."

"You'd be surprised."

"Surprise me." The cabbie leans forward.

"I 'ave a sponsor." I look at Uncle Sherlock confused.

"You have a what?"

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

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?"

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes?" The both stare at each other for a moment. "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." I look over at Uncle Sherlock as his nose twitches in distaste.

"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. Now, enough chatter." The cabbie nods towards the bottles. "Time to choose." Uncle Sherlock looks at the bottles, observing each one.

"What if I don't choose either? We could just walk out of here." The cabbie sighs and pulls out a pistol and points it at me.

"Oh, God…" I gasp.

"You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot both of you in the head." Uncle Sherlock smiles. "Funnily enough, no-one's ever gone for that option."

"We'll have the gun please."

"What?" I ask in shock.

"Are you sure?"

"No, no he's not, he's crazy. Uncle Sherlock!" I say frantically.

"Definitely. The gun."

"You don't want to phone a friend?" Uncle Sherlock smiles confidently.

"The gun." I look frantically at Uncle Sherlock and the cabbie.

"Uncle Sherlock…" The cabbie flexes his finger, I close my eyes, and prepare myself. I hear a click, but nothing happens. I open my eyes to find a flame coming out of the end of the gun. "What the…" I say. Uncle Sherlock smiles smugly.

"I know a real gun when I see one." I turn and smack Uncle Sherlock in the arm. Hard.

"I didn't! What the hell is wrong with you?" I yell.

"Ow." Uncle Sherlock flinches. "Calm down. It was obviously a fake."

"None of the others knew." The cabbie says.

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

"If you make it till then…" I say darkly. Uncle Sherlock stands up and walks towards the door. The cabbie puts the 'gun' down on the desk and looks at me. I laugh nervously and get up and follow Uncle Sherlock.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out…" Uncle Sherlock stops at the door and half turns around to him.

"Uncle Sherlock don't. Just walk away."

"…which ones the good bottle?"

"Of course. Childs play."

"Well, which one, then?" Uncle Sherlock opens the door slightly.

"Just ignore him. You don't need to prove yourself." I say to him.

"Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you." Uncle Sherlock closes the door and I sigh and roll my eyes. The cabbie chuckles. "Come on. Play the game." Unfortunately, Uncle Sherlock starts walking towards him. He gets to the table, sweeps up the bottle nearest to the cabbie, and walks past him. The cabbie looks down at the bottle that was left behind. "Oh. Interesting." The cabbie picks up the bottle as Uncle Sherlock looks at the one he has in his hands. The cabbie opens his bottle, takes out the capsule, and observes it. Uncle Sherlock examines his still in the bottle. "So what d'you think?" He says as he looks up at Uncle Sherlock. "Shall we? Really, what do you think?" The cabbie asks. He stands up and faces Uncle Sherlock. "Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?"

"No, he's stupid enough. Uncle Sherlock don't do it." I say, still at the door.

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you…" Uncle Sherlock undoes the lid of the bottle. "…so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" Uncle Sherlock takes out the capsule and holds it towards the light to look at it more closely. "Still the addict." Uncle Sherlock slowly lowers the pill, looking at it at eye level. "But this… this is what you're really addicted to, innit?" Uncle Sherlock continues to stare at the pill.

"Uncle Sherlock… please. Don't listen to him." I plea.

"You'd do anything… anything at all… to stop being bored." Uncle Sherlock slowly moves the pill closer to his mouth as the cabbie does the same.

"…Please…" I say, tears forming in my eyes.

"You're not bored now, are you?" I look away. "Innit good?"

Suddenly I hear a gunshot and I scream. I look back to see the cabbie laying on the ground and Uncle Sherlock turn and look at the window. He hurries over to the window and looks through it. I run over to where the cabbies lying.

"Jesus…" I gasp and look away. I don't have much of a stomach for gunshot wounds.

The cabbie suddenly breathes heavily and coughs. Uncle Sherlock turns back and watches as the cabbie gasps and coughs in pain. He snatches up a pill lying down on the desk, kneels down, and holds it in front of the cabbies face.

"Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" The cabbie stays silent and Uncle Sherlock angrily hurls the pill 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."

"No." The cabbie says weakly.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name." I look and the cabbie shakes his head. Uncle Sherlock angrily lifts his foot and puts it on the cabbies shoulder. The cabbie gasps in pain. I turn away again and put my hands over my ears. "A name." He says as the cabbie cries out in pain. "Now." I can only assume that Uncle Sherlock applied more pressure on his shoulder because I heard him whimper in pain. "The NAME!" Uncle Sherlock yells furiously.

"MORIARTY!" The cabbie screams in agony. I pause and turn back, uncovering my ears. I look at Uncle Sherlock in shock. He mouths, what looks like the word 'Moriarty', to himself. He looks at me and his expression turns from confused to almost apologetic. I look back at him.

"You're a bloody idiot." At that, I walk out the door.

Well, we're almost done. :( But have no fear! A new story is near! ...Okay that was kinda lame. But i am thinking of doing a short backstory on Liza and we finally get to meet Sarafina. :O So keep reviewing and following and liking and stuff and ill get right on it!