Parts of the original transcript from the Reichenbach Sherlock episode start this off, Guys. It may also appear to be going a little fast but it was purposely intended. I promise you.
"But then how did you-"
"How did I break into the bank, to the Tower, to the prison? Daylight robbery! All it takes is some willing participants. I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever. Shall we finish the game? One final act? Glad you chose a tall building. Nice way to do it."
"Do it? Do what? ...Yes of course. My suicide."
"Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read it in the paper so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales. And pretty grim ones too."
"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity."
"Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort. Go on. For me. Please!"
"You're insane."
"You're just getting that now? Wo-wo-wo! OK. Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."
"John?"
"Not just John. Everyone."
"Mrs Hudson?"
"Everyone."
"Lestrade?"
"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now... unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die unless..."
"Unless I kill myself and complete your story."
"You've got to admit, that's sexier."
"And I die in disgrace.
"Of course. That's the point of this. Oh. You've got an audience now. Off you pop. Go on. I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers. I'm certainly not going to do it."
The Chief Superintendent squirmed in his chair. Hitting the pause button, the soft Irish accent came to a halt. Still leaving a chilling air within in the room."And this is the exact recording? No editing?"
"Anderson already explained that." The Chief Superintendent nodded, eyes drawing back to the recorder. He hadn't expected this to happen. Especially when Lestrade had presented him with the case file a week ago. Of course he had demanded a confession from Moriarty then all the paper work he had organised could be signed and Sherlock Holmes, freak to top all freaks, would be... free. Free of all charges and to help them with their current mess. Since his death, crime rates had sky rocketed and the amount of solved cases sank. He hated to admit it but the man was their only chance.
"Lestrade already told you what would be happening tomorrow, didn't he?" Sherlock nodded. He wasn't in the mood for this. This was boring. He had to though. It was necessary and there was the hopes of a new, interesting, case. From outside the door, the pair could hear the crashes of doors and footprints running quickly towards them. The carrying voice of Anderson trying to explain and telling them to wait. A cry of "The hell I will!" and the sounds of the door opening as a rather flushed John Watson stormed through it.
"Hello John." Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stand outside for a few minutes."
"Bu-"
"Please?"
"Five minutes." John sighed. "That's all."
John walked out of the room, into the corridor and stood, leaning against the wall. Anderson was stood across the corridor talking to Lestrade. John caught a second of their conversation. "...this one's a kidnapping... We need Sherlock."
John turned around and pressed his forehead to the cold concrete of the wall. He shut his eyes and counted to ten. That anger just then, it wasn't normal for him. It scared him.
"John?" Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder. "I need you and Sherlock to help me on a case, when the boss says yes."
"When the boss says yes?" Anderson snipped, "I think you mean if."
"No, when." Sherlock said, opening the door of the office. "Come in."
Everybody piled into the Chief Superintendent's office, who looked rather flushed. Five minutes with Sherlock was enough to do this but this was far greater than that. "Lestrade, has Anderson informed you of the details?"
"Just that there has been a kidnapping, Sir. Though I heard it wasn't in my division."
"This bloody one is, Lestrade. It's been ordered." The Chief Superintendent bellowed. He dabbed a cloth across his head before taking in a deep breath.
"Heart medication. Middle shelf." Sherlock coolly spoke from the corner of the room, standing behind everybody else.
"Wha- Never mind. Not the time. Mr Holmes is aware of the situation and apparently this... Watson fellow has to help him. Not could or will. Has to." He glared at John as if he could cut him down. "This is important, Lestrade. The press can't know that he's helping or alive. Yet. Not until he's solved the fucker."
"Who is it, Sir?"
"Sir Adrian Fulford."
"Shit." Lestrade suddenly looked pale. "It's not... you know? Based is it, Sir?"
"It is."
"Crap." Both Anderson and Lestrade said in unison. John stood there looking confused.
"A judge, John." Sherlock spoke again, reading John's confused structure. "He's the first outwardly gay man to be named a judge in Britain who just so happens to be a human rights expert and one of the first members to be sworn into the War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague."
"Oh God and you think it'-"
"We know, Mr Watson." The Chief Superintendent opened the top shelf of his desk and pulled out an obviously photocopied version of a random note.
When the poof is judged and the clock ticks on,
Who will stop me before the fag is gone?
Will you wait for him to burn down to the butt?
Or will you all get stuck in the same old rut?
Can you see past the mirrors and smoke?
Or will you stumble and begin to choke?
Sherlock read it quickly. "Handwritten. Quickly scrawled. Simple rhymes. It was written hurriedly, just before someone ran to get the post. See the way it's been folded in half twice, both uneven? Hurriedly folded and then folded again." John nodded, writing down Sherlock's observation in his own unique shorthand. He watched Sherlock, also making notes on the way Sherlock spoke and stood. These 'early warning signs', as he had dubbed them, told him roughly how long the case would last.
"It's written quickly, what about the words?" Lestrade asked. "The actual words used?"
Sherlock span to him. "The use of "poof" and "fag" make this seem homophobic. The use of "burn down", "mirrors" and "smoke" make this seem... Magic."
"Magic?" John mouthed, not wanting to interrupt Sherlock's thoughts.
"Tell me, Lestrade, have there been any circuses lately?"
"None that I know of."
"So," Sherlock paced, "someone who has a history of violence, was in a circus for a length of time and is left handed. That is who we are looking for."
"Anything else? Like his shoe size or what he had for breakfast?" The Chief Superintendent said sarcastically.
"By the looks of it the substance smudged on the side of the note appears to be ketchup. So most like a full English. Just a presumption though. I lack the original note." Sherlock was rearranging his scarf as he walked towards the door. "Oh and Chief, he's a ringmaster."
With that he stormed out of the office, John trailing behind. "How on earth did you about ringmaster thing?"
"The words, John." Sherlock sighed as he quickly chose the stairs as John was worthlessly trying to figure out what he meant. Pulling out his newly acquired Blackberry he began to search for recent cases of Fulford. "Several months ago Fulford took on an minor case involved with some Russian circus people. They lost everything. Ringmaster a lot of money. His right arm too. Owed some to loan sharks. Read about it whilst in Paris. Must have stored the information."
John had to run to catch up with Sherlock. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, they tore out of the front door. A loud beep emitted from John's pocket.
Keep me updated. - Greg.
Putting his phone back into his pocket, he stared at the pale man from the corner of his eye. Sherlock was trying to haul a cab and John, himself, was being forced back into his old life. Just how he loved it. "Where on earth are we going, Sherlock?"
"Isn't it obvious, John?"
"We don't all possess your massive intellect."
"I forget how boring it is for you." A taxi pulled up to the side of the curb. "Hackney. On the double. Come on, John."
"And why Hackney?" Said John, seated firmly inside the taxi.
"Victorian warehouse, big chimneys used to burn coal. Use to be a factory that made mirrors in the thirties but closed. Also, it's private."
"You're unbelievable." John beamed as he secretly typed the location to Lestrade.
The taxi pulled up and John paid the driver. The black cab pulled away and left Sherlock and John on their own in front of the warehouse.
"...pretty." John said, his voice didn't shake, but there was a feeling he didn't quite like about the place.
"Very." Sherlock agreed, somewhat unaffected by the atmosphere. He started off at a brisk walk and opened the door. He pulled out from the volumes of his coat a torch. A small LED flashlight. He flicked it on and marched towards the building, John hot on his heels.
"What are we looking for?" John asked.
"I'll know when I see it." Sherlock answered, vague as ever.
"You're solving this extremely quick, y'know? They'll get suspicious."
"Three years. No real cases. Bored. Now shut up. I need to think." John mentally corrected the three years to two and a half within his head. He was worried that Donovan would be nagging and planting ideas into the Chief's head already. The evidence was plain to see. Sherlock Holmes was an innocent man. Not that she cared about that. Looking up on the warehouse roof, John noticed how it slanted slightly towards the back.
"I'll go look around back. Don't do anything stupid. Like go inside." Walking around the corner, John could see nothing but gravel and dried grass. On the other side of the road however was a grey van. Crossing over, John could see that the license plates were Russian. Inside was a mess. Magazines, take away coffee cups and rope. Also what appeared to look like parts to a prosthetic arm that had changeable hand pieces.
This was all moving a little too quickly for John. In no time at all they had somehow managed to get from the Yard to Hackney and were now, by the looks of it, coming to the end of a case. It was pretty unbelievable. It had only taken Sherlock mere minutes to figure this one out and all from a simple note. Not even the real one. A photocopied one. Still, no doubt laid in John's mind. He had full trust in Sherlock. Examining the rest of the van, John pulled out his phone. Apparently Sherlock had already taken the liberty of programming his new number in.
Van outside, Russian plates, rope inside. Prosthetic hand parts. Looks like the place.
Almost as soon as he had send it, a reply came:
GOT THAT. I'M GOING IN. - SH
The text sent a jolt of fear through John's heart. Why? It wasn't like they were in any danger. The place looked abandoned, no one could stay here for any length of time. Surely this would be a meeting point and there would be another place, a more secure place, to live and keep a hostage. Unless... No, thinking the worst would never work.
John kicked a stone around and waited for Sherlock to call, text or even shout at him. He kept checking his phone every few minutes. Suddenly, it buzzed.
On our way. 3 squad cars and myself, Anderson and Donovan. - Greg.
Well, that was good news. Soon there'd be back up. Back up for what exactly, it wasn't going to be an all out shooting, there was one man with one arm, whom had not had the right amount of time to get use to a prosthetic, against a lot of police... It was almost impossible for anyone to survive these odds. He'd just give up; that one armed, ring master who'd gotten in debt.
Sherlock crept through the gloom, as quietly as he could. The darkness seemed to want to cling to him like a child and their safety blanket.
Sherlock shook his head, he was getting tired and that was affecting his concentration. He should've solved this one already. Why were ordinary people so slow?
He heard a muffled outcry come from the far corner of the warehouse, running over in the direction from which it came he began to shine his miniature light around. There, tied to a wooden chair, was Sir Adrian Fulford. Gagged and wearing a blindfold. Not that it made much use in this darkness, Sherlock thought. It was almost pointless. Just as he received a text he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head and everything blurred into darkness.