I Still Remeber John Watson's Daughter

Chapter 9 Killer Cabbie

Sherlock glanced at the bottles on 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." Well, that was just great. Sherlock being the addict he was would most likely take the damn pill. He was trying to quit because I asked him to and his habit scared me. Sometimes it had in me tears to the point where even he couldn't calm me down.

"Both bottles are of course identical," Sherlock said.

"In every way," the cabbie said.

"And you know which is which."

"Course I know."

"But I don't," Sherlock said. I was pretty sure that was the point.

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

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

"I 'aven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you chose, I take the pill from the other one, and then together, we take our medicine." I saw Sherlock start to grin; such an addict. I just wanted to shout at him, 'YOU PROMISED!' "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't." I watched as Sherlock looked at the two bottles closely. "Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. 'olmes?"

"This is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice," Sherlock said as I just hoped he wouldn't take the damn pill. I was always afraid that I would lose him to his habit.

"And now I'm givin' you one," the cabbie said. I watched as Sherlock looked up at him. "You take your time. Get yourself together. I want your best game."

"It's not a game. It's chance," Sherlock replied.

"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." Oh how I wanted to shoot the cabbie now. The cabbie used his left hand to slide the bottle on the left towards Sherlock. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one. You ready yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?"

"Play what? It's a 50-50 chance," Sherlock replied. Maybe he did remember his promise.

"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," Sherlock answered.

"Four people in a row? It's not just chance," the cabbie replied. He was overconfident, that would come back to bite him in the ass.

"Luck," Sherlock said. I rolled my eyes. Most likely he tricked them into taking the bad bottle like he was trying to do with Sherlock. There was no luck, and for the cabbie there was no chance, all the chance laid with the other person.

"It's genius. I know 'ow people think." I saw Sherlock roll his eyes as I thought, 'well good for you.' "I know 'ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my 'ead. Everyone's so stupid—even you. Or maybe God just loves me."

Sherlock straightened and leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him, "Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie. So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"

"Time to play."

I watched as Sherlock unfolded his fingers to put his hands in a position that made it look like he was praying. "Oh, I am playing. This is my turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out it to you; traces of where it's happened before, you live alone; no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children. The mother has been removed from the picture; if she had died she would still be there. Old photo, new frame; you think of your children but don't see them. Estranged father, she took the kids and the love you feel for them still hurts.