The Science of Deduction

A Study in Pink

She turned from the door and bolted across the hallway to join John inside the room he had opened. He was facing the tall windows on the opposite wall which were giving him a perfect view of the hallway across the courtyard.
Freya could see both people, Sherlock and the cabbie, through the two sets of clear glass. Sherlock had his back turned to the windows but she could see the cabbie's face as bright as day. He seemed to be smiling, taunting, even.
Freya's heart thudded in her throat. They would never get there in time. Why the hell had she listened to Sherlock and given him a head start? She didn't even know him and now he was going to die because of her.

John brought his hands up to cover his mouth. The cabbie was holding something in his hand, something small and rounded.
A pill.
The two watched as Sherlock unscrewed the bottle he had been holding and turned to hold his own pill closer to the light. The cabbie was speaking incoherent words but Freya didn't care what he was saying.

"John, we have to do something." She frantically looked around the room for anything to help them. She didn't know what, she had stupidly left her gun in her room with all her other belongings. She looked over at John, who hadn't moved.
"John!" She yelled. "Do something!"
And so he did. He stepped closer to the glass and pulled a handgun out of his coat. With a perfectly steady arm and impeccable aim, John fired a single bullet through the two sets of windows and across the courtyard that separated him from Sherlock.
Freya winced at the noise but was able to see the bullet as it tore through the cabbie's sternum and dropped him like a stone.

John reached over and pulled her to the floor as Sherlock turned towards the source of the gunshot. She lost sight of him just as he was sliding over the table to peer into the opposite windows.
She met John's eye in the darkness. He looked taught as a wire, his eyes ablaze with the adrenaline of having just killed a man.
She swallowed heavily. "Good shot."
John blinked, snapping out of his daze. He didn't reply, just motioned for her to follow him as he carefully stood and made his way out of the room.

By the time of two of them had exited the building, the wailing sound of sirens were piercing the air. Freya's nerves were still singing and she took a few deep breaths to calm herself before anyone could notice.
An ambulance was parked up on the grass and Sherlock was seated in the back of it, looking irritated as an EMT placed an orange blanket over his shoulders. Freya turned when she heard a car and saw Lestrade pull up to the curb and climb out.
She twisted her mouth to mask her smile and looked at John out of the corner of her eye. "Ready to lie to the police?" She asked. John glanced at her but didn't reply.

Lestrade passed them on his way to Sherlock.
"Is he alright?" He asked, nodding in the direction of the ambulance. Freya shrugged innocently.
"We just got briefed, haven't spoken to him yet."
Lestrade nodded, buying the lie, and ducked under the police tape to make his way towards Sherlock.

John and Freya stood by the perimeter and watched as Lestrade questioned the consulting detective.
"Will he figure it out?" John wondered suddenly. Freya looked at him and then over at Sherlock. She smiled.
"Oh, yeah. But don't worry, I don't think he'll let on."
She whispered a quick apology when Lestrade raised an arm and waved her over to him. She ducked under the police tape and went to join Lestrade where he stood next to the ambulance.

"This shooter," Lestrade started slowly, his eyes alternating from Sherlock to Freya. "Anything to go on?"
The two detectives met eyes. Freya raised a brow and turned back to Lestrade, sighing slowly.
"A little," she told him. "The bullet they dug out of the wall was from a handgun. And over that kind of distance with that kind of weapon, that's a good shot we're looking for. But not from any marksman. His hands couldn't have shaken so clearly he's acclimated to violence. It wasn't his first kill." She spoke slowly and carefully, trying to choose her words in a way that informed but never actually narrowed anyone down. Sherlock stood from the ambulance and began to pick up from where Freya had stopped.