Sherlock opened the front door and stood on the doorstep, shrugging himself into his coat. He felt bad for not being completely honest with Anita, but this was something he had to do by himself. The cabbie was leaning against the side of his parked taxi.
"Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes." he stated. Sherlock shut the door and walked towards the cabbie.
"I didn't order a taxi," Sherlock replied.
"Doesn't mean you don't need one," answered the cabbie.
"You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not your passenger," Sherlock realized.
"See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer," the cabbie bragged. Sherlock took a few more steps forward before looking upward at the windows of his flat.
"Is this a confession?" he questioned.
"Oh, yeah. An' I'll tell you what else: If you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise," explained the cabbie, though the smugness in his voice said overwise.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows furrowing.
"Cause you're not gonna do that," the cabbie revealed.
"Am I not?" Sherlock added.
"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. 'olmes. I spoke to 'em... and they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing," the cabbie told Sherlock, leaning forward off the car before continuing, "I will never tell you what I said."
Sherlock stared at him, and after a moment the cabbie straightened up and walked around to the front of his cab.
"No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result," Sherlock responded, though when he said 'they' he might as well have said Anita's name. Her whole life, she had dedicated it to saving life's. The driver stopped and turned back to face him.
"An' you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?" the driver asked, finally opening the driver's side door and sitting down. Then he closed the door. Biting his lip, Sherlock walked closer to the cab and leaned down to look over into the open passenger side window of the cab.
"If I wanted to understand, what would I do?" Sherlock questioned curiously.
"Let me take you for a ride," replied the cabbie, turning around to look at Sherlock.
"So you can kill me?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't want to kill you Mr. 'olmes. I'm gonna talk to yer... and then you're gonna kill yourself," the driver turned back to the front as Sherlock straightened up and considered his options. Had Anita been there, ever his moral compass, she would have been on the phone with the whole of Scotland Yard by now. But Anita wasn't there. So with his mind finally made up, he opened the rear door, climbed in and slammed the door shut. The driver started the engine and off they went.
All while this was happening, Anita and John were still upstairs trying to get the computer to load again. Anita was about five seconds away from shooting it. John had walked over to the window at some point and held his phone to his ear. He had seen the whole scene play out on the sidewalk, also seeing Sherlock get in the cab and drive off.
"He just got in a cab," John whispered, just loud enough for Anita to hear.
"What?" Anita asked, looking up from the computer, her gaze softening.
"It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab," John repeated.
"I told you, he does that," Donovan told John. Anita let out a huff at Donovan but didn't say anything. Donovan then turned to Lestrade.
"He bloody left again. We're wasting our time!" She exclaimed, frustrated and annoyed.
"I'm calling the phone. It's ringing out," John explained his actions.
"If it's ringing, it's not here," Lestrade stated, disappointed by the news.
"Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic and she's probably in on his schemes," Donovan said, pointing a finger at Anita. Anita pushed herself up from the chair and stood waiting for Donovan to make one more comment. John grabbed her shoulder, knowing Anita would regret starting a fight with Sally.
"They will always let you down and you're wasting your time. All of our time!" Sally continued and something in Anita snapped. She shrugged John's hand off and marched up to Donovan until they were inches away from each other.
"No! Shut up, Donovan. Say one more word, and I promise you won't say anymore as a sergeant. Come on, Donovan, test your luck," Anita taunted, basically begging for Sally to say anything. John was quick to grab Anita and pull her back before she threw the first punch. Lestrade also moved to push Sally back as well.
"Alright, calm down Anita! Everybody, we're done here," Lestrade ordered and all of the officers left the flat. Anita was taking deep breaths, trying to stop herself from crying. She didn't know why she was close to tears, but she was and there was nothing she could do about it.
"How did you find me?" Sherlock asked the cabbie.
"Oh I recognized yer, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock 'olmes! I was warned about you. I've been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!" gushed the driver as he glanced in the rearview mirror.
"Who warned you about me?" questioned Sherlock.
"Just someone out there who's noticed you," he answered.
"Who?" Sherlock leaned forward and noticed a photograph of a young boy and girl attached to the dashboard of the cab, "Who would notice me?"
"You're too modest Mr. 'olmes," the cabbie said as he and Sherlock made eye contact in the rearview mirror.
"I'm really not," noted Sherlock.
"You've got yourself a fan," responded the driver. Sherlock leaned back into his seat, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible
"Tell me more."
"That's all you're gonna know...in this timeline," the cabbie answered, almost in a whisper.
"Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" Anita asked as she paced back and forth across the sitting room. John had sat down in his chair some time ago. The flat was more of a mess then it usually was due to Lestrade's crew. John shrugged from his seat and looked up at Anita. Lestrade was still there, but he was getting ready to leave.
"You know him better than I do," John tried to reason. Anita chuckled.
"No, I don't know him as well as you think," Anita explained, plopping down into Sherlock's chair exasperatedly.
"So why do you put up with him?" John questioned. Anita opened her mouth, but promptly closed it. Lestrade decided to step in.
"Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one," Lestrade explained before leaving the flat. Anita smiled, very happy with the explanation but was quick to get back to her pacing of the room. Both her and John would glance at the computer every few seconds, waiting for it to load and locate the phone.
The cab, finally, stopped in front of two identical buildings side by side. The cabbie turned off the engine and got out. He then walked over to Sherlock's door and opened it.
"Where are we?" Sherlock questioned, not showing any sign that he was going to move from his spot.
"You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are," responded the driver.
"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?" Sherlock answered.
"It's open; the cleaners are in. One thing about a cabbie, you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out," the cabbie replied.
"And you just walk your victims in? How?" At the question, the driver pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes at him and turned his head away.
"Oh dull," Sherlock commented in a low voice, and he imagined how Anita would have giggled at the comment. He couldn't think about her at the moment, so he shook his head in hopes that would get her out of his head.
"Don't worry, it gets better," the cabbie said.
"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint," Sherlock stated.
"I don't. It's much better than that. Don't need this with you, 'cause you'll follow me." And with that, the driver lowered the gun and walked away into one of the buildings. Sherlock sat there for a moment, grimaced in exasperation, and got out of the car and followed him into the building.
"Well, I guess I'll be going back to my place," John said as he stood up and started to head out the door. Anita looked over at him, her eyebrows furrowing slightly but knowing he was giving up.
"Oh, bye," Anita said, waving slightly with her left hand. John nodded before continuing out the door. Anita turned and saw John's cane leaning against a chair. She grabbed it and turned back around.
"John!" she called, causing John to turn and come back into the room.
"Yes?" he asked, before glancing at his cane in her hands.
"Your cane," Anita said, holding it out to him. He nodded, and when he went to grab it the computer beeped. Anita turned around to look at it and see it zooming in on a map. It was a new location, no longer at 221 B Baker Street. John and Anita rushed over to the computer to see the exact location. John propped his cane against the dining table.
"What is it?" he asked. Anita stared at the screen for a moment before rushing up.
"Oh, God," Anita mumbled. She grabbed the notebook and her coat and started running down the stairs with John close behind.
"What's wrong Anita?" he asked, though he followed her regardless.
"Come on! I'll explain in the cab." With that Anita and John were out the front door, flinging their hands out for a taxi.
At Roland-Kerr College, the cabbie opened a door to a room and stepped aside to let Sherlock in first. The room was a long classroom, which had long fixed wooden benches and free standing plastic chairs.
"What do you think?" the driver asked Sherlock, who was looking around the room, taking in the details. Sherlock raised his hands and shrugged.
"It's up to you. You're the one who's gonna die 'ere," explained the cabbie, smirking. He gestured to one of the benches.
"Shall we talk?" And with that, the driver pulled out a chair and sat down. Sherlock took a chair opposite him and sat down. He sighed and took off his gloves, placing them in his coat pocket.
"Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid. And Mrs. Hudson will remember you," Sherlock commented.
"You call that a risk? Nah," the driver replied as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle and placed it on the table in front of him. Inside the bottle was a large pill.
"This is a risk," explained the cabbie. Sherlock glanced at the bottle, but opted not to react to it.
"Ooh, I like this bit. Cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this." Then he pulled out a second identical bottle and set it next to the first bottle.
"You weren't expecting that, we're yer?" the driver questioned, leaning forward slightly.
"Ooh, you're going to love this."
"Love what?" Sherlock asked.
"Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. That website of yours: your fan told me about it," said the cabbie, ignoring Sherlocks question.
"My fan?" Sherlock questioned.
"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? Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?" the driver questioned, a taste of bitterness in his voice. He looked down angrily before looking back into Sherlock's eyes.
"Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too," Sherlock mused sarcastically.
"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 thing you ever know." Sherlock held eye contact with the man before looking down at the bottles on the table.
"Okay. Two bottles. Explain," Sherlock asked.
"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," explained the cabbie.
"Both bottles are, of course, identical," stated Sherlock.
"In every way."
"And you know which is which."
"Course I know."
"But I don't."
"Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one that chooses," explained the driver.
"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?" Sherlock questioned him.
"I haven't 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," Sherlock started to grin, beginning to like the sound of the game.
"I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. Didn't expect that did you, Mr. 'olmes?" the cabbie asked with a smirk.
"This is what you did to the rest of them: you gave them a choice," stated Sherlock.
"Now I'm givin' you one. You take your time. Get yourself together," the driver said, licking his lips in anticipation.
"I want your best game."
"It's not a game. It's chance," Sherlock argued.
"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," he said as he slid one of the bottles towards Sherlock.
"Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one."
John and Anita were sitting in the back of a taxi. John was holding the computer in his lap, giving the driver the direction while Anita was on the phone.
"This is Detective Inspector Anita O'Malley. I need to speak with Detective Inspector Lestrade. It's Important! It's an emergency!" Anita had turned away from John, putting a finger in her ear to hear the person on the phone better. The computer beeped again, showing the location of the phone.
"Er, left here, please. Left here," John explained to the driver as Anita finally got connected to Lestrade.
"You ready, yet, Mr. 'olmes? Ready to play?" the driver questioned.
"Play what? It's a fifty-fifty chance," explained Sherlock.
"You're not playin' numbers, you're playin' me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?" the driver chatted.
"Still just chance," Sherlock mumbled.
"Four people in a row? It's not just chance," the cabbie argued.
"Luck," Sherlock muttered, again.
"It's genius. I know 'ow people think." Sherlock rolled his eyes at this
"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," the cabbie added. Sherlock leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him on the table.
"Either way, you're wasted as a cabbie," Sherlock stated.
Finally, the cab arrived at the college and John and Anita bolted out of the car. Anita paid the driver as John looked over at the identical buildings.
"Oh bloody hell!" John exclaimed.
"What?" Anita asked, turning around and seeing the problem. Anita huffed angrily.
"Which one is he in?" John asked, hoping Anita could magically tell.
"I don't know," Anita answered, glancing between the two buildings. She let out a deep breath before turning to John.
"We'll have to split up. You take left, I'll take right," Anita ordered, all of her police training kicking in. She was about to run towards her building before John stopped her.
"Do you have a gun?" he asked, wanting to make sure that she had a way to protect herself. Anita chuckled and lifted her gun from where it sat on her right hip.
"What kind of Detective Inspector do you take me for?" Anita joked before nodding at him and jogging to her building, John doing the same.
Sherlock lifted his clasped hands in front of his mouth and gazed at the cabbie intensely.
"So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?" he asked.
"Time to play," the cabbie said, trying to deflect the question.
"Oh, I am playing. This is my turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Trace 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 died, she'd still be there. The photograph is old but the frames new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts... Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing is 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?" Sherlock deduced in his famous rant style. Sherlock stared at the driver, who was trying to keep his emotions under wraps through the whole speech.
Finally, Sherlock's eyes widened as he made an extremely important deduction.
"Ahh. Three years ago- is that when they told you?" Sherlock whispered to the cabbie.
"Told me what?" he asked, flatly.
"That you're a dead man walking," Sherlock explained.
"So are you,"
"You don't have long, though. Am I right?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the cabbie's little comment. The driver smiled.
"Aneurysm," he lifted his right hand and tapped that side of his head.
"Right in 'ere." Sherlock smiled in the satisfaction of being right.
"Any breath could be my last," the man explained.
"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people," Sherlock said, frowning. Sherlock felt that was something that Anita would say. Sherlock knew that Anita would want the man to feel some sort of shame for the crimes he committed, the lives he took.
"I've outlived four people. That's the most fun you can 'ave on an aneurysm," argued the driver.
"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," Sherlock stated.
"Ooh, you are good, ain't you?"
"But how?"
"When I die, they won't get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs," the cabbie admitted.
"Or serial killing," Sherlock argued.
"You'd be surprised."
"Surprise me."
"I 'ave a sponsor."
"You have a what?" Sherlock questioned, completely bewildered.
"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," answered the driver, a smile growing across his face.
"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?" Sherlock wondered.
"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock 'olmes?" the cabbie replied instantly. The two men stared at each other for a moment. Sherlock thought he had heard Anita's voice calling to him faintly from a distance but figured it was just in his head. Then the cabbie spoke up.
"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."
"What do you mean, more than a man? An organization? What?" Sherlock interrupted, his lips twitching into a sneer.
"There's a name no one says, an' I'm not gonna say it either. Now enough chatter...Time to choose," replied the driver.
"What if I didn't choose either? I could just walk out of here," Sherlock asked and the cabbie pulled out his pistol and lazily aimed it at Sherlock.
"You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head," he said. Sherlock smiled calmly at this.
"Funnily enough, no one's ever gone for that option," the man added.
"I'll have the gun, please," Sherlock stated.
"Are you sure?" the driver asked. Sherlock continued to smile at him.
"Definitely. The gun."
"You don't want to phone a friend?" the cabbie questioned. Sherlock briefly thought of Anita and John but didn't dwell on it. He then smiled confidently.
"The gun."
The man pulled the trigger and a small flame burst out of the end of the muzzle. Sherlock smiled smugly at this.
"I know a real gun when I see one," Sherlock explained and the driver released the trigger which caused the flame to die.
"None of the others did," he stated.
"Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case," Sherlock said as he got up and walked over to the door. The cabbie put the gun down and turned in his seat.
"Just before you go, did you figure it out- which one's the good bottle?" Sherlock, who had made it to the door, stopped and half turned in his direction. The voice in his head, which sounded vaguely like Anita, was screaming at him to keep walking. But he couldn't.
"Of course. Child's play," the detective remarked.
"Well, which one, then? Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could 'ave beaten you? Come on. Play the game," the man chuckled. Sherlock closed the door and, slowly, walked back to the table and he reached out and grabbed the bottle nearest to the driver.
"Oh. Interesting," commented the cabbie. He had grabbed the other bottle and began to pour the pill out onto his hand. Sherlock followed his footsteps and did the same, though he examined his more closely.
"So what d'you think? Shall we?" the man questioned. Sherlock didn't answer him.
"Really, what do you think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life? I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you... So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it? Still the addict," the man taunted as Sherlock continued to examine the pill and hold it up to eye level.
"But this, this is what you're really addicted to, innit? You'd do anything...anything at all... to stop being bored." Sherlock's fingers began to shake with excitement and anticipation as he slowly brought the pill closer and closer to his lip. The cabbie was following Sherlocks actions as well, but he kept talking.
"You're not bored now, are you? Innit good?"
BANG!
The gunshot rang out and hit the cabbie in the shoulder and Sherlock dropped his pill in surprise. He was quick to look over his shoulder, turn, and slide over the desk. He was staring at the bullet hole in the glass. In the opposite building there seemed to be nobody in sight.
"Sherlock! Sherlock!" he turned around, looking towards where the voice had come from. He knew that voice, he could pick that voice out in a crowd of thousands. Sherlock thought he would never hear that voice again.
Suddenly, the door into the room slammed open. Anita poured into the room, her gun raised and she was clearly out of breath. Anita made eye contact with Sherlock and let out a breath of relief. She lowered her gun and started to walk over to Sherlock.
"Oh thank God, Sherlock! I heard a gunshot and-" Anita stopped when she noticed the man on the floor bleeding out. Anita glanced back at Sherlock before getting a tight grip on her gun, not quite knowing how incapacitated the man was. Anita assumed it was the murderer, so she didn't ask questions. Sherlock picked up his pill before he dropped to his knees by the man and showed it to him.
"Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" Sherlock questioned angrily. Anita was looking between the two men, not understanding what was happening but keeping her guard up. When the man didn't respond Sherlock threw the pill at him and stood up. Anita leaned down and picked up the pill, examining it as Sherlock had done not too long ago. She then turned to Sherlock, furiously.
"Sherlock! You weren't going to take this, right?" Anita tried but Sherlock just ignored her, knowing she wouldn't like his answer.
"Okay, tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me- my 'fan.' I want a name," Sherlock ordered. The man had just enough strength to respond.
"No."
Anita didn't feel bad for this man at all. He should feel guilty for taking innocent people's lives. She had no idea what Sherlock was talking about but she knew he needed information and lucky for him she read a lot of books about torture when she was in uni, it was for a class. Anita took a step forward.
"You're dying," Anita stated, glancing at Sherlock before continuing.
"But there's still time to hurt you." Sherlock was a bit shocked that Anita was willing to help him with zero context but thought little of it.
"Give me a name." The man shook his head and Anita lifted her foot and applied pressure to the area. He gasped in pain.
"Give him a name," Anita growled. The cabbie cried in pain but didn't say anything more.
"Now," Anita demanded. The man continued to only whimper and cry in pain. Sherlock nodded at Anita and she now leaned more weight into her foot, which only caused him more pain.
"The NAME!" Sherlock bellowed furiously.
"MORIARTY!" the man shouted in anguish, then his eyes closed and his head rolled back. Anita removed her foot from the man and grimaced at the blood on it. Anita turned to Sherlock.
"You owe me a new pair of shoes," Anita said, though she really didn't mean it. The amount of times she's had to scrub blood off her shoes throughout her life was way too often. Though the only thing running through both of their minds was one big question:
Who is Moriarty?
author's note !
Hey, guys! This week is special because I'll be posting the last two chapters! It's just how some things fell into my lap and I really want to get you guys the next book ASAP!!! Anyways, as I have already mentioned, usually I would like a week in between books, but I think I'll post it for you guys next week =)
Since I have your attention, how would you guys feel about a One Shot sort of book for Sherlock and Anita once I finish the story. I have plenty of little story plots about their Uni years and would love to share them if you guys are interested! As always, let me know and I love to hear all kinds of feedback. If you think it's a horrible idea, let me know! Regardless, I hope you guys enjoy the final chapters of A Study In Pink!