The Flower Seller ( WAYHAUGHT)

Chapter 37

A shot rang out momentarily silencing the gathering. Surprise flashed across Beaufort's face as he staggered back. Blackwood too recoiled, grabbing his left arm as blood seeped from the wound. "Traitor," he heard Lord Coward cry out, as he took aim again with his pistol. "You would have us all die for your cause."

Another shot rang out, this time grazing Blackwood's cheek. His own pistol fell from his hand as he grabbed the device by his feet, disappearing through the door from where he emerged. Nicole's father gave chase only to find it bolted from the other side. It was no use. They were trapped.

The commotion in the chamber had bought Sherlock and Nicole a little more time. The sensation of a gun pointed at her back was new, as was a lot of experiences being around Sherlock. She was beginning to think not being around him for over a decade might have been a blessing in disguise, the element of danger surrounding Sherlock taking some getting used to. Exciting, yes. Potentially fatal, most assuredly.

Sherlock began laughing, a crazy belly laugh, his eyes watering at whatever he found so hilarious. "What's so funny?" the guy said, his pistol still trained on Nicole's spine. "Fucking nutter. You ain't got shit."

"Oh, but I do," Sherlock replied, smirking. "Consider the dimensions of this room. I am a trained marksman. Observe my tally. Three down, one imbecile to go. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

"Oh, please do, yer 'oner. Whatevers you says, yer 'oner. Do you think I'm fucking stupid? I shoots her before you shoots me."

Sherlock pointed his pistol at the ceiling. "The trajectory of my one remaining bullet will be such it will hit you squarely in the back of your head before you are able to pull your trigger. Care to place a wager on it?"

"Err, sorry to interrupt your boys meeting," Nicole said. "But, really. Can we consider the possibility I might not walk away from this?"

"Alas," Sherlock replied, "I hadn't factored in your survival. A necessary cost. So, my dear fellow, what's it to be. Ten shillings says I can shoot you through the back of your skull, with one single bullet."

"Five. Ain't got ten."

"Five it is. I would shake your hand, but for the minor matter of having to kill you."

"What if I kills her first?"

"As I said. Minor collateral damage. My bet is with you, and where I shall place my bullet."

"You ain't that good," the man said. "Fucking do it."

Sherlock nodded. "So be it. Bon voyage. Sorry, your name."

"What about my name?"

"I would like to know it before I blow your brains out."

"For fuck's sake," Nicole yelled. "Just shoot him. Fucking name. Honestly. Call him Mr Clay Ball."

"I shall accept that. Mr Clayball, are you prepared to die?"

"It's Skipper. I run tugs from Blackwood's factory."

"Ah, a fellow seaman."

"Fucking shoot him," Nicole screamed.

The two men eyed each other. "Alas, women on the battlefield," Sherlock said. "May I?"

Blackwood's man nodded. "Go ahead."

Sherlock took a few seconds to position his pistol sending the fourth bullet hurtling towards a cast iron pipe. It hit, sparks flying in all directions, the bullet continuing on its way, landing a few feet behind Skipper, who turned to view its final resting place. In doing so he removed his own gun from Nicole's back, while giving Sherlock a clear shot of his head. The final bullet in Sherlock's pistol rendered Skipper utterly dead, falling to the floor in a crumpled heap.