Consulting Pineapples (Psychlock)

Chapter Thirteen--Confrontation

Sherlock looked disbelievingly at the woman before pulling his composure together. “I’ve seen you before. In that Chinese restaurant.” He shifted his weight, raising the gun to point at the woman.

    “Very good,” she told him condescendingly. “Now, decide.”

    The British detective figured that the least he could do was stall. “So, you were behind all this. Kill them yourself? Or did you have your personal assassins do it?” He began pacing slowly, waving his gun around for emphasis.

    “I do not kill. I plan.” She had levelled her own gun at him. “Kindly drop it.”

    “You don’t kill,” he bluntly reminded her, smirking slightly. “The icicle was a good trick, come up with that yourself?”

    The woman shrugged. “First time for everything, right? And, for your information, I did. Mostly. Now. Drop. The. Gun.”

    “Why? Do you feel threatened?” Sherlock asked in a dramatic whisper, glancing over at Shawn.

    “Mr Holmes, I would appreciate it if you would stop stalling for time and decide. They’re getting impatient.” She said the last part in a stage whisper, matching his tone.

    “Sherlock, please,” he said politely, still smirking and looking around lazily, inwardly panicking. “Could’ve picked a nicer spot for this, if you ask me.”

    “Like what?” She let out a laugh. “The centre of London?”

    “Preferably.” Sherlock shrugged, twirling his gun around his finger nonchalantly.

    “If you do not put down the gun, Mr Holmes--sorry, Sherlock--I will have to shoot you,” the woman said in a sarcastic voice.

    “That would be incredibly ambitious of you,” he said, slipping the gun into his pocket nonetheless.

    “Would it? Really? No,” she said suddenly. “Ground. Not pocket.”

    “But then it would pose a tripping hazard.” Sherlock shook his head in mock concern, finally catching the slight light of madness behind her eyes.

    She matched his tone. “But what if it goes off in your pocket?” Her voice hardened. “Hand it to him, then,” she said, indicating another muscleman who was a couple metres behind Sherlock.

    “Make up your mind.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, not moving in the slightest.

    She cocked the hammer of her gun. “My aim this entire time has been to get the gun away from you. Therefore, I am not changing my mind, simply changing tactics. Now, give it to him.”

    The consulting detective heaved a melodramatic sigh and looked over his shoulder. “Well...I’d rather not. Apologies.” He smirked again and glanced back at the woman. “What’s your name?”

    She did not answer, instead tightening her finger on the trigger and filling the small room with a sudden, echoey blast.

    Sherlock barely thought, diving to the right and then straightening his coat. He dimly heard a scream, but he brushed it off, thinking it an echo. “Missed,” he said simply.

    Her smile grew wider. “Did I?”

    “Sh-Sh-Sherlock,” came a quiet, shaky voice behind him. He quickly whirled around to see Molly, with blood beginning to trickle from her upper arm. With a start, he realised that the bullet had hit her instead.