A Study in Miscommunication

Chapter 19

—-Sherlock's POV—-

I walked forward, swiping the pill from in front of the cabbie. I fiddled with the bottle, weighing it, examining it.

"Oh," the cabbie raised his voice in mock surprise. But there was a tremor there. "Interesting." He hesitated before grabbing the bottle I'd left for him. He took the pill out and examined it. "So, whadda think?" He looked up at me; there was tightness around his mouth. "Shall we?"

—-John's POV—-

I was growing horse from all the shouting. There was something darker than dread in my chest. I'd chosen the wrong building or I was already too late. Surely Sherlock would have heard me by now. But I couldn't abandon the building until it was clear just in case Sherlock was injured and couldn't call for help. I didn't know what outcome I was hoping for, all three options were terrible. And the more doors I opened and the more shouts that were unanswered the more of a chance there was that Sherlock... That he... That... I jogged up a flight of stairs. No, no, I would arrive in time. I would, this time. I had to. The lights were on down this hallway and I picked up my pace.

—-Sherlock's POV—-

The cabbie stood and placed himself between me and the door. "Really, whadda think? Can you beat me? Are you clever enough? To bet your life?"

I was cleverer than him. There was something in the reflection of the glass on the doors behind the cabbie. Something moved in the building behind me. Someone was watching me. Watching us.

"I bet you get bored, don't ya?"

I watched for more movement but I didn't see any. Someone was over there, the fan, probably. How could I draw them out?

"I know you do. Man like you, so cleva."

Without taking my eyes off the door's glass I unscrewed the lid of the bottle.

"But, what's the point of being cleva if you can't prove it?"

It wasn't the fan in the other building if it was they wouldn't have just arrived. They'd have been there the entire time. It had to be Lestrade then, in the other building. I lifted the pill high above my head, holding it in the light, pretending to examine it in the off chance it was a janitor. The cabbie hadn't noticed that I wasn't even looking at him; he wouldn't notice that I was showing the pill to the person in the other building. This was something the witness would remember and would be more than enough evidence to put the cabbie away. I'd won.

"Still the addict."

Yes, I was, wasn't I?

I lowered the pill. But, not enough to put it back in the bottle. I hesitated, examining the pill for real. It looked enticing. Pure white with red splatters, like blood, all contained in a clear housing. Not completely transparent, just enough to see what was inside. But you couldn't really know what was inside, not without testing it.

"But this, this is what you're really addicted to, innit?"

The easiest test would be to take it. If I was right, and I was always right, the pill was harmless. Nothing would happen to me. The man across from me wasn't suicidal. He was in no hurry to take his pill. His hand shook as he brought it to his mouth.

"You're not bored now, are ya?"

No, I wasn't.

If I was wrong death would be quick. Mrs Hudson would rent the flat out to someone nice, someone who'd take care of things properly so she wouldn't have to be playing housekeeper all the time. Someone like John. John's limp was fixed. He'd be able to find a job, go off doing things that normal people did with their time. I wouldn't have to watch him grow tired of me. Hate me, like everyone else. Or get hurt because of me. He'd become a target of this mystery fan.