BBC Sherlock- Color Theory Ch.8

Ch.8 I Bet Your Life On it

It took a bit of time, but they finally made it back to the flat, the trio entered, filling the small entranceway with huffing and panting while hanging up their coats.

“Okay, that was ridiculous,” John panted as he leaned up against the tan and textured colored wall, Eleanor on his right while Sherlock on his left.

“That was the most ridiculous thing…I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan,” Sherlock jested, causing the three of them to giggle and laugh.  

“That wasn’t just me,” John replied, smiling genuinely along with Eleanor and Sherlock.

Eleanor couldn’t help but personally get the feeling that it had been a while since any of them had smiled in such a manner…laughed in such a manner that was genuine and pure; a moment between good friends. And they had only just met…

…only just begun.

“Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?” John asked finally.

“Oh…” waving his hand about “…they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway.”

“So what were we doing there?” John asked further as Eleanor playfully inputted, “Just passing the time with a side dish of clue hunting. Right Sherlock?”

She chuckled at him as he chuckled back with a quick second cock of his eyebrow, “Quite right. And proving a point if I might add.”

“What point?” John inquired.

“You…” looking off towards another flat’s entrance door while yelling “…Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs with Eleanor!”

“Says who?” the doctor continued to question.

“Says the man at the door,” Sherlock motioned with his head upon answering and smirking.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

John went to the door upon hearing the knocking as Eleanor watched from the sidelines along with Sherlock. Opening the entrance and meeting the knocker on the other side, John was greeted with Angelo from the restaurant who apparently had brought John’s cane with him that the doctor had left behind.

“Sherlock texted me…” Angelo greeted as he handed the cane to the doctor “…he said you forgot this.”

John clasped his left hand upon it, almost in awe of the fact that not only did he leave his cane behind, but the matter of his psychosomatic limp seemed to have been put aside thanks to Sherlock taking him on an adventure.

“Ah…” John stammered as he looked back behind him at Sherlock who was grinning at him before turning back to Angelo with gratitude “…er, thank you. Thank you.”

Eleanor lightly shook her head. She couldn’t help but be grateful that in such a short period of time, already being around Sherlock was having its inadvertent affects, John practically and nearly completely over his psychosomatic limp. It was an endearing thought, but a quickly interrupted one as Mrs. Hudson finally came out from her flat with a rather disturbed look on her face as she walked up to Sherlock with a tissue in her hands.

“Sherlock, what have you done?” she asked in concern.

“Mrs. Hudson?” the detective inquired back.

“Upstairs,” she directed as the trio glanced momentarily at each other before following Sherlock up the stairs to their flat.

With an abrupt grasp upon the door handle and swinging it open, Sherlock entered to find a rather relaxed inspector Lestrade sitting on his green leather chair comfortably, obviously having made himself at home.  

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded to know in a low key obviously annoyed kind of tone upon approaching Lestrade with strong footsteps.

“Well, I knew you’d find the case. I’m not stupid,” the fellow detective explained.

“You can’t just break into my flat,” Sherlock retorted back, annoyed.

“And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well what do you call this then?!” Sherlock bit back again with his arms swung out to the side in emphasis.

Lestrade looked around before he answered back almost in a sarcastic type of smirk, “It’s a drugs bust.”

“Really Lestrade? A drugs bust?” Eleanor asked rhetorically with an unenthused expression.

“Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?”

Sherlock slowly turned towards the Doctor “John,” giving him a look, but the doctor continued at Lestrade, “I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.”

“John, you probably want to shut up now,” Sherlock urged quietly to the doctor.

“Yeah, but come on.”

And it was then Sherlock stared at him with a quiet yet stern expression for a moment before John realized, “No.”

“What?”

“You?”

“Shut up…” he commanded, turning his attention to Lestrade “…I’m not your sniffer dog.”

“No, Anderson’s my sniffer dog,” Lestrade replied.

“Wh-An…” Sherlock stammered as his attention was turned towards the kitchen as Anderson popped his head out with his gloved hand up, twiddling his fingers about in a silent mocking type of manner “…Anderson what are you doing here on a drugs bust?!”

“Oh I volunteered,” Anderson replied in a sneering tone.

“They all did. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.”

Sherlock nearly bared his teeth, licking his lips in an irritated fashion before Donovan cut in from the kitchen with a glass jar in her hand, “Are these human eyes?”

“Put those back,” Sherlock commanded strongly with a motion of his hand.

“They were in the microwave!”

“It’s an experiment,” the detective further explained in frustration. He hated the idea of anyone rummaging around his flat without permission let alone touching anything that could ruin the results of an experiment. It was so invasive.

“Come on, this isn’t about a drugs bust Lestrade. Obviously you’re here about the case. Leave his stuff alone so we can all continue where we left off. Does that sound good to you?”

“I’ll stand them down if you can convince your new flatmate to help us properly,” Lestrade responded back to Eleanor, directing his statement towards Sherlock.

“This is childish,” Sherlock commented while pacing back and forth.

“Well, I’m dealing with a child. Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?”

“Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?” Sherlock replied angrily.

“It stops being pretend if they find anything.”

“I am clean!” Sherlock proclaimed audibly.

“Is your flat? All of it?” Lestrade further asked.

“I don’t even smoke,” the detective further insisted as he unbuttoned his left shirt sleeve and pulled it up to reveal a nicotine patch on the inner part of his forearm.

“Neither do I…” Lestrade joined in beside him as he mimicked the same motion while revealing a nicotine patch on his arm as well “…so let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel.”

Quickly getting Sherlock’s attention, “Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed as his thoughts darted about in his mind, “Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name? Why?”

“Never mind that, we found the case…” Anderson interjected as he pointed at the pink suitcase in the living room “…according to someone the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath.”

Eleanor’s teeth clenched as she was about to rip Anderson a new one before Sherlock retorted back in a clever condescending manner, “I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.” Turning back to Lestrade the detective gave further instructions, “You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her.”

“She’s dead,” Lestrade answered grimly.

“Excellent-how-when-and-why?...” Sherlock sputtered verbally in an incredibly quickened fashion before toning down the speed of his talk to a more coherent speech “…is there a connection? There has to be.”

“Well, I doubt it, since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.”

Both John and Eleanor let out a silent exhale at the news. However, like Sherlock, Eleanor was going over theories in her head that was similar to Sherlock’s, finding it odd that a dead woman would scratch her stillborn’s name into the floor. Something was off. Something wasn’t quite right.

“No, that’s...that’s not right. How...why would she do that? Why?” Sherlock verbally thought out loud rhetorically in confusion.

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yup, sociopath; I’m seeing it now,” Anderson continued to mutter his nonsensical thought patterns.

Turning towards Anderson, Sherlock explained in a more logical response, “She didn’t think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt…” pacing about the room again as Eleanor sat upon the dark pink sofa chair with commentary “…Sherlock’s right. Something’s off.”

“You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he...I don’t know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.”

“Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?” Sherlock responded in loud question, causing the entire room to go silent as Sherlock realized everyone in the flat had stopped what they were doing. He noticed even Eleanor had the same expression on her face as John before he finally questioned, “Not good?”

John glanced around the room before replying, “Bit not good, yeah.”

Dismissing the moment, Sherlock approached John and lowered his voice a bit before asking, “Yeah, but if you were dying…if you’d been murdered; in your very last few seconds what would you say?”

It didn’t take much for John to answer, “Please God, let me live.”

“Oh, use your imagination!” Sherlock responded in exasperation since apparently he was the only one thinking what he was thinking.”

“I don’t have to,” John exclaimed with a hint of tenseness in his face upon answering.

Sherlock could easily see the shift in expression, showing indication that with John’s background as an army doctor, it’s quite plausible that the man could have been more than once, in a situation that tested his life. Realizing his statement might have went a bit harsh, Sherlock repositioned his stance and calmed his tone, “Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever…Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers? She was clever.”

He started to pace again with his hands in his familiar praying position, resting against his lips as Eleanor commented in agreement, “She’s trying to tell us something.”

“Yes, exactly,” Sherlock approved.

Both the psychologist and the detective reeled about in their minds with different thoughts and theories until Mrs. Hudson came into the room, “Isn’t the doorbell working? Your taxi’s here, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t order a taxi, go away!” Sherlock commanded with a motion of his hand as he continued to pace frustratingly about the room, Mrs. Hudson looking about and finding the entire situation so dreadful.

“Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?”

“It’s a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson,” John explained to her.

Sherlock’s body language heightened with each passing second as it became more abrupt in footsteps, indicating frustration and attempting to think in the moment as his hands were placed up beside his temples.

“They’re just for my hip. They’re herbal soothers,” Hudson worried in a trivial manner.

All the ruckus finally caused Sherlock to burst as he shouted, “Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. I’m trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You’re putting me off.”

“What? My face is?”

“Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“Your back, now please!”

“Come on, think. Quick!” Sherlock thought to himself.

“What about your taxi?” Mrs. Hudson insisted in question.

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock shouted furiously at her, causing her to finally shut it, hurrying down the stairs as the detective stopped upon an epiphany of thought.

“Oh…” grinning on the thought “…ah, she was clever, clever, yes! She’s cleverer than you lot and she’s dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn’t lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer.”

“But how?” Lestrade asked, the question causing Sherlock to literally stop in his footsteps as he turned towards the inspector with an almost shocked expression on his face, wondering if it could be more obvious.

“Wha…what do you mean how?”

The inspector shrugged, lost in words and thought.

“Rachel!” Sherlock shouted aloud, his hands falling to his thighs as they lightly slapped upon them. Everyone however was in a point blank of mind.

“D-Don’t you see? Rachel!” He raised his hands again in emphasis.

The entire flat stared at him blankly, not at all making the connection or jump that Sherlock was going with as the detective let out an audible voiced sigh, “Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing…” and then in a sterner voice he began “…Rachel is—“

“—a password,” Eleanor interrupted, causing the room to go silent again as everyone looked at her, making her instantly hush-hush.

“Say that again,” Sherlock insisted, his face lit up upon her response that he wasn’t at all expecting from the lot.

“Uh…a-a password? I noticed before that her luggage tag has an email address. So maybe Rachel is her email’s password?” As confident as she was in her idea, it didn’t come out nearly as convincing.

“Yes, YES! Oh you brilliant woman!” Sherlock nearly shrieked upon someone finally even remotely making the jumps he was making as he rushed over to the computer, asking aloud, “Eleanor if you could be so kind as to tell me the email address please!”

Smiling to herself, Eleanor fiddled with the luggage tag in her hand as she read aloud, “Jennie.pink@mephone.org.uk” before getting up and standing behind Sherlock to his right while John stood to the left, looking also in curiosity.

“Oh, I’ve been too slow. She didn’t have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it’s a smartphone, it’s e-mail enabled.”

Starting up Mephone’s website, the detective begins to type in the address in the username box.

“So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address...” and then typing in the password box “…and all together now, the password is?”

“Rachel,” John answered, looking over his shoulder and once again astounded by the detective’s deductions.

“So we can read her e-mails. So what?” Anderson remarked in a snarky comment.

“Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It’s a smartphone, it’s got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She’s leading us directly to the man who killed her.”

“Unless he got rid of it,” Lestrade suggested.

“We know he didn’t,” John confirmed at the inspector before turning his attention back to the laptop screen.

“Come on, come on. Quickly!” Sherlock urged at the laptop.

It wasn’t long before Mrs. Hudson came strutting up the stairs again as she came into the room, “Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver—“

“—Mrs. Hudson, isn’t it time for your evening soother?” Sherlock interrupted upon getting up from the chair, adjusting his jacket, and making his statement directly at the landlady before walking over to Lestrade and his team.

John sat in Sherlock’s place as he kept an eye on the screen, the clock spinning around on the website in attempts to search for the phone’s location. Eleanor however was left standing in bewilderment upon a hunch that crept up on her, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was she was sensing. This was the second time Mrs. Hudson had bothered Sherlock about a taxi he didn’t order, so why was the taxi still there instead of going about their nightly routine to find a patron that would take them?

“We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter,” Sherlock instructed Lestrade.

It was then Eleanor noticed a shadowed figure coming up the stairs as Mrs. Hudson looked anxiously behind her at the man that was slowly coming into view, but still in the staircase’s shadow. What did the cabbie want so badly?

Shudder.

“We’re gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won’t last forever.”

“We’ll just have a map reference, not a name,” Lestrade explained.

“It’s a start!” the detective insisted.

Suddenly, the map on the screen zoomed in upon finally locating the phone’s exact position and where, giving John a bit of an alarm as he called out Sherlock’s name a bit audibly.

“It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It’s the first proper lead that we’ve had,” the detective continued to explain to Lestrade.

“Sherlock,” John stated his name again as the detective finally went over to John and looked over his shoulder. “What is it? Quickly, where?”

Eleanor took a step closer too, drawing her attention away from the entrance as she saw the address the GPS showed, another chill going up her spine.

“It’s here. It’s in 221 B Baker Street,” John answered, a bit surprised and stumped.

The whole room froze as Sherlock immediately shot up his head in thought, “How can it be here? How?”

“Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere,” Lestrade suggested as Sherlock began looking around the room.

“What, and I didn’t notice it? Me? I didn’t notice?”

Eleanor stood silently in her spot as she began to hear more audible footsteps coming up the stairs. She was the only one that seemed to notice as she saw a funny a little man with a cabbie necklace ID around his neck, a pale tan sweater and hat that shadowed over his face. A third and final chill struck her as she stared at the man.

“Oh god,” she muttered to herself, a thought finally falling upon her.

“Anyway, we texted him and he called back,” John confirmed as the inspector turned to his team and gave them further instruction, “Guys, we’re also looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim.”

“Sherlock,” Eleanor whispered nearly but he had already tuned people out.

Going up and placing a firm hand upon the detective’s right shoulder with her right hand, Eleanor finally got his attention as he looked adjacently over into her eyes, “Sherlock…” stating his name with a worried tone “…th…the cabbie. It’s…it’s the cabbie,” she whispered.

“What?”

“When we were walking to the restaurant, you talked about the killer being someone who hunts in the middle of a crowd…” her words caused Sherlock to rapidly start piecing this all together “…who passes unnoticed wherever they go, but that we openly trust. Sherlock, it’s the cabbie…the cabbie that you didn’t order. He’s here…right now,” she ended her statement in a low whisper while taking her hand away, not wanting to alarm anyone, but most certainly wanted Sherlock to know. It was then Sherlock’s phone beeped upon receiving a text, making Eleanor tense as she watched the detective take his phone out from his jacket.

[Come with me.]

The phone was facing him so she could not see what the text stated, but obviously the text was enough to get Sherlock’s attention as the detective cast his attention to the doorway entrance, Eleanor looking towards it as well to find the cabbie already heading down the stairs.

“Sherlock, you okay?” John asked a bit worried.

“What? Yeah, yeah, I-I’m fine.”

“So, how can the phone be here?”

“Dunno,” Sherlock answered vaguely.

“I’ll try it again,” John stated as he began to pull his own phone out from his pocket.

“Good idea,” the detective stated as he began to head towards the entrance and walking past Eleanor who seemed to stare at him just as blankly as John did.

“Where are you going?” the doctor asked curiously, finding Sherlock’s responses a bit odd, but not as odd as they seemed to Eleanor.

“Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won’t be long.”

Eleanor could sniff a fresh lie when she smelled one, of course at this point she and Sherlock were the only ones that knew that something was fishy with the cabbie that refused to leave so naturally the detective would follow after him.

“You sure you’re all right?” John asked again.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock answered upon hurrying down the stairs. Eleanor however wasn’t going to just stand around as she stated to John, “I could use a little fresh air myself. I’ll be right back, okay?”

John took them at their words, but he wasn’t stupid either. He figured Eleanor was going to keep an eye on Sherlock and that was enough for him to not question anything further.


--Outside--

Upon opening the door, Sherlock stood on the first doorstep for a moment while adjusting into his coat. A black cab was sitting outside waiting for him as a man stood in front of it, leaning against the front passenger door.

“Taxi for Sherlock Holmes,” the man stated.

Closing the door behind him, the detective stood idly, placing his hands in his pockets as he stated back with a near tugging grin, “I didn’t order a taxi.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one.”

With very careful pulling and silent movements, Eleanor opened the door just a crack and placed her ear upon the edge so she could listen to them speak outside.

“You’re the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street…” a flashback going through his head of the American sitting in the back of the cab outside the restaurant “…it was you…not your passenger.”

“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.”

Taking a few steps forward Sherlock asked upon looking up for a moment at the window of his flat, “Is this a confession?”

“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.”

“Why?”

“Cause’ you’re not gonna do that.”

“Am I not?” Sherlock asked back in inquiring suggestion with a cock of his eyebrow.

The cabbie paused a moment before stating, “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…” leaning forward “…I will never tell you what I said.”

A silent moment passes before the cabbie starts to walk around towards the front of the car before Sherlock interrupts his walk, “No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result.”

The cabbie stops and turns towards him as he quips back, “An’ you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?”

Of all the questions to ask Sherlock Holmes, that was the worst as Eleanor muttered to herself, “Oh god…Sherlock don’t…don’t play this game with him. You know what he’s doing. Please…please don’t.”

Of course for a man like Sherlock…for a genius…all of this was always a game; a game to keep from being bored, a game to prove your intellect, or merely just doing it because you know you can get away with it, solve the case, and still keep your life. Either way, this was too intriguing for Sherlock to just walk away from as he watched the cabbie get into the driver’s side and waiting for a response. Licking his lips, Sherlock took a few steps while looking around before bending over and peering through the open window of the front passenger side.

“If I wanted to understand, what would I do?”

Casting his tempting look to Sherlock the cabbie answered, “Let me take you for a ride.”

“So you can kill me too?”

“I don’t wanna kill you, Mr. ’olmes. I’m gonna talk to yer...and then you’re gonna kill yourself.”

Clunk.

The cabbie and Sherlock suddenly look up as they heard the front door close again, finding a red headed woman standing at the entrance. Sherlock’s mouth opened at first to stay something, but nothing it seems could come out.

“This is a little more than a bit of fresh air don’t you think?” She directed her question at Sherlock before directing her attention to the cabbie as she stated, “Don’t worry, you don’t have to rush off. I won’t say anything to the police.”

“ Oh, yeah? Well sorry, but there’s only room for one passenger,” the cabbie stated back.

“I’m not here for a ride. I’m here to make a bet with Mr. Holmes.”

The eyebrows of both men furrowed, finding Eleanor’s proposition to be rather…unpredictable. The psychologist approached Sherlock as she spoke more softly while looking straight into his eyes with an emotionless expression.

“If it was anyone else…I would stop them right here and now, but you’re not just anyone else. I’ve only had but a taste…of what you can do and from what I’ve seen…that’s all I need to go off of. So…” looking down at the pavement for a second before bringing her gaze back up “…I’m going to make you a bet.”

“And what bet would that be?” Sherlock asked, a bit intrigued with a quick second twitch of his head to the side.

“I bet…your life…that John and I can find you…before you presumably die.”

The intriguing tension upon the air could be cut with a knife. Eleanor was not so easily read like she was upon first meeting her. It was easy to make deductions about her daily statements or how she carried herself, but this? No…this was something of an entirely different nature. It was…unpredictable yet amusing enough to really grasp his attention.

“Instead of calling the police, you’re making a bet with Mr. Holmes’s life as the stake? Now that is interesting,” the cabbie interjected, causing Eleanor’s expression to shift to a deadly stare as she bent over and peered through the window.

“Oh, it might be interesting, but don’t misinterpret my words as careless action. I only make bets I know I can win.”

The last of her statement could have easily sent a chill up their spine a she ended her words in a near threatening nature with a hint of darkness behind the intention.

“I see…” the cabbie responded upon looking into her eyes, knowing that if she was going to go to the cops, she wouldn’t have bothered coming out here “…well then Mr. ‘olmes. What’s it gonna be?”

Straightening up her stance again, Sherlock and Eleanor locked gaze, once again her expression shifted to a deepened look of worry. She knew what game he was going to play and for whatever reason, she was letting him do what he wanted. Eleanor didn’t have to say anything for Sherlock to see that just by looking at her face, he knew her intentions were for his well being and not necessarily for a bet. The bet was irrelevant. She didn’t seem like a woman that would carelessly play with someone’s life so it didn’t bother Sherlock in the least. Most of all, he recognized that she wasn’t going to deliberately get in the way of what he was doing. She trusted him to know what to do and he trusted her. That’s all that mattered.

“A nice ride would be refreshing,” he finally answered back to the cabby, still looking in Eleanor’s eyes.

Eleanor’s temples bulged upon her teeth clenching, her eyes wanting to well up with tears, but she wouldn’t let them. The trio had barely began to flatmate and already Sherlock was diving into a purposely set snare. She didn’t know what to think of the moment or how to feel.

“I’ll find you,” she stated lastly, holding out her hand to confirm the bet.

“I know you will,” he gave a final answer upon shaking her hand before opening the back passenger door and getting in. Within seconds the engine purred before the cab finally drove off, leaving Eleanor on the pavement alone.

1…2…3…Go!