BBC Sherlock- Color Theory Ch.9

Ch.9 Poker Face

Staring at the window, John watched as Sherlock got in the car with the cabbie and drove away while Eleanor raced down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, but disappeared out of sight from the window’s perspective.

“He just got in a cab…” turning towards Lestrade “…It’s Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab.”

“I told you, he does that…” Donovan jumped in with a familiar irritation to Lestrade “…he bloody left again…” bringing her attention back to the kitchen to the rest of the team “…we’re wasting our time!”

“What about Eleanor?” Lestrade asked.

“She ran down the sidewalk, but I can’t see where she went off to. I’m calling the phone again. It’s ringing out,” John explained while holding the phone to his ear.

No answer.

“If it’s ringing, it’s not here,” Lestrade replied with a light shrug of his shoulders.

“I’ll try the search again,” the doctor stated while picking up the laptop.

“Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he’s just a lunatic, and he’ll always let you down, and you’re wasting your time. All our time,” Donovan whined again to Lestrade.

The two stared at each other for a moment while the beeping of the laptop’s search could be heard, John still persistent on locating the phone again. First Sherlock leaves and then Eleanor disappears. Something was off and he had a feeling that looking for the phone’s location would give him an answer.

Lestrade sighed, “Okay, everybody. Done’ere.”


--Cab Ride--

Sherlock sat quietly in the back to the left, adjacent to the cabbie as he surveyed the streets of London while passing by.

“How did you find me?” the detective finally asked.

“Oh, I recognized yer’, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock ‘olmes!”

The detective looked over his shoulder through the back window to see if Eleanor was following close behind in her car, but he didn’t see any car that was blue let alone the same model type and year.

“I was warned about you. I’ve been on your website too. Brilliant stuff. I loved it.”

“Who warned you about me?”

“Just someone out there who’s noticed you.”

“Who?” Sherlock wondered naturally while leaning forward to get a closer look at the things around in the front of the cab; the driver has left over shaving cream on the back of his neck and a photograph of a young boy and girl standing next to what looks like a woman, but that part of the photograph has been ripped off while the rest of the photo sits nicely attached to the dashboard.

“Who would notice me?”

“You’re too modest, Mr. ‘olmes,” the cabbie commented, meeting Sherlock’s gaze through the review mirror.

“I’m really not,” the detective replied back.

“You’re got yourself a fan.”

“Tell me more,” Sherlock stated casually while sitting back against his seat and looking out the window.

“That’s all you’re gonna know…” pausing for a moment before finishing “…in this lifetime.”

It wasn’t long before the cabbie finally approached their destination. There are two buildings, both identical in every way, the only difference being is that not all the lights are turned on in the window panels. The right side was more alit then the left, but nonetheless identical. The cab pulled up more on the left side of the front parking lot then the right side as he came to a stop. The engine goes off, the keys come out, and the cabbie gets out and opens the passenger door opposite of Sherlock as he stared at the detective.

“Where are we?” Sherlock asked.

“You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are.”

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?”  

“It’s open; cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie; you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch out.”

Sherlock continued to sit in the car mainly to play along to see how this pans out, studying every move and listening to every word that was conversed. Anything he could easily pick apart and anything could tell him exactly what he wants to know, but most of all this was fun.

“And you just walk your victims? How?” the detective inquired, naturally curious.

Within seconds the cabbie slowly swung up his right arm with a gun at the end of it grasped in his hand.

Sherlock sighed audibly, finding this all rather predictable as he commented while casting his gaze to the side, “Oh, dull.”

“Don’t worry, it gets better,” the cabbie ensured while catching Sherlock’s attention again as the detective gave him a look.

“You can’t make people take their own lives at gunpoint.”

“I don’t. It’s much better than that…” the funny little man then lowers the gun “…don’t need this with you ‘cause you’ll follow me.”

The man then just simply walked off, leaving Sherlock to sit there as he let out a quiet huffed sigh knowing that he was going to do exactly as the cabbie predicated; getting out of the cab and following. Minutes later a sleek blue Jaguar pulled up to the side of the street down from the buildings, its headlights already turned off upon close approach.


--221 B Baker Street--

“Why did he do that? Why’d he have to leave?” Lestrade asked while putting on his coat, hoping to get an answer from John.

The doctor shrugged in reply, “You know him better than I do.”

“I’ve known him for five years and no, I don’t.”

“So why do you put up with him?” the doctor asked back curiously.

“Because I’m desperate, that’s why. I mean Eleanor has helped me on occasion more or less. She’s done her fair part considering, but she can’t do nearly what Sherlock can. No one I’ve ever met in my life can do…whatever it is he does, not in a hundred years…” walking towards the door entrance as some of the other team members were leaving “…and Sherlock is a great man. And I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”

When the police finally cleared out, leaving him by himself, John felt it was probably best to go back to his own flat at this point since he had no idea where Sherlock went and Eleanor wasn’t answering any texts. Approaching the front entrance he stops while clenching his fist, realizing that something familiar was missing like a ghost limb. His cane. He seemed to have gotten along without it at this point, but just in case he decided to take it with him anyway. Turning back around he goes towards the table where Sherlock’s laptop sat as he grabbed his cane and proceeded to leave. The screen was turned away from him so he couldn’t see that it was still searching for the Mrs. Wilson’s phone.

Bleepy deep. Deep. Beep…beep…beep.

The computer sounded before John could take another step as he turned towards the laptop, realizing it had found the new location to the pink lady’s phone. Hanging the cane down on the top edge of a chair, John picked up the laptop to take a look and saw the newest location that was zoomed in on the screen. Realizing where it was at and having a bad feeling hit him, the doctor quickly closed the lid of the laptop and took it with him, leaving the cane behind as he scurries outside to get a taxi and phone Lestrade on the situation at hand.


--The College--

The cabbie opened a wide door to a dark and empty room, holding the door open so that Sherlock can enter. The detective slowly walked in as the cabbie let the door swing itself shut while he turned on the lights. The paneling fixtures above flickered ominously as the light reflected off the very long rectangular wooden tables that were lined up with consecutively spaced chairs. Was a rather decent sized classroom as Sherlock walked into it deeper, peering around the room and noticing a second entrance on the other side.

“Well, what do you think?”

Sherlock raised his hands lightly out to the sides without a response as if replying without actually saying, ”Think about what exactly?”

“It’s up to you. You’re the one who’s gonna die ‘ere.”

The detective turned to him with an emotionless expression as he retorted, “No I’m not.”

“That’s what they all say…” the cabbie motioned with his hand for them to sit down at one of the tables “…shall we t’ak?”

The question wasn’t really a question however as the cabbie had already sat himself down, not really giving Sherlock a choice in the matter. Sherlock however, since the beginning, had already decided to play along so he simply sat down opposite of the cabbie on the other side of the table without protest, crossing his legs and leaning back comfortably while letting out an audible exhale.

“Was a bit risky wasn’t it?” The detective began to ask while removing his gloves. “Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They’re not that stupid. And Mrs. Hudson and Eleanor will remember you.”

The cabbie of course was unfazed as he replied, “You call that a risk? Nah. This…” reaching his hand into his pocket and digging around “…is a risk,” and then pulling out his hand as he placed a small clear bottle with a silver cap upon the table.

Upon closer study the bottle carried a single pill inside, the pill itself being translucent and filled with tiny little dots that were mostly white, but mixed with some red dots as well. Sherlock studied it closely, taking in every detail and contour that he could soak up.

“Ooh, I like this bit. ‘Cause you don’t get it yet, do ‘yer?” Sherlock’s gaze shifted to the cabbie as the man stated further, “But you’re about to. I just have to do this.”

Slowly the cabbie brought out a second bottle from his right pocket as he placed it on the table, bringing Sherlock’s attention back to the table as he started studying both bottles intently.

“You weren’t expecting that, were ‘yer?” the cabbie then leaned forward, “Ooh, you’re going to love this.”

“Love what?” the detective asked back sarcastically in a tone that was almost annoyed.

Leaning back in his chair the cabbie answered, “Sherlock ‘olmes, look at you. ‘Ere in the flesh. That website of yours; your fan told me all about it.”

The detective shifted in his position a tad as he tilted his head a bit and questioned in a more pronounced annoyed tone, “My fan?” The cabbie kept mentioning it, but refused to tell who or what.

“You are brilliant. You are proper genius. The science of deduction, now that is proper thinking.”

The compliments seemed to roll right off the man’s tongue. Although Sherlock was dealing with a serial killer, he couldn’t help but to be remotely entertained by the flattering remarks and admiration. It’s not like it was often he heard such appreciation. Is it not the frailty of genius?

“Between you and me sitting ‘ere, why can’t people think? Don’t it make you mad…” the cabbie stated rhetorically as he looked down almost in a silent anger “…why can’t people just think?” as he then brought his gaze back to the detective who seemed to sit there so emotionless, calm, and overall unfazed by the entire situation. It was like staring at a wall…no…a barricade that refused to move or react and no matter what you did or say, there was no way around it.

“Ooh, I see so you’re a proper genius too?” Sherlock finally spoke up in almost light mockery.

“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 the man’s gaze before finally looking down at the table and asking, “Okay, two bottles. Explain.”

“There’s a good bot’le and a bad bot’le. You take the pill from the good bot’le, you live; take the pill from the bad bot’le, you die.”

“Both bottles are of course identical?” the detective continued to ask as his eyes bounced back and forth between the bottles while analyzing them in every scrutinizing detail.

“In every way.”

“And you know which is which.”

“Course I know.”

“But I don’t,” Sherlock stated, shooting his eyes back up to the cabbie.

“Wouldn’t be a game if you knew. You’re the one who chooses.”

“Why should I? I’ve got nothing to go on. What’s in it for me?” Sherlock further asked, hoping there was an actual point to this seemingly dull pass time.

“I ’aven’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.”

A grin slowly creased across Sherlock’s face. Now it was interesting.

“I won’t cheat. It’s your choice. I’ll take whatever pill you don’t.”

The grin stayed on Sherlock’s face as he tilted his head again, staring at the bottles. There’s nothing more enticing then playing with fire, watching it dance in the darkness, seducing you with its brilliant light and playful nature, promising to give you an evening you’ll never forget.

“Didn’t expect that, did you Mr. ‘olmes?”

“This is what you did to the rest of them; you gave them a choice.”

“And now I’m givin’ you one.”

The detective looked up at him.

“You take your time. Get yourself together…” the cabbie encouraged while licking his lips in anticipation “…I want your best game.”

“It’s not a game. It’s chance.”

“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.”

Bringing his left hand out from under the table, the cabbie slides the left bottle towards the detective. The glass grinded along the surface of the wood in a foreboding manner as it was stopped inches in front of Sherlock. The detective stared at it without moving an inch or showing any emotion. All that needed moving was his mind.

The cabbie stated it was a game of chess, but it was still a game of poker. In the game of poker, sometimes the only indication of you winning or losing against an opponent boiled down to body language. Body language can tell you everything you need to know if you know what signs to look for. In this case the cabbie, upon pushing the bottle towards Sherlock, dug his tongue against his front upper teeth and the detective definitely took note of it. Both bottles were identical in every way so the only leads the detective could go off of was studying the mannerisms of the cabbie. The only problem thus far was; did the cabbie dig his tongue against his teeth because he was nervous of giving the good bottle away? Or did the cabbie out of nervousness give the bad bottle to Sherlock, hoping that he wouldn’t notice that he kept the good bottle to himself? In a game of poker this would be considered a double bluff, but of course there’s the possibility of it being a triple.

At this point it was more of a mental game than anything else, going off of pure gut feeling, something of which was more of Eleanor’s area than Sherlock’s. Further study would have to be done if anything was to be deduced at this point.

“Did I just give you the good bot’le or the bad bot’le? You can choose either one.”

……….

Upon arrival, Eleanor turned off the engine and slowly withdrew her keys while surveying the area. There was a taxi already parked outside, dark on the inside with no passenger or driver.

“They must have already gone inside.”

Cautiously opening her door she placed one foot out on the unforgiving gravel surface and then the second foot as she finally got out of the car altogether, her eyes fixated on her surroundings. She lightly trembled both with anticipation and trepidation. Anything could happen and she didn’t want to announce her presence to the cabby, wherever they were. Making sure her car was locked up tight she began to approach the main area. It wasn’t until she made it halfway through the parking lot that she realized both buildings were identical.


“Oh you clever little bastard. Identical buildings. A good way to throw off the police let alone any unwanted party, but which one…” she stated in a quiet manner to herself as she studied both buildings “…did you choose?” Time was of the essence and she had to make her decision quickly if she was to get to Sherlock. After studying the entire area and noticing some interesting nuances upon careful study, she smiled and stated to herself, “Obvious. Of course. You’re playing the card of reverse psychology. Whether it was intended or unintended, it’s well played.” And without further waiting, she entered to the right building.

Carefully opening the entrance doorway, she slipped inside. It was a rather lengthy hallway with multiple entrances to different rooms. Picking which building was child’s play, but this…this was more of a case of eenie-meenie-minie-moe. They could be in any of the rooms. The only fact she could go off of was that they would be in a room that was lit up. Each victim was forced to take a pill and Eleanor agreed with what John stated earlier about the cabbie talking to his victims so why would he talk to his victims in the dark? It didn’t make any sense not to mention they’d have to be able to visibly see what they were looking at. So naturally, carefully and quietly going down the hallway she made sure to be as silent as possible especially when taking a sneak peek into rooms that were lit up, doing her best to not alert them of her presence there.

It took some time before she finally came to a room that had a double entry way. The first entry she came to had both doors closed, but each door had a singular circular window that could be peered through. Keeping her back up against the walling she inched her head upward until she could get a glimpse of the scene inside and there…sitting at a long table was Sherlock and the cabbie. She only looked for two seconds before ducking below to make sure no one saw her. A chill went up her spine as her heart pounded. From the little she could gather, they were sitting and talking, fixated on each other. She felt it was safe to at least take a longer look before making another move as she slowly popped up her head again and used most of her peripherals to get a better idea of what was going on. They were indeed talking as she could see their mouths moving. On the table she could also see two clear bottles, one by Sherlock and the other by the cabbie.

She ducked her head again. She badly wanted to know what they were saying. She could just stand and watch, but she would risk eventually being seen. Keeping her head ducked below, she inched her way past the entrance and then quietly made her way over to the other one.

The other entrance was cracked open.

This was an opportune moment, but now she had to be quiet more than ever as she slipped off her boots so that her feet wouldn’t clunk against the ground as she sat on her bottom and kept her ear close to the cracked entrance. Now she could hear them talking and quite easily considering it was dead quiet everywhere else.

……….

“You ready yet, Mr. ’olmes? Ready to play?”

“Play what?. It’s a fifty-fifty chan…ce.”

“You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple bluff?”

“Still just chance,” the detective insisted.

“Four people in a row? It’s not just chance.”

“Luck.”

“It’s genius. I know ‘ow people think.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I know ‘ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my ‘ead.”

Sherlock was obviously not amused.

“Everyone’s so stupid even you.”

The detective then steadied his gaze back to the cabbie, still showing no emotion or giving any real indication of what was going on inside his head.

“Or maybe God just loves me.”

Uncrossing his legs while pushing the side panels of his coat to the side, Sherlock straightened his position and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table while interlocking his fingers together as he stated with honest intrigue, “Either way you’re wasted as a cabbie.”

……….

John finally arrived on the scene as the taxi dropped him off at the front of the buildings. Like Eleanor he was a bit perplexed considering both buildings were identical. Looking around for a few moments he knew he had little time to make a decision so he decided to just pick one and go with it as he headed into the left building.

……….

With his folded hands lifted in front of his mouth, Sherlock studied the cabbie intently. It was now his turn to make a move.

“So…you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?”

The cabbie nods downward towards the bottles, “Time to play.”

Putting his hands together in his typical praying position, the detective answered, “Oh I am playing. This is my turn. There’s shaving foam behind your left ear…” Sherlock pointed out as it was something he noticed when they were driving to the college “…nobody’s pointed it out to you. Traces of where it’s happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there’s no one to tell you.”

An opponent has to be careful not to show signs of worry or distress as the cabbie did his best not to reveal any indication, but no one can escape the clever quick fashioned and hardened nature of the deductions of Sherlock Holmes without leaving a bit scarred. Logic in doses of a straight unemotional manner can easily dig up old wounds or touch upon deepened scars that could never really heal. Being reminded of the things you try to keep buried are nearly impossible to hide under such circumstances as the cabbie’s eyes lowered to the left, showing clear signs that the conversation was rapidly, but silently digging at his heart.

“But there’s a photograph of children. The children’s mother has been cut out of the picture. If she’d died, she’d still be there. The photograph’s old but the frame’s 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.”

The cabbie didn’t show any further indication, but it was obvious to Sherlock that his deduction was hitting some sore spots as the cabbie continued to keep his gaze away, doing his best to hold his composure as he sat there silently listening.

Extending his index fingers Sherlock continued, “Ah, but there’s more…” finally catching the cabbie’s gaze again “…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?”

The cabbie seemed to stare blankly at the detective now, showing zero indication of anything. The conversation only seemed to get at him when the family members were mentioned. Talk of death didn’t seem to bother the man at all, but mention of his family members and his expression shifts. Obvious clue.

“Ah…three years ago; is that when they told you?”

“Told me what?” the cabbie responded back nonchalantly.

Dying.

“That you’re a dead man walking.”

“So are you,” the cabbie responded in kind in a near venomous manner, almost irritated that Sherlock truly lived up to his reputation and could read him so easily. Sherlock was of course unfazed by the tone.

“You don’t have long though, am I right?”

The cabbie then suddenly smiled as he answered, “Aneurism…” lifting his right hand and pointing to his right frontal lobe “…right ‘ere.”

Sherlock smirked lightly, satisfied that he was finally getting somewhere.

“Any breath could be my last.”

The detective continued to shift his hands again as they clasped together, intertwining the fingers as he stated, “And because you’re dying, you’ve just murdered four people.”

“I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can ‘ave on an aneurism.”

“No…” Sherlock corrected as he shot his gaze to the upper right “…there is…” shooting his gaze back to the cabbie “…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.”

And there it was, the particular mannerism of digging his tongue against the front part of his teeth as the cabbie looked away and sighed, “Ohh.” Sherlock of course noticed this. “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.”

“Or serial killing.”

“You’d be surprised,” the cabbie responded back positively.

“Surprise me,” Sherlock encouraged.

Leaning forward the cabbie finally revealed the last remaining puzzle piece, “I have a sponsor,” before leaning back in his chair with a smirk across his face.

“You have a what?”

“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.”

Sherlock’s mouth was open a gap upon hearing the cabbie’s answer before he asked rhetorically with distaste written across his face, “Who would sponsor a serial killer?”

The cabbie answered immediately in a tone that matched Sherlock’s, “Who would be a fan of Sherlock ‘olmes?” Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed in intrigue as the cabbie continued in explanation, “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.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted in a deeper twitching distaste as he asked, “What do you mean…more…than a man? An organization? What?”

“There’s a name no one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter…” nodding his head down at the bottles again “…time to choose.”

Sherlock then tilted his head to the left, gazing down upon the bottles as deductions spun through his mind. There was more than one way to skin a cat and he was deciding to not skin it at all. He knew exactly what he was going to do.