Sherlock - The Game Is On!

A Study In Pink- Finale

Chapter Twelve

Third POV

Looking through the window opposite, Sherlock peered to try and see a gunman in the room that was beyond dark. A spluttering from behind makes him turn. The Taxi Driver was gasping ragged whoops of breath. Sherlock stepped over him grabbing the opened bottled pill. Frantically looking at the pill in hand. There was no way to tell them apart. Going to the dying man he shoves the pill into view. "Was I right? I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" The man looks at him with the tiniest hint of a smile. He was going to take that answer to his grave. Sherlock lobs the pill on the floor trying to control his anger. Taking a deep breath he walks over to him with a cold stare. "Ok then. Tell me this. Your sponsor, who is it?"

The Taxi Driver in paining agony, shakes his head. "The one who told me about you. My fan. I want a name."

"...No..."

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name." Sherlock then, icily places his foot on the mans wound. "A name! Now!" He growled. The Taxi Driver still shakes his head, screaming now. "A name!" Pressing harder on the wound, almost demonic. One word is ripped from the Taxi Driver, a terrible sky-splitting bellow! "Moriarty!!!" Stepping away from the man, he lay their dead.

Outside of the College building - Night

"Why do I have this blanket? They keep putting a blanket on me." Outside the area was cornered off, blazing with blue flashing lights, police vehicles everywhere. Lestrade was walking to Sherlock who was sitting on the back steps of a ambulance. Shock blanket around him, coffee in hand. "Its for shock." Stated Lestrade. "I'm not in shock!" The detective bellowed. "Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs." Shooting him a look he then looks up at the open window. "So, the shooter. No sign of him?"

"Cleared off by the time we got here. A guy like that would've had enemies, I suppose. One of them could've been following him. But we've got nothing to go on..."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that..."

"Okay, gimmie" Lestrade stated like a bounding puppy. "The bullet they just dug out the wall was from a hand gun. A kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon, that's a crack-shot you're looking for. But not just a marksmen, a fighter. His hand couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though. So, strong moral principles. you're looking for a man probably with a history of military services and nerves of steel..." Sherlock breaks his speech of and gazes at John in the distance, smiling. "Actually, you know what ignore me."

"I'm sorry?"

"Ignore all that. It's the shock talking." Slowly making his way to John. "Where are you going?"

"Just need to... Discuss the rent."

"Still got questions for you." Snapping his head round "What, now? I'm in shock. Look, I've got a blanket."

"Sherlock..."

"And I did just catch a serial killer for you. More or less..."

"Okay. We'll pull you in tomorrow. Off you go." Walking towards John, he tosses his blanket in a open window of a police car. "Sergeant Donovan's been explaining everything. The two pills dreadful business, Dreadful."

"Good shot."

"Yeah, it must of been. Through that window."

"Well you'd know."

John turned to him confused. "What?"

"We'll need to get the powder burns off your fingers. I don't suppose-"