Sherlock - The Game Is On!

The Final Problem- Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

Third POV

A frowning John glances to Mycroft. Sherlock turns and holds out the rifle in both hands, looking to his brother. "What do you make of it?"

"Am I being asked to prove my usefulness?"

"Yes, I should think you are."

"I will not be manipulated like this." Mycroft deadpanned. "Fine. John?" Sherlock turns to his friend and offers him the rifle. Mycroft bites his lip and turns his head away. "John?" He asks again this time firmly.

Looking to him, John straightens his stance and grabs the rifle offered to him. "Yeah, I think I've seen one of these. It's a buffalo gun." He raises the rifle and aims it towards the floor at the other end of the room, looking into the telescopic sight. "I'd say nineteen forties, old-fashioned sight, no crosshairs."

"Glasses, glasses." Sherlock looks down to the photos and points to the first photograph. "Nathan wears glasses. Evans was shot from three hundred metres." Sherlock raises the rifle and aims it towards the opposite wall as if he's about to fire it. "Kickback from a gun with this calibre... Would be massive."

He bends down and puts his finger onto the photo of Nathan, tapping it a couple of times. "No cuts, no scarring. Not Nathan, then." He turns the photo over. "Who's next?" He moves his fingers across to the next picture. 

"Well done, Doctor Watson. How useful you are." Mycroft sarcastically spat. "Do you have a suspicion we're being made to compete?" John steps closer to him. "No, we're not competing. There's a plane in the air that's gonna crash, so what we're doing is actually trying to save a little girl. Today we have to be soldiers, Mycroft, soldiers..."

Sherlock, who had been looking at the remaining photographs, lifts his head to watch John. John's voice, while still fairly low, becomes more firm: "And I believe if Michelle was here, she would say: to hell with what happens to us." John finishes.

Sherlock lowers his head again while John walks away towards the other end of the table. Mycroft raises his eyebrows briefly. "Your priorities do you credit." Mycroft, for once, sounded genuine. "No, my priorities just got a woman killed."

- - Now, as I understand it, Sherlock, you try to repress your emotions to refine your reasoning. I'd like to see how that works, so, if you don't mind, I'm going to apply some context to your deductions. - -

There's a noise from behind the boys and they turn to look. Outside the window, three men drop into view, each suspended from a rope attached to a harness. The ropes tighten and the men are left dangling in mid-air, each behind one of the three panes of glass.

Their hands are bound in front of them with rope and white scarves are tied around their mouths.

Each man has a large card hung around his neck with string. The cards flutter in the wind as the men struggle against their bonds.

"Oh, dear God."

- - Two of the Garridebs work here as orderlies, so getting the third along really wasn't too difficult. - -

Our boys walk towards the window, staring out of it.

- - Once you bring in your verdict, let me know and justice will be done. - -

The men, bound and gagged have names scribbled and tied around them.

"Justice?" Sherlock questioned. "What will you do with them?" John interrogates.

- - Early release. - -

Sherlock's eyes lower towards the water below the men. He turns away from the window. "You'll drop them into the sea."

- - Sink, or swim. - -

"They're tied up!"

- - Exactly! Now there is context. - -

Sherlock lays the rifle on the table and bends to the photos, resting his hands on the glass at either side.

- - Please, continue with your deductions. I'm now focussing on the difference to your mental capacity a specified consequence can make. - -

"Why should we bother?" John glances back to the men outside the window. "What if we're disinclined to play your games, little sister?"

Eurus chuckles, not very humorously.

- - I have if you remember, provided you with some motivation. - -

There's a click on the speaker.

- - We're going through the clouds, like cotton wool. - -

The little girl cries, beyond frightened.

Mycroft clasps his hands behind his head, lowering it in frustration. Sherlock, who had been bent over the table looking closely at the photographs, straightens up and closes his eyes as he speaks: "Oh. That's nice. Try to tell me more about the plane."

- - Why won't my mummy wake up? - -

The speaker clicks again. The image of water has been pouring down the screen at the end of the room but now Eurus reappears.

Sherlock lowers his head and moves his fingers across the photographs on the table. "So it's got to be one of the other two." Sherlock speaks intensely...