A/N: Nope, still not owning them.

Where Pathways Meet

4. The Red-Headed League

Chapter 7: Two Bottles, Two Men

~oOo~

Sherlock was still deep into his thoughts when he strolled out of the building.
Lestrade, who elegantly shoved John Clay into the police car, turned to John and smiled.

"Good job, lads. If it had not been for you, then the Yard would have been in serious trouble."
"Oh, you don't have to state the obvious."

Sherlock mumbled, and John glared in his direction.
Replying with a shrug, Sherlock fell back into his mind palace again.

"He says you're welcome."
John tried to be a friendly translator, but Lestrade looked dubious.

"Well, whatever you say. Oh, if you want, we can drop you by your flat on our way to the station."
John glanced at Sherlock, but the alpha was drifting among his thoughts.
John sighed, then tugged at Sherlock's coat.

"Sherlock, let's go back to our flat. Lestrade is going to drop us by the flat."

Lestrade climbed into the car, but Sherlock shook his head vigorously.

"No. I think I need more time..."
John saw Sherlock's eyes glimmering with adrenaline. The omega knew that even though he could make Sherlock go back to Baker Street, the alpha would be on the streets seconds later. John studied his shoe for a brief moment, then sighed.

"Then I'll take off."

Sherlock waved his hand. John turned away from the alpha and climbed into the car.
"Where may I take you?"

Lestrade mused, then laughed. John smiled.
Somehow, a sorrow crawled into his smile.

Ah, Holmes, Holmes, that merciless name.

John murmured in his head with gloomily.

Lestrade started the car. Listening to the engines croaking, John saw Sherlock hailing a cab.

~oOo~

"Where may I take you?"
The cabbie asked. Sherlock leaned against the car seat.

"The House of Parliament."

Out of every place in London, Sherlock picked the Parliament.
The cabbie turned the steering wheel. Sherlock's gaze lingered on the knuckles holding onto the black wheel.
Wedding rings were one of the few things that displays the characteristic of a person at a passing glance, even for untrained eyes.

And there wasn't one.

"You are Sherlock 'olmes, right?"

The cabbie asked. Sherlock huffed internally.

Cockney accent. This man must have never left London for his entire life.

He assumed that the man must have read his name on the London Times, Morning Chronicles or countless tabloids.

"That's correct."
Sherlock's tone contained a hint of vain.

"I heard a lot about you."

Of course, from journalists with doubtful writing skills.

"Oh, okay."

His voice carried a satirical air.

Sherlock glanced at the empty passenger seat.
It wasn't empty, like Sherlock expected. Instead, there was... a pink suitcase.

A pink suitcase.

As if it was the key to his mind palace, thoughts surged into his brain.
Sherlock fumbled for his memory.

What did I say at the Lauriston Gardens?

- So, she planned only for a day's stay. It won't bring her from farther than two or three hours, as her coat is still wet.
Then what place had a downpour during that time?

Then John said something... followed by Lestrade's jibberish. And then?

- Of course it was Rachel. There can't be anything else.
- How about the suitcase?
- There's a splash of rain stained back at her heel on the right side, but not on the left. Which means that she was dragging a suitcase on her left. The stains start from up here on her left leg, so the suitcase won't be that big. She couldn't have sustained more than a day with clothes in it. Then, where's the suitcase?

Sherlock glanced at the pink suitcase again. It was small.
Small enough to fit into Sherlock's deduction.

Sherlock hurried on.

I asked Lestrade where was the suitcase; and how did he answer?

- There was no suitcase.
- There wasn't?
- Not at all.

Jennifer Wilson was clever. She led a hoard of lovers, and she knew how to control a situation.
And the last words from that clever woman was Rachel. Rachel. What does that MEAN?

Sherlock's mobile buzzed. He squirmed in his seat to pull it out.

Text-Inbox: Greg Lestrade
I forgot to tell you earlier. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's late daughter. She died early in her life, due to a severe ailment.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at the text.

A precious name. She left it. WHY?

She didn't have a laptop. But she was a woman with a career.
With no laptop, on what can she look after her work-?

Sherlock took a glance at the suitcase again. He saw a label stained with dirt and rain.

jennie pink -at- mephone org uk

Although his fingers were trembling, Sherlock picked up his phone and started to fumble on the keyboard.

To: John Watson
jennie pink -at- mephone org uk password is rachel. Trace the GPS.

"Mister 'olmes?"

The cabbie spoke. Sherlock saw the pink phone next to the cabbie.
Initials were engraved into the back of the cover: J. W.

"I visited your website. It was brilliant. I liked it very much."

A person who can hunt among the crowd. Who can kill without being seen.

"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."
Sherlock lifted his eyes, and saw the man looking back at him in the rear mirror.

"...It was you."
"Oh, and what does you mean by that?"
"You, killed Jennifer Wilson."

Sherlock saw the skin by the cabbie's eyes wrinkling with pleasure.

"Yes, Mister Holmes."
"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."

Sherlock stared at the man.

"Why?"
"Cause you're not gonna do that."
"Am I not?"
"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."

The man smiled for a moment, then continued.

"I will never tell you what I said."
Sherlock glanced at the lock on the door right next to him. It wasn't locked. Sherlock felt the cab slowing down and halting next to a sidewalk.

"I'll let you decide. Get off, and call up the coppers. I won't run."
Sherlock was silent for a long moment. Then he spoke.

"No-one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result."
"An' you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?"

Sherlock was silent, yet again.

"...If I wanted to understand, what would I do?"
"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."

His phone buzzed again.

Inbox: John Watson
Sherlock, where are you? Is this Jennifer Wilson's smart phone account?

Sherlock put the mobile in his pocket. He stared straight back into the eyes looking at him in the rear mirror.
He saw the wrinkles crinkling with satisfaction.

"I know you'd do."

Sherlock heard the lock. Click.

~oOo~

"Where are we?"
"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."
"And you just walk your victims in? How?"

Sherlock heard a metallic clunk.
The cabbie raised a pistol and pointed it at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his head away.

"Oh, dull."
"Don't worry. It gets better."
"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint."
"I don't. It's much better than that."

The cabbie lowered the gun.

"Don't need this with you, 'cause you'll follow me."
The cabbie walked away in confidence.
Sherlock sit for a moment, then grimaced.
He got out of the cab and followed the cabbie's steps.

His head was filled with a passion for solving an intriguing puzzle-
and there was nothing else, even an omega worriedly waiting for him back at the flat.

John was tracing the GPS, just like Sherlock asked for him to do.
His lips were drying up. John ran his tongue over his lips, and chewed frantically on his lower lip.
His laptop was beeping, indicating that the target was moving.

John was lost among the thick of panic, so he almost missed the fact that the beeping stopped some time before.

Startled, John quickly checked the laptop.

51°29'11.8"N 3°10'43.8"W
Roland Kerr Further Education College

Cardiff.

Without thought, John rushed to the door, and it was that moment when he felt a heavy object stuffed in his jacket.
He carefully reached into his pocket.

A cold, metallic feeling chilled his fingers.
It was his magazine.

John felt his breath hitching. He recalled the talk he had with Sherlock, back at the Lauriston Gardens.

- I can guarantee our security without any weapon.
- Don't be a fool, Sherlock. You'll need this some time.

I believe in you, Sherlock.
I wish that I had been wrong...
Please, be safe.

~oOo~

"Well, what do you think?"
They stepped into an empty classroom. The air was cold, indicating no human existence.

The cabbie seated. After he took a good look around the empty classroom, Sherlock faced the cabbie.

"It's up to you. You're the one who's gonna die 'ere."
"No, I'm not."
"That's what they all say."

Sherlock took a leisurely stroll across the classroom, and gently dragged out a chair for himself.
The alpha was acting as if he hasn't just stepped into an empty college classroom with one of the most dangerous man in Greater London-
instead, as if he was invited to a splendid feast as an important habitué of the place.

The alpha smilled bitterly at the thought. Maybe it was right; maybe, the cabbie did invited him to a 'feast' and he was a precious guest.
He knew that for the sake of his survival, he needed to rob the control out of the hands of that snobby cabbie.

Sherlock heard the clock ticking at the corner of the classroom.
It was twenty-three after eleven in the night.

John always used to make Chamomile on exactly eleven thirty-

John. Where is John?

"Shall we talk?"

Abruptly jerking out of his thoughts, Sherlock took a seat across from the cabbie.
He leaned backwards, and gazed at the aging beta.

"Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They're not that stupid."

The cabbie smirked.
"You call that a risk? Nah."

He reached into the left pocket of his cardigan, and pulled out a bottle, containing a spotted pill.
"This is a risk."

Sherlock lifted his chin and looked at the bottle.
The cabbie, scrutinising Sherlock for a moment, continued.

"Ooh, I like this bit. 'Cause you don't get it yet, do yer? But you're about to. I just have to do this."

Reaching into his right pocket, the cabbie took out an identical bottle containing an identical capsule and put it onto the table beside the first bottle.

"You weren't expecting that, were yer? Ooh, you're going to love this."
"Love what?"
" Sherlock 'olmes. Look at you! 'Ere in the flesh. You won't believe how much your fan rambled on about you. The youngest of the great Holmeses. Brilliant brain, with looks even more fantastic. How many girls hurl themselves at your foot! And even with a dedicated omega sidekick! You have everything."

"My fan?"
"Fan, a devotee. Sure. How can one not be? A sponsor of your another fan, John Clay. He is attracted to geniuses."
"John Clay's sponsor-"

Sherlock instinctively knew that there was something more enormous than that clumsy league.
The alpha shut his mouth and glared at the beta cabbie.

"You are brilliant. You are. A proper genius. "The Science of Deduction." Now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting 'ere, why can't people think?"

The cabbie looked down angrily.
"Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just think?"

Sherlock looked back at him for a long moment, narrowing his eyes, then makes a realisation.

"Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius too."
"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 stared at the chilling smirk of the strange cabbie.

"Okay, two bottles. Explain."
"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."
"Both bottles are of course identical."
"In every way."
"And you know which is which."
"Course I know."
"But I don't."
"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?"

"I 'aven't told you the best bit yet."

The cabbie paused for a moment, creating a tension.
Their eyes met-

Sherlock silently asked. Why are you doing this?

"Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one – and then, together, we take our medicine."

A/N: I want to point out few significant details.

1. Sorry for putting Jennifer Wilson's account without dots (and even an at), but seemingly this website doesn't allow fake addresses to be posted!
2. Roland-Kerr Further Education College isn't a real place. The writers of BBC Sherlock made the place up. The GPS coordinate I used in the story is the coordinate of the place where they filmed the show; School of Chemistry at Cardiff University.
3. You fangirls would have already figured out that I based this chapter heavily on the scripts of the show. Although I edited few details, I wanted to create a certain atmosphere of reality, so I resorted to a transcript. The version I used is the one made by the lovely Ariane DeVere. Unfortunately, due to the glorious rules of this website, I can't post the link to the site. You may google that name and her livejournal would show up.

Thanks for all who left reviews and favourited my story! It really cheered me up. Without you guys, I think this story must have been already forgotten.
Thanks a lot! *hugs and kisses*