Our Fates Are Sealed (BBC Sherlock Fic)

John Watson seemed to wander the streets of busy London City aimlessly despite the distress and it caused onto his leg. He stifled a groan of discomfort and annoyance as his leg throbbed irritably.

“Watson!” the blonde looked up to the sound  of his name, wavering slightly with his small strides “John Watson!” he turned and saw a chubby man stop in front of him and offer a hand, grinning

"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We went to University together."

"Ah. Yes. Hello." John took the offered hand to shake, nodding.

"Yes, I know I got fat." John said nothing in return.

Around half an hour later, he and Stamford were sitting on a Park Bench and sharing a cup of coffee.

"So I heard you were abroad getting shot at. What happened?" John let a bitter chuckle escape his lips

"I got shot."

"Ah. So what are you doing back in London? Waiting to get yourself sorted?"

“Really? Afford London on an Army Pension?”

"So you'd be looking for a flat share then."

"Come on, who would want me as a flat mate?" John picked up the smile in Mikes face

"You're the second man to say that to me today." He cocked my head to the left slightly

"Who was the first?"
When John had arrived at Saint Barts, he marvelled on the fact on how much the place had changed since his time.

"Bit different from my day" he couldn't help but comment and Mike chuckled. "So what's the name of the man looking for a flat?"

"A fascinating bloke. His name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah... Odd name."

"Wait until you meet the bastard." the bigger man frowned when they entered the empty room "He should be here." he mumbled "I guess he was on a case today."

"So he's not here?" John asked and Mike shook his head

"Unfortunately not by the look of it. Most likely at work or something important."

"Oh... Maybe he'll be here tomorrow?"

"He should be." his companion nodded

"Right. Ok. I'll come back tomorrow... I guess." The blonde spoke a little uncomfortably, shuffling on his cane before thanking his friend and hobbling out of the building.
It began to get dark and the weather had decided to take a turn for the worst and the heavens opened, pelting the streets down with rain it down with rain. This was the moment when John decided to limp back to his current lodgings, thinking whether or not he would ever see this Sherlock Holmes or ever move out of that horrible apartment. The sound of hoarse yelling and shouting snapped his attention back to reality and the present day. Squinting at the sight of a tall man, wearing a belstaff coat, struggling with, who appeared to be, a cabbie; he frowned in confusion.

“He’s had a bit too much to drink” the Cabbie laughed off the questioning and accusing glares from the onlookers as the taller man began pulling away from him

The poor bloke looks like he’s been drugged and trying to get away more than anything else

John thought to himself dryly, his eyes picking out the Italian man staring at the scene through a glass window of an, ironically, Italian restaurant. The seemingly drunk man’s electric blue eyes met John’s and he mouthed something that made the soldier’s blood run cold.

Help Me

The dark haired male was then abruptly shoved into the awaiting cab harshly, his body not doing anything to prevent or avoid the current situation. And John didn’t know why, but as the cab began driving, he began running.

It seemed like forever until the cab finally stopped outside, what John imagined, was an apartment building with the golden numbers drilled into the black door: 221, he was too busy catching his breath to tell. The old Cabbie walked to the sleek black door, unlocked it with the key he had stolen from the unconscious victims pocket, and dragged him inside the dark building quietly. John waited for a few minutes to catch his breath fully and calm his nerves entirely before, as quietly as if he were back in Afghanistan, crept inside.

The curly-haired man slowly woke up to the feeling of burning fire and the cracking of embers. At first, he could see nothing as his vision refused to clear until he began to see fuzzy blobs of objects. Slowly, a skull on a mantelpiece becomes clear. He tried to move on the current chair he was situated on until a voice through the fuzz makes him freeze

“I ‘ope you don’t mind, you gave me your address.” He lolled his head to the side and the Cabbie came into view “You’ve been out for ten minutes” he struggled to his feet but could not keep his balance and went stumbling to grab hold of the mantelpiece, grunting in effort as he tried to haul himself into a more dignified and straighter position, his coat had been removed and left him in his purple shirt. “You’re strong, I’m impressed” the younger ignored him and heaved himself so his legs were almost straight and resting his head on the mantelpiece and blinking blearily at the skull.

“That’s right” the short man said “you warm yourself right up. I made everything nice and cozy for ya”

“This is my flat” the drugged man said weakly

“’Course it is.” He held up a small set of keys “Found these in your pocket and I thought, why not? People like to die at ‘ome” the tall man turned and tried to stand without any support before crashing down back onto the floor, face first, groaning, causing his captor to grin down at him

“I could do anything I wanted to right now. Anything at all” he received a pitiful whimper in response “But don’t worry, I’m only going to kill ya” he grabbed the half-drugged man by the waist and lugged him to his feet, dragged him a few paces before dumping him hard onto the chair in front of a small, square table. The prisoner propped himself up on his elbows and glanced at the door of the flat

“No point. The whole ‘ouse is empty. Not even yer landlady can her ya. We’re both alone, nice and snug.” He turned back, waiting for his tongue to stop feeling so heavy so he could finally speak

“… It’s still a risk, isn’t it? Here?”

“You call that a risk?” the Cabbie scoffed, taking out two identical bottles and placing them on the table. He lingered for a few seconds before taking out a pill from both, placing on the table and in front of the bottles

“This is a risk. You wanted to know ‘ow I made ‘em take the posion. You’re gonna love this”

“How?” the man sighed

“Take a moment. Get yourself together, I want you on your best game”

“My…” the captive screwed his eyes in concentration “My best what?”

“I know who you are. The moment you said your name, I knew.” The Cabbie began to wander around the flat in a daze “I’ve been on your website loads. You truly are brilliant. A genius! The Science of Deduction. Doesn’t it drive you mad though? When people don’t think? They just never think!”  

“Oh I see… So you’re ” the drug was still in his system and he slurred horribly “a proper genius to?” he glared at the Cabbie “Just who are you?”

“Nobody… For now” the Cabbie pulled out a chair and sat down opposite his hostage. “I certainly won’t die a nobody now will I?”

“Two pills”

“There’s a good an’ a bad pill, Take the good pill, you live; take the bad pill you die. Easy”

“You know which one is which”

“O’ ‘course I know”

“But I don’t” he paused to get his bearings from the drug by shaking his head

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

“It’s not a game. It’s chance”

“I’ve played five times. I’m alive. It’s not chance, it’s chess. It’s just a game of chess, with one move, and one survivor. And this ... this is the move.” The shorter man slid the right-hand pill across the table, towards the man opposite him “Did I just give you the bad pill or the good pill? You can choose either one”

“That’s what you did. To all of them. You gave them a choice”

You’ve gotta admit: as serial killers go, I’m verging on nice! Anyway, time’s up. Choose. You have two choices”

“And then what?”

“We take our medicine. Now let’s play”

“Play what? It’s a fifty-fifty chance”

“You’re not playin’ numbers, you’re playin’ me. The pill I slid in front of, good or bad? Remember, it could be a bluff. Or a double bluff. Even a triple!”

“You’ve risked your life five times just to kill strangers” the man in the purple shirt pointed out and tilted his head “You don’t have long to live, do you? You’re dying” he received a smile

“Aneurism. Any breath can be my last. Bet on that”

“I’m not a betting man”

“D’you think I’m bitter?”

“Well you have just killed five people”

“I’ve outlived five people. That’s the most fun you can ‘ave. Now choose a pill. You have only two options, not that ‘ard a decision”  

“I think I’ll choose the third option”

“There is no third option” the Cabbie sneered

“I know when there is a third option when I see it right in your jacket” the old man sighed, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a gun and pointing it directly at his hostage

"Take either pill or you die."

"Really? Close range? And I expected you to do so much more”

“Choose a pill. Or I shoot you. Trust me, nobody chose that decision and I’m sure you wouldn’t”

“I refuse." the prisoner growled, swiping his arm across the table and causing the tablets and vials containing them to be propelled onto the floor; the old man shook his head sadly
"And I thought you would do the smart thing. What a right shame." his grip tightened around the trigger and John Watson chose this very moment to burst into the room and tackle the dark-haired man off of the chair and onto the ground just as the shot went off. Without missing a beat, the soldier was rolling off the man below him, getting into a crouching position and then raising his gun and firing without another thought or single hesitation in mind.

A body dropped to the ground and the glass of a window shattered almost completely as John dropped his gun, eyes wide in shock. He took a deep breath and fell backwards and onto his back, his body feeling like jelly; the other man hadn’t moved from where he was shoved to only seconds before. So they both lay there, astonished and gasping

"Holmes" the taller man rasped

"What?" John asked breathlessly, looking at him in confusion and exhaustion

"My name. It's Sherlock Holmes." the blonde’s confusion quickly dissolved and turned into amusement, a chuckle rumbling in his throat

"Watson. John Watson. And I believe you were looking for a flat mate?" he held put a hand to shake with Sherlock's. The other man took it and neither couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up in their chests and escaped their lips as the sound of police and ambulance sirens blared through the windows and pierced the air.