M: I hope I’m not distracting you. JOHN (casually): Not distracting me at all. (He takes his time looking up from the phone before he pockets it.) M: Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes? JOHN: I could be wrong ... but I think that’s none of your business. M (a little ominously): It could be. JOHN: It really couldn’t. (The man takes a notebook from his inside pocket, then opens it and consults it as he speaks.) M: If you do move into, um ... two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way. (He closes the notebook and puts it away again.) JOHN: Why? M: Because you’re not a wealthy man. JOHN: In exchange for what? M: Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to. JOHN: Why? M: I worry about him. Constantly. JOHN (insincerely): That’s nice of you. M: But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship. (John’s phone sounds another text alert. Again he immediately fishes the phone out and looks at the message which reads:
If inconvenient, come anyway. SH
JOHN (in response to the man’s offer): No. M: But I haven’t mentioned a figure. JOHN (putting his phone away again): Don’t bother. M (laughing briefly): You’re very loyal, very quickly. JOHN: No, I’m not. I’m just not interested. (The man looks at him closely for a moment, then takes out his notebook and opens it again.) M (gesturing slightly to make it clear that he is reading a note from the book): “Trust issues,” it says here. (For the first time since their encounter began, John looks a little unnerved.) JOHN: What’s that? M (still looking down at his book): Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people? JOHN: Who says I trust him? M: You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily. JOHN: Are we done? (The man raises his head and looks into John’s eyes.) M: You tell me. (John looks at him for a long moment, then turns his back on him and starts to walk away.) M: I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen. (John stops dead. His shoulders tense and drop and he angrily shakes his head a little. He is clearly furious as he turns back around to face the man.) JOHN (savagely, through bared teeth): My wot? M (calmly): Show me. (He has nodded towards John’s left hand as he speaks, and now he plants the tip of his umbrella on the floor and leans casually on it like a man who is used to having his orders obeyed. John, however, is not going to be intimidated and deliberately shifts his feet under him as if digging in. He raises his left hand, bending it at the elbow, and stands still. His message is clear: if the man wants to look at his hand, he’ll have to come to him. Apparently unperturbed by this belligerence, the man strolls forward, hooking the handle of the umbrella over his arm as he reaches for John’s hand. John instantly pulls his hand back a little.) JOHN (tensely): Don’t. (The man lowers his head and raises his eyebrows at John, almost as if saying, ‘Did I mention trust issues?!’ John very reluctantly lowers his hand, holding it out flat with the palm down. The man takes it in both of his own hands and looks at it closely.) M: Remarkable. JOHN (snatching his hand away): What is? M (turning and walking a few paces away): Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. (He turns towards John again.) You’ve seen it already, haven’t you? JOHN: What’s wrong with my hand? M: You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. (Perhaps unintentionally, John nods his head.) M: Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service. (John almost flinches as the man accurately fires off these facts at him. His gaze is fixed ahead of him and a muscle in his cheek twitches repeatedly.) JOHN (angry and distressed): Who the hell are you? How do you know that? M: Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way round. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. (John’s eyes flicker downwards before returning to stare ahead of himself, his face set and struggling to hold back his anger.) M: You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson ... you miss it. (He leans closer to him. Reluctantly John’s eyes rise up to meet his.) M (in a whisper): Welcome back. (He turns and starts to walk away just as John’s phone trills another text alert.) M (casually twirling his umbrella as he goes): Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson. (John stands fixed to the spot for a few seconds, then turns and glances towards the departing man while, behind John, the car door opens and not-Anthea gets out and walks a few paces towards him, her attention still riveted to the BlackBerry held in front of her in both hands.) NOT-ANTHEA: I’m to take you home. (John half-turns towards her, then stops and takes out his phone to look at the new message. It reads:
Could be dangerous. SH
Putting the phone back into his pocket, John holds out his left hand in front of him and studies the lack of tremor coming from it. He smiles wryly.) NOT-ANTHEA: Address? JOHN (turning and walking towards her): Er, Baker Street. Two two one B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first.
Later, John opens the door into his bedsit and switches on the light. Walking inside and closing the door behind him, he goes across to the desk and opens the drawer, taking out his pistol. Checking the clip, he tucks the gun into the back of the waistband of his jeans and turns to leave again.
Later again, the car pulls up outside 221B Baker Street. Not-Anthea is still rivetted by whatever she’s typing on her phone [that must be one heck of a running blog that she’s writing]. John looks across to her. JOHN: Listen, your boss – any chance you could not tell him this is where I went? NOT-ANTHEA (nonchalantly): Sure. JOHN: You’ve told him already, haven’t you? (She smiles across to him briefly.) NOT-ANTHEA: Yeah. (John nods in resignation and turns to get out of the car but just as he has opened the door, he turns back to her.) JOHN: Hey, um ... do you ever get any free time? (She chuckles.) NOT-ANTHEA (sarcastically) : Oh, yeah. Lots. (John waits expectantly. She continues working her phone for a long moment, then turns and looks at him before allowing her gaze to drift past him to the door of 221B.) NOT-ANTHEA: ’Bye. JOHN: Okay. (He gets out and closes the door, then watches the car pull away before turning and walking across the pavement to the front door of 221B. He knocks on the door.)
Upstairs in the living room of the flat, Sherlock is lying stretched out on the sofa with his head towards the window and resting on a cushion. With his jacket off and his shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up his arms, he has his eyes closed and he is pressing the palm of his right hand firmly onto the underside of his left arm just below the elbow. After some seconds his eyes snap open wide and he stares fixedly up towards the ceiling, then he sighs out a noisy breath and relaxes. John comes through the door, then stops and stares as Sherlock repeatedly clenches and unclenches his left fist. JOHN: What are you doing? SHERLOCK (calmly): Nicotine patch. Helps me think. (He lifts his right hand to show that he has three round nicotine patches stuck to his arm and it was these which he was pressing against his skin to release the substances more quickly.) SHERLOCK: Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work. (He loudly clicks the ‘k’ on the last word. Your transcriber dutifully wibbles.) JOHN (walking further into the room): It’s good news for breathing. SHERLOCK (dismissively): Oh, breathing. Breathing’s boring. (John frowns as he looks more closely at Sherlock’s arm.) JOHN: Is that three patches? SHERLOCK (pressing his hands together in the prayer position under his chin): It’s a three-patch problem. (He closes his eyes. John looks around the room for a moment, then looks down at Sherlock again.) JOHN: Well? (Sherlock doesn’t respond.) JOHN: You asked me to come. I’m assuming it’s important. (Sherlock still doesn’t respond instantly, but after a couple of seconds his eyes snap open. He doesn’t bother turning his head to look at John.) SHERLOCK: Oh, yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone? JOHN: My phone? SHERLOCK: Don’t wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognised. It’s on the website. JOHN: Mrs Hudson’s got a phone. SHERLOCK: Yeah, she’s downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn’t hear. JOHN (beginning to get angry): I was the other side of London. SHERLOCK (mildly): There was no hurry. (John glares at him as he gazes serenely at the ceiling before closing his eyes again. Eventually John digs his phone out of his jacket pocket and holds it towards him.) JOHN: Here. (Without opening his eyes, Sherlock holds out his right hand with the palm up. John glowers at him for a moment, then steps forward and slaps the phone into his hand. Sherlock slowly lifts his arm and puts his hands together again, this time with the phone in between his palms. John turns and walks a few paces away before turning around again.) JOHN: So what’s this about – the case? SHERLOCK (softly): Her case. JOHN: Her case? SHERLOCK (opening his eyes): Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake. JOHN: Okay, he took her case. So? SHERLOCK (quietly, as if to himself): It’s no use, there’s no other way. We’ll have to risk it. (Raising his voice a little, he imperiously holds the phone out towards John, still not looking at him.) SHERLOCK: On my desk there’s a number. I want you to send a text. (John half-smiles in angry disbelief.) JOHN (tightly): You brought me here ... to send a text. SHERLOCK (oblivious to his anger): Text, yes. The number on my desk. (He continues to hold the phone out while John glowers at him, possibly wondering if he can get away with justifiable homicide. Eventually he stomps across the room and snatches the phone from Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock refolds his hands under his chin and closes his eyes but instead of going to the table, John walks over to the window and looks out of it into the street below. Sherlock opens his eyes and tilts his head slightly towards him.) SHERLOCK: What’s wrong? JOHN: Just met a friend of yours. (Sherlock frowns in confusion.) SHERLOCK: A friend? JOHN: An enemy. (Sherlock immediately relaxes.) SHERLOCK (calmly): Oh. Which one? JOHN: Your arch-enemy, according to him. (He turns towards Sherlock.) Do people have arch-enemies? (Sherlock looks towards him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.) SHERLOCK: Did he offer you money to spy on me? JOHN: Yes. SHERLOCK: Did you take it? JOHN: No. SHERLOCK: Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time. JOHN: Who is he? SHERLOCK (softly): The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and not my problem right now. (More loudly) On my desk, the number. (John gives him a dark look but Sherlock has already looked away again so John walks over to the desk and picks up a piece of paper taken from a luggage label. He looks at the name on the paper.) JOHN: Jennifer Wilson. That was ... Hang on. Wasn’t that the dead woman? SHERLOCK: Yes. That’s not important. Just enter the number. (Shaking his head, John gets his phone out and starts to type the number onto it.) SHERLOCK: Are you doing it? JOHN: Yes. SHERLOCK: Have you done it? JOHN: Ye... hang on! SHERLOCK: These words exactly: “What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.” (John starts to type but looks briefly across to Sherlock as if concerned at what he just said. Sherlock continues his narration.) SHERLOCK: “Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.” (John has got as far as:
What happened at Lauriston Gdns? I must have b
Now he looks across to Sherlock again, frowning.) JOHN: You blacked out? SHERLOCK: What? No. No! (He flips his legs around and stands up, taking the shortest route towards the kitchen – which involves walking over the coffee table beside the sofa rather than around it.) SHERLOCK: Type and send it. Quickly. (Going into the kitchen, he picks up a small pink suitcase from a chair and brings it back into the living room. Walking over to the dining table, he lifts one of the dining chairs and flips it around, setting it down in front of one of the two armchairs near the fireplace. He puts the suitcase onto the dining chair and sits down in the armchair. John is still typing.) SHERLOCK: Have you sent it? JOHN: What’s the address? SHERLOCK (impatiently): Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Hurry up! (John finishes the message, then looks round as Sherlock unzips the case and flips open the lid, revealing the contents. There are a few items of clothing and underwear – all in varying shades of pink – a washbag, and a paperback novel by Paul Bunch entitled “Come To Bed Eyes.” [Good grief – has Jennifer met Sherlock before?!]. As John turns towards the case he staggers slightly in shock when he realises what he’s looking at.) JOHN: That’s ... that’s the pink lady’s case. That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case. SHERLOCK (studying the case closely): Yes, obviously. ( John continues to stare, and Sherlock looks up at him and then rolls his eyes.) SHERLOCK (sarcastically): Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn’t kill her. JOHN: I never said you did. SHERLOCK: Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption. JOHN: Do people usually assume you’re the murderer? SHERLOCK (smirking): Now and then, yes. (He puts his hands onto the arms of the armchair and lifts his feet up and under him so that he is perching on the seat with his backside braced against the back rest, then clasps his hands under his chin.) JOHN: Okay ... (He limps across the room and drops heavily into the armchair on the other side of the fireplace.) JOHN: How did you get this? SHERLOCK: By looking. JOHN: Where? SHERLOCK: The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens ... (Cutaway shot of Sherlock standing on the edge of a rooftop looking down into the streets below as he searches for a glimpse of anywhere the case might have been hidden.) SHERLOCK: ... and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. (Cutaway shot of Sherlock back on the ground and rooting through a large skip in an alley before unearthing the case buried under some black plastic, then checking the luggage label attached to the handle.) SHERLOCK: Took me less than an hour to find the right skip. JOHN: Pink. You got all that because you realised the case would be pink? SHERLOCK: Well, it had to be pink, obviously. JOHN (to himself): Why didn’t I think of that? SHERLOCK: Because you’re an idiot. (John looks across to him, startled. Sherlock makes a placatory gesture with one hand.) SHERLOCK: No, no, no, don’t look like that. Practically everyone is. (He refolds his hands and then extends his index fingers to point at the case.) SHERLOCK: Now, look. Do you see what’s missing? JOHN: From the case? How could I? SHERLOCK: Her phone. Where’s her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there’s no phone in the case. We know she had one – that’s her number there; you just texted it. JOHN: Maybe she left it at home. (Sherlock puts his hands onto the arms of the chair and raises himself up so that he can lower his feet to the floor, then sits down properly on the chair.) SHERLOCK: She has a string of lovers and she’s careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home. (He puts the slip of paper back into the luggage label on the case and looks at John expectantly.) JOHN: Er ... (He looks down at his mobile phone which he has put onto the arm of his chair.) JOHN: Why did I just send that text? SHERLOCK: Well, the question is: where is her phone now? JOHN: She could have lost it. SHERLOCK: Yes, or ...? JOHN (slowly): The murderer ... You think the murderer has the phone? SHERLOCK: Maybe she left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone. JOHN: Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do? (As if on cue, his phone begins to ring. He picks it up and looks at the screen for the Caller I.D. It reads:
(withheld) calling
He looks across to Sherlock as the phone continues to ring.) SHERLOCK: A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer ... (He pauses dramatically for a moment until the phone stops ringing.) SHERLOCK: ... would panic. (He flips the lid of the suitcase closed and stands up, walking across the room to pick up his jacket. As John continues to stare down at his phone, Sherlock puts on his jacket and walks towards the door.) JOHN (finally looking up): Have you talked to the police? SHERLOCK: Four people are dead. There isn’t time to talk to the police. JOHN: So why are you talking to me? (Sherlock reaches behind the door to take his greatcoat from the hook. As he looks across towards John he notices that something is missing from the mantelpiece.) SHERLOCK: Mrs Hudson took my skull. JOHN: So I’m basically filling in for your skull? SHERLOCK (putting on his coat): Relax, you’re doing fine. (John doesn’t move.) SHERLOCK: Well? JOHN: Well what? SHERLOCK: Well, you could just sit there and watch telly. JOHN: What, you want me to come with you? SHERLOCK: I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so ... (John smiles briefly.) SHERLOCK: Problem? JOHN: Yeah, Sergeant Donovan. SHERLOCK (looking away in exasperation): What about her? JOHN: She said ... You get off on this. You enjoy it. SHERLOCK (nonchalantly): And I said “dangerous,” and here you are. (Instantly he turns and walks out of the door. John sits there thoughtfully for a few seconds, then almost angrily leans onto his cane to push himself to his feet and head for the door.) JOHN: Damn it!
Not long afterwards, John catches up to Sherlock in the street and they continue down the road. JOHN: Where are we going? SHERLOCK: Northumberland Street’s a five-minute walk from here. JOHN: You think he’s stupid enough to go there? SHERLOCK (smiling expectantly): No – I think he’s brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They’re always so desperate to get caught. JOHN: Why? SHERLOCK: Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. That’s the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience. JOHN (looking pointedly at him): Yeah. (Oblivious to the implication, Sherlock spins around to indicate the entire area as he continues down the road.) SHERLOCK: This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go. (He holds his hands up on either side of his head as if to focus his thoughts.) SHERLOCK: Think! Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd? JOHN: Dunno. Who? SHERLOCK (shrugging): Haven’t the faintest. Hungry? (Lowering his hands, he leads John onwards and into a small restaurant. The waiter near the door clearly knows him and gestures to a reserved table at the front window.) SHERLOCK: Thank you, Billy. (Taking his coat off, he sits down on the bench seat at the side of the table and immediately turns sideways so that he can see clearly out of the window. As Billy takes the ‘Reserved’ sign off the table, John sits down on the other bench seat with his back to the window, and takes off his jacket.) SHERLOCK (nodding to a building over the road): Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it. JOHN: He isn’t just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He’d need to be mad. SHERLOCK: He has killed four people. JOHN: ... Okay. (The manager and/or owner of the restaurant comes over, clearly pleased to see Sherlock.) ANGELO: Sherlock. (They shake hands.) ANGELO: Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. (He lays a couple of menus on the table.) ANGELO: On the house, for you and for your date. SHERLOCK (to John): Do you want to eat? JOHN (to Angelo): I’m not his date. ANGELO: This man got me off a murder charge. SHERLOCK: This is Angelo. (Angelo offers his hand to John, who shakes it.) SHERLOCK: Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking. ANGELO (to John): He cleared my name. SHERLOCK: I cleared it a bit. Anything happening opposite? ANGELO: Nothing. (He looks at John again.) But for this man, I’d have gone to prison. SHERLOCK: You did go to prison. ANGELO (to John): I’ll get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic. JOHN (indignantly, as Angelo walks away): I’m not his date! (Sherlock puts his own menu down onto the table.) SHERLOCK: You may as well eat. We might have a long wait. (Angelo comes back with a small glass bowl containing a lit tea-light. He puts it onto the table and gives John a thumbs-up before turning and walking away again.) JOHN (a little tetchily): Thanks(!)
Later, John has a plate of food in front of him and is eating from it. Sherlock’s attention is fixed out of the window and he is quietly drumming his fingers on the table. JOHN: People don’t have arch-enemies. (It takes a moment but Sherlock finally looks round.) SHERLOCK: I’m sorry? JOHN: In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn’t happen. SHERLOCK (disinterestedly, looking out of the window again): Doesn’t it? Sounds a bit dull. JOHN: So who did I meet? SHERLOCK: What do real people have, then, in their ‘real lives’? JOHN: Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don’t like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ... SHERLOCK: Yes, well, as I was saying – dull. JOHN: You don’t have a girlfriend, then? SHERLOCK (still looking out of the window): Girlfriend? No, not really my area. JOHN: Mm. (A moment passes before he realises the possible significance of this statement.) JOHN: Oh, right. D’you have a boyfriend? (Sherlock looks round at him sharply.) JOHN: Which is fine, by the way. SHERLOCK: I know it’s fine. (John smiles to indicate that he wasn’t signifying anything negative by what he said.) JOHN: So you’ve got a boyfriend then? SHERLOCK: No. JOHN (still smiling, though his smile is becoming a little fixed and awkward): Right. Okay. You’re unattached. Like me. (He looks down at his plate, apparently rapidly running out of things to say.) Fine. (He clears his throat.) Good. (He continues eating. Sherlock looks at him suspiciously for a moment but then turns his attention out of the window again. However, he then appears to replay John’s statement in his head and looks a little startled. Turning his head towards John again, he starts speaking rather awkwardly but rapidly speeds up and is almost babbling by the time John interrupts him.) SHERLOCK: John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any ... JOHN (interrupting): No. (He turns his head briefly to clear his throat.) No, I’m not asking. No. (He fixes his gaze onto Sherlock’s, apparently trying to convey his sincerity.) JOHN: I’m just saying, it’s all fine. (Sherlock looks at him for a moment, then nods.) SHERLOCK: Good. Thank you. (He turns his attention back to the street. John looks away with an bemused expression on his face as if asking himself, ‘What the heck was all that about?!’ Just then, Sherlock nods out of the window.) SHERLOCK: Look across the street. Taxi. (John twists in his seat to look out of the window where a taxi has parked at the side of the road with its back end towards the restaurant.) SHERLOCK: Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out. (In the rear seat of the taxi the male passenger is looking through the side windows as if trying to see somebody particular.) SHERLOCK (to himself): Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever? JOHN: That’s him? SHERLOCK: Don’t stare. JOHN (looking round at him): You’re staring. SHERLOCK: We can’t both stare. (Getting to his feet, he grabs his coat and scarf and heads for the door. John picks up his own jacket and follows ... completely forgetting to take his walking cane with him. Outside the door, Sherlock shrugs himself into his coat while keeping his eyes fixed on the taxi. The passenger continues to look around him, then turns and looks out the back window. His gaze falls on the restaurant and he looks at it for a few moments while Sherlock stares back at him, then the man turns towards the front of the vehicle and the taxi begins to pull away from the kerb. Sherlock immediately heads towards it without bothering to check the road that he’s running into and is almost run over by a car coming from his left. The driver slams on the brakes and stops the car but Sherlock, always keen to take the quickest route, allows his forward impetus to carry him onto the top of the bonnet. He rolls over the bonnet, lands on his feet on the other side and then runs after the taxi. As the driver of the car angrily sounds his horn, John puts one hand on the bonnet and vaults over the front of the car, apologising to the driver as he goes.) JOHN: Sorry. (He chases after Sherlock, who runs a few yards up the road before realising that he’s not going to catch the taxi and slows to a halt. John catches up and stops beside him.) JOHN: I’ve got the cab number. SHERLOCK: Good for you. (He brings his hands up to either side of his head and concentrates, calling up a mental map of the local area and overlaying it with images of the streets along the route which he calculates that the taxi must take.) SHERLOCK (quick fire): Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights. (Having worked out the route, he lifts his head and sees a man unlocking the door to a nearby building. Instantly his mind flashes up a signpost saying, “ALTERNATIVE ROUTE.” Sherlock races towards the man and grabs him, shoving him out of the way before charging into the building.) MAN: Oi! (John hurries after Sherlock, raising an apologetic hand to the man as he goes.) JOHN: Sorry. (The two of them race up the stairs and out onto a metal spiral fire escape staircase leading to the roof. Sherlock, the lanky git, takes the steps two or even three at a time and John struggles to keep up with him as he scurries up behind him.) SHERLOCK: Come on, John. (Reaching the top of the stairs, Sherlock runs to the edge and looks over before seeing a shorter metal spiral staircase leading down the side of the building to another door one floor lower. He gallops down the stairs and climbs onto the railing before leaping across the gap to the next building. John scrambles onto the railing and follows. Sherlock runs across to the other side of the roof and again leaps across to the next building. John races after him, but then skids to a halt when he realises that the gap may be too big for him to jump across. As if in sympathy, pedestrian traffic lights on the ground change from the green “It is safe to cross” sign to the red “Stop and wait” sign. John hesitates, looking down at the drop beneath him.) SHERLOCK: Come on, John. We’re losing him! (John backs up a few paces and braces himself. As the traffic lights change to “Safe to cross” again, he takes a run-up and and leaps the gap. Dropping down onto a walkway along the side of the building, the boys run onwards. The taxi continues its journey on the ground and the boys gallop down another metal staircase, then run to a ledge and drop down into an alleyway before running onwards again. Sherlock leads John down the alleyway as, in his head, a map shows their location in comparison to where the taxi must be. Their paths are beginning to get closer and they are heading towards a point where Sherlock and John will exit the alleyway onto D’Arblay Street, into which the taxi is just turning. Sherlock turns the corner and races down the last part of the alley, only to see the taxi drive past the end, heading to the left.) SHERLOCK (angrily): Ah, no! (Without breaking stride, he races out of the end of the alley and turns right.) SHERLOCK: This way. (Instinctively John turns left in pursuit of the taxi.) SHERLOCK: No, this way! JOHN: Sorry. (He turns and heads back in the opposite direction, following Sherlock. In Sherlock’s mind-map, he picks a new point where he and John can intercept the cab. The boys run down the street, taking a shorter route than the taxi which is being diverted by various road signs taking it the long way around. They head down more alleyways and side streets towards the interception point in Wardour Street and finally, at the precise point which his mental map predicted, Sherlock races out of a side street and hurls himself into the path of the approaching cab, which screeches to a halt as he crashes hard into the bonnet. Scrabbling in his left coat pocket, Sherlock pulls out an I.D. badge and flashes it at the driver as he runs to the right hand side of the cab.) SHERLOCK: Police! Open her up! (Panting heavily, he tugs open the rear door and stares in at the passenger, who looks back at him anxiously. Instantly Sherlock straightens up in exasperation just as John joins him.) SHERLOCK: No. (He leans down again to look at the passenger a second time.) SHERLOCK: Teeth, tan: what – Californian? (He looks at something on the floor in front of the passenger.) SHERLOCK: L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived. (He straightens up again, grimacing.) JOHN: How can you possibly know that? SHERLOCK: The luggage. (He looks down at the suitcase on the floor of the cab and its luggage label showing that the man has flown from LAX [Los Angeles International Airport] to LHR [London Heathrow Airport].) SHERLOCK (to the passenger): It’s probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you? PASSENGER: Sorry – are you guys the police? SHERLOCK: Yeah. (He flashes the I.D. badge briefly at the man.) Everything all right? PASSENGER (smiling): Yeah. (Sherlock pauses for a moment as if wondering how to finish this conversation, then smiles falsely at the man.) SHERLOCK: Welcome to London. (He immediately walks away, leaving John staring blankly for a moment before he steps closer to the taxi door and looks in at the passenger.) JOHN: Er, any problems, just let us know. (As the man nods, John smiles politely and slams the cab door shut. The man looks round to the taxi driver in bewilderment. John walks to where Sherlock has stopped a few yards behind the vehicle.) JOHN: Basically just a cab that happened to slow down. SHERLOCK: Basically. JOHN: Not the murderer. SHERLOCK (exasperated): Not the murderer, no. JOHN: Wrong country, good alibi. SHERLOCK: As they go. (John notices as Sherlock switches the I.D. card from one hand to another.) JOHN: Hey, where-where did you get this? Here. (He reaches for the card and Sherlock releases it.) JOHN: Right. (He looks at the name on the card.) Detective Inspector Lestrade? SHERLOCK: Yeah. I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat. (John nods, then looks down at the card again before lifting his head and giggling silently.) SHERLOCK: What? JOHN: Nothing, just: “Welcome to London.” (Sherlock chuckles, then looks down the road to where a police officer has apparently gone to investigate why the cab has stopped in the middle of the road. The passenger has got out and is pointing down the road towards the boys.) SHERLOCK (to John): Got your breath back? JOHN: Ready when you are. (They turn and run off down the road.)
