bad cabbie

UK, USA

Requested

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“It’s unpatriotic,” Mycroft mused one day.

“I doubt very much the Queen cares about my dating habits.”

“Oh, brother mine, you have no idea how much every little move you make impacts our country.”

“As much as I’d love to continue this conversation, Y/N’s plane just landed.”

“Sherlock,”

“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

John looked over at his friend. “Your brother really doesn’t like you dating her, does he?”

“He doesn’t like anything I do.”

“You’re not just dating her because it makes him mad, are you?”

Sherlock scoffed. “As much as you think I don’t care about people’s emotions, I do understand that I can’t use everyone as a pawn.”

“So you admit you use some people like that?”

Sherlock said nothing, simply stepped toward the terminal. A trickle of people headed toward him, soon turning into a flood. John and Sherlock waited and waited until finally, you rounded the corner. You beamed up at Sherlock, dropping your shoulder bag on the floor before reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck.

John was surprised to see Sherlock wrap his arms around you, but was more surprised when you wrapped your arms around him after pulling away from Sherlock.

“I told you you didn’t have to come to the airport,” you said, turning to grab your shoulder bag and finding Sherlock had already picked it up, slinging it casually over his shoulder.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said. “I wouldn’t want you taking a cab alone this late at night. London cabbies can be… dangerous. And they tend to take advantage of foreigners.”

You laughed, slipping your hand into Sherlock’s as you made your way to the baggage carousel. “Well, you may think London cabbies are bad, but you’ve never met a New York cabbie.”

“Starting this already?” Sherlock asked. “Mycroft’s not even here.”

“Sorry, what?” John asked.

“Sherlock likes for me to mess with his brother,” you said with a smile. “The more American pride I can flaunt, the better.”

‘Of course,’ John thought.

“Oh, that reminds me.” You unzipped the outer pocket of the bag on Sherlock’s shoulder, never missing a stride. You pulled out a small round pin, handing it to Sherlock. “I brought you a present.”

Sherlock smiled and pinned the gift to his jacket. John saw that it was an American flag, the stars and stripes standing out against the black fabric.

“I have one for you, too, John, if you’d like it.”

“Sure,” John said, gratefully accepting the pin. “Mycroft can be a right tool sometimes.”

“You’ve never been more right,” Sherlock said.

______________________________________________________________

Over the next few days, you proved to really be able to bring the heat. The show of American pride and boasting was tremendous, irritating Mycroft to no end. He kept his calm, but Sherlock could see he was cracking.

“You do raise some good points,” Mycroft finally said one day, standing to leave Sherlock’s flat. “But I feel I must point out one thing to you, Y/N.”

“What’s that?”

“It was your country that elected Donald Trump. He’s your responsibility.”

Your lip twitched. “I didn’t vote for him.”

“And I’m not the Queen. But we both represent our country and its leader.”

You watched Mycroft leave the flat, a silence falling over you.

“Don’t listen to him, Y/N,” Sherlock said. “When he’s not stuffing his mouth with cake, he’s blathering like an idiot.”

You nodded, still staring at the door. “What does it take to become a citizen of the UK?”

“when we first started Cabin Pressure Benedict was a really really good actor we knew in a few things. But it was only when we started recording Ipswich in the second series, he and Phil Davis (Mr Sargent also the Bad Cabbie) started talking about the new modern-day Sherlock Holmes pilot; and I went “Oh yeah? that’s sounds good! Who are you in it?” and Ben went, “well, um, yeah…. Sherlock, actually”. They also mentioned that they thought the BBC “was going to get us back and re-do the entire thing” about which they were quite peevish; kind of wondering why that was necessary kind of thing….”  

“And regarding the Paris episode; I had been meaning to do a ‘whodunit’ episode since series one and now of course we have an actor who is suddenly famous for playing detectives; too good an opportunity to miss… But we made the rule to never actually say “Sherlock”; we just talked quite a lot about Miss Marple. And I definitely got a fairly hard stare from Benedict when as Martin he had to deliver the line “I wanted to be Miss Marple!” 

(David Tyler & John Finnemore from CP Box Set bonus interview 2015)

I don’t want to die

Sherlock x reader

Note: So I wrote this on the night right after the airing of the episode, almost a month ago, then I felt my end wasn’t good enough, so on @prettyxlittlexwriter​‘s suggestion, I tried to lenghten it a bit. And that’s how it got from a 4 pages and 1521 words to 8 pages and 2723 words. So yeah… And I worked a lot on it, that’s also why it took me so long to post it, but now here we are! As usual, thanks to @prettyxlittlexwriter​ for beta-reading it, otherwise it would be exploding with basic mistakes I keep making for some reasons and she helped me A) to find where to lead it when I lengthened it and B) to find how to end it correctly (if none of you have guessed by now, I suck at finding the right way to en something x( )

Anyway, I’ve got to say Spoiler alert for the two first episodes of season four (The six Tatchers and The lying detective) especially for the second one, so don’t read if you want to avoid any spoilers.

Now, time to enjoy!


“Tell me how you feel.”

“I… feel scared.” his voice was barely above a whisper.

The other man scoffed, taking off his right cufflink, slowly rolling up his sleeve, clearly enjoying the moment.

“Be more specific, you only get to do this thing once.” he chuckled softly, a sadistic smile creeping to his lips.

“I’m… scared of dying…” answered his victim, furrowing his eyebrows, seemingly confused.

His killer took of the left cufflink, rolling up his second sleeve. The tension was almost tangible in the air.


“STOP IT!” his friend violently pushed him against the wall. “STOP! IT! NOW!” anger filled his voice. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WAKE UP!” he slapped him across his face, earning a surprised groan from him.

Without even waiting for his answer, he punched him so hard the man fell on the ground, nose bloodied, probably broken. And he punched again, and again and again, unleashing his rage, stress and all the other toxic emotions he had bottled up lately against his friend, who only looked at him with surprise, groaning in pain with each new hit.

Another punch and then he kicked him and kicked him before the staff of the hospital entered hurriedly in the room, alerted by the screams of horror Smith’s daughter had let out a bit earlier; and stopped him, grabbing him by his shoulders and pulling him away.


“You wanted this, uh?” he asked.

“I have… reasons…” answered the other man, in a husky voice, blue-grays fixed on the wall in front of him.


“Let him do what he want, he’s entitled. I killed his wife.” the injured man muttered sadly, his stormy eyes full of pain.

“Yes you did.” he answered harshly.

And without any more words, he left the room, his once best friend still on the ground, a hurt look on his face.


“But, you don’t actually want to die.”

The sadistic pleasure the man gained from the moment showed in his tone.

“No.” answered the murdered, without any hesitation.


He just arrived on the crime scene when she showed up with governmental accreditation, passing through the tape directly to the body laying on the ground. He glanced back at her as she leaned on the opposite side.

“You?” he exclaimed, slightly surprised by her presence. “I’d thought your recent near-death experience at the hands of a serial killer would have scared you away from crime scenes for the rest of your life.”

“And I thought I’d catch him for good but I didn’t and yet here I am, quibbling around a dead body with a weirdo.”


He blinked, trying to chase away this ghost from his past.

“Good.” chuckled the first one, still rolling his sleeve, a big smile on his lips. “Say that for me. Say it.”


It was early when he showed up to Scotland Yard, this time, with a case he had resolved within the night, but someone else was there before him.

“You, again. How?” he asked furrowing his brows.

“I might not be as keen on deduction as you but I’m far from stupid and I’ve got my way around in the darkside of London.” she replied.

He scoffed.

“I’m surprised you didn’t got actually murdered this time.


“I don’t want to die.” the victim answered firmly, eyes fixed on his tormentor.


“Well you’ve just killed a man.”

“Yes.” cut him his new flatmate.

An awkward silence fell for a few seconds.

“That’s true isn’t it?” added he, looking around the street, hoping no one had heard them. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.” he justified himself.

“No, no he wasn’t, was he?”  nodded the detective.

“Frankly a bloody awful cabbie.” answered the doctor.

The other one chuckled, eyes glistening with sincere joy.

“That’s true, he was a bad cabbie. You should’ve seen the route he took us to get there.” he jokingly added, as they crossed the police tape.

“Stop it!” giggled his new found friend. “It’s a crime scene we can’t giggle! Stop it.”


“Again.” asked the entrepreneur.

“I don’t… want to die…” reiterated the dying detective, eyes tearing up.


“So how long have you known her?”

They were sitting at a table in a small bistro, waiting. For what, they weren’t sure why themselves but still waiting nonetheless, chitchatting, simply enjoying the moment

“Ten years, more or less.” he answered, pausing before he explained. “I saved her life and she decided to become the bane of mine ever since.” he told his friend. “She’s annoying, but smart when she wants to, so my brother hired her to follow me around-”

“Keep an eye on you, actually. Make sure you don’t make too much of a mess around London.” she cut him off, appearing from nowhere and sitting beside his companion.

“Like a babysitter.” giggled John.

His friend simply chose to ignore his comment, blue-grays full of irritation as she laughed softly.

“Like a babysitter” she agreed, slightly smirking.


Again. He was haunted by them, memories of better times. He tried to focus his attention onto the man trying to kill him.


She stormed out of the house, angrier than ever before.

“Sherlock Holmes what have you done this time?!”

“Drugged the punch.” bluntly replied the man as she reached him.

“You did what?! Oh you bastar-”

She didn’t even had time to reply, falling weakly to the ground as he caught her in his arms before she hit the it and carried her inside his parent’s house.

“I swear I will kill you…” she muttered sleepily, cradled in his arms.

“Sure Y/N, sure…” he smiled to himself.


One more. Always her. Why did she had to torment him? Why couldn’t she let him be for once?

“Once more, for luck.” whispered the serial killer, enjoying the feeling of power filling him as the detective’s eyes filled with remorse and tears.


“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON’T STOP IT NOW I’LL LEAVE YOU HERE!” yelled the woman he loved, eyes full of anger.

“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND Y/N!” Sherlock roared. “AND YOU WON’T, BECAUSE YOU DON’T KNOW HOW IT IS TO NEVER BE ABLE TO STOP, TO NEVER HAVE A MOMENT OF PEACE IN YOUR MIND, TO BE TRYING EVERYTHING YOU CAN TO HELP PEOPLE AROUND AND STILL GET REJECTED BY THEM, TO FEEL POWERLESS AS YOU WATCH YOUR LOVED ONE DYING AND SUFFERING FOR YOU. YOU DON’T KNOW THIS AND YOU’LL NEVER DO!” he motioned angrily towards the syringe. “AND THIS IS MY ONLY WAY OUT OF THIS!”

She looked at him for a second, shocked by his sudden outburst.


He fixed his gaze on the ceiling.


“You’re right. I don’t.” her voice was now calmer than ever before. “But I can’t just stand here and watch you destroy yourself…” She walked to the door of his flat and turned to Billy. “ I can’t believe you’re letting him do that, I thought…  I thought…Well anyway I was wrong!” She turned back to Sherlock. “And you, don’t come to me unless you’re done for good with that.”

And with those harsh words, she left, slamming the door behind her.


“I don’t want to die…” his voice broke at mid-sentence, a single tear escaping his eyes, full of regrets.

Of course he didn’t wanted to, not without apologizing to them one last time, not without holding her in his arms for a last moment.

His killer pressed a button on one of the machines beside his hospital bed.

“I don’t…”


She smiled at him, her eyes glistening of joy. He held her against him in a tight embrace, chin resting upon her head, her scent filling the air, her presence awaking all his senses.


“…don’t want to die” begged the broken man, nearly sobbing.


“I love you Holmes.”


Smith leaned over him, enjoying his despair.”Awfully…” he whispered.

All this time she had been his anchor, the only person who could calm him with a simple look, the only real constant in his life for the last fifteen years. And now that panic filled his stomach, he wished with all his heart she could have been there. If he was to die, he would rather have it in her comforting presence than alone with a serial killer.



She held him in her arms, whispering to him in a soft and appeasing voice, getting through him in a way that only she knew how, as he kept groaning in intense pain.


He looked beside him, almost wishing he was still high enough to hallucinate her, sitting on the chair, holding his hand in a calming gesture.

But he wasn’t, and she wasn’t there either.

“… here it comes.” warned the other man, rising up and increasing the dosage to a lethal dose.


“Save John Watson, Sherlock.” pleaded his now dead friend, eyes locked with his own through the screen. “Save him.”


He didn’t wanted to die but he had to. For the sake of his friend. For the sake of those he loved.


“You can’t save John because he won’t let you. He won’t allow himself. The only way to save John, is to make him save you.”


“So tell me, why are we doing this? To what do I hold the pleasure?” asked Smith, walking to the opposite side of the bed.

“I wanted to hear your confession. I needed to know I was right.” answered Sherlock, in an hoarse voice.

“Why do you need to die?” further enquired the other one.

“The mortuary. Your favorite room.” The detective paused for a second. “You talk to the death, you make your confessions to them.”

Culverton Smith sniffed and turned to the wooden chair at the end of the bed, shaking his head as he sat there.

“Why do you do it?” asked the other one.

“Why do I kill?” repeated Smith, asking the question to himself. “It’s not about hatred or revenge, I’m not a dark person. Killing human beings…” he stopped at mid-sentence, uncontrollably laughing,  “It just makes me… incredibly happy.”

The man rose from his seat, still laughing, and slowly walked to the head of the hospital bed, taking his time, explaining his reasons.

“You know how you feel when you see a dead people? Pretending to be dead and it’s just… a look that people like to have.” he shook his head slightly, voice barely above a whisper, each of the men with his eyes fixed in the other one’s.


A body layed in a pool of blood, he was one of the first on the crime scene, Scotland Yard barely arriving. He kneeled beside the dead. Woman, blond, emerald eyes locked to the ceiling, empty of any spark of life. Tiny marks on her wristband, she was wearing a bracelet, probably stolen by her assaulter. Knife wound on her torso, clothes bestially torn apart, laceration on her pale skin, probably made by fingernails. Young.

Really young.


“That’s not what dead people look like. Dead people look like things. I like to make people into things, then you can own them.” he explained, eyes glistening with excitation as he rose up.

He marked a pause.

“You know what, I’m getting a little impatient.”

He pressed a button on the hospital bed, lowering its angle and stared at his victim with anticipation for an instant. He then proceeded to slowly walk to the right side of the bed, as Sherlock trailed him with his grey eyes, getting more and more tired by each passing second, the poisonous saline’s dosage filling his veins.

The killer adjusted his plastic gloves and leaned a bit, towering above the man.


She sank like a rock. She had always been scared of deep water, she had never learnt how to swim and now, it was going to kill her. He heard John screaming his name as he hit the surface rather hardly. The freezing temperature of Thames river in this winter night piercing his skin as he reached to her and grab her arm, pulling her up to him. Holding her tightly, he swam to the surface, his lungs screaming for fresh air.

Reaching it, he dragged her unconscious body to the shore, praying he had caught her in time, checking for a sign, any sign, she was still breathing.

“Come on Y/N…” he mumbled, trying to revive her. “Please… Breath Don’t do this to me… Please!”

The time seemed completely stopped until she finally cough, gasping loudly for air, coughing the polluted water out of her lungs.

“Sherlock…” she cried, shivering the cold air, clutching to him as if he was her lifeline in the middle of her panic attack, struggling to breath.

“It’s alright Y/N, I’m here…” he said, in a soothing voice, holding her against him, in an attempt to calm and warm her up, as John ran to them from the bridge. “Shh… it’s okay, everything will be fine…”

“Take a deep breath… it’s over now.”


“Take a deep breath if you want.” whispered the cold blooded killer, before he placed his right hand on the man’s mouth, pinching his nose with the left one, successfully blocking any access to oxygen.

He gasped panic filling his eyes, hands weakly gripping his killer’s, in hope of freeing himself.

“Murder is a very difficult addiction to manage. People don’t realize how much work goes into it.” explained Smith, a smile plastered on his face, painfully choking him. “You have to be careful, maybe if you’re rich or famous… and loved… it’s amazing what people are prepared to ignore!”


“John!”

Their panicked screams filled the air as they rushed to the huge bonfire. The crowd stared at them, completely shocked, while they kept screaming his name, trying to free him from the fire.

“Help!” his called echoed through them, barely audible with the crackling sound of burning wood and the horrified screams from the crowd.

“John!”

They kept throwing away the burning planks and branches, burning the skin of their hands, crying his name until their voices broke, coughing in the smoke. He was in panic, his best friend was going to burn alive in front of his eyes because of him.

“John!”

The fire was bigger and bigger as they dug deeper into the burning pile, heart racing, praying to reach him in time.

After a long and agonizing minute, they finally pulled him out of the bonfire, breathless, right before it collapsed on itself. If they had be there one mere second later, he would have been killed.


The injured was trying to free himself but to no avail, everything around him getting blurrier, his head spinning with the lack of oxygen. He wanted to scream, call for help, do something but he simply couldn’t, the saline in his veins weakening and killing him.

“There’s always someone desperate who’s about to know my sins. But there’s no one to suspect it when I do it here, it’s easier to suspect something else. I just have to ration myself to select the right. Heart. To stop.”

Sherlock slowly stopped fighting, powerless, the world darkening around him, he could hear the soft and insidious whispers of death calling to him. His eyes were closing themselves as he was resigning himself, giving up in the fight. But the entrepreneur didn’t wanted the fun to be over so soon.

“Maintain eye contact! Maintain eye contact!” he ordered him, whispering.

The constant beeping of the machines beside him was now erratic, faster than before, his heart struggling to beat without the needed oxygen while his killer repeated his mantra again and again.

“Maintain eye contact.”

Beep.

“Maintain eye contact.”

Beep.

“Maintain eye contact.”

Beep.

“Maintain.”

Beep.

“Eye.”

Beep.

“Contact.”

Everything was blurry, his voice distant, the beeping faster, but barely audible, his heart now the only thing left to hear, its beating covering everything else. Smith kept muttering to the dying man, who was now deaf to the world. Sherlock wanted to scream, call for help, but his forces were leaving him for good.

“Y/N.”

Beep.

“John”

Beep.

“Mary…”

Beep.

“I’m sorry.”

Beep.

“I failed you.”

He couldn’t fight anymore. He was dying. The game was over… And in his last instants, his thought were focussed on them.

His friends.

Beep.

His family.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

BANG

There was shouting and commotion, but none of it mattered now. They had come for him, and he was alive.

anonymous asked:

But what IF Sherlock saw John was bi, took him on a date pretending they were hunting bad cabbies but when Angelo made assumptions John denied so Sherlock realized John was closeted, and then John starts to flirt with Sherlock but Sherlock knew that kind of relationship where one wants to hide from everyone and Sherlock couldn't hold their hand or be affectionate in public so he decided to just say he was married to his work.

why

anonymous asked:

The thing that makes me so mad about Sherlock is that in the first episode, they couldn't be more clear that the link between victims, and the possible lead to the killer is the cabs. The girlfriend of the first victim tells him to get a cab, the second victim is shown trying to hail a taxi, and the third one is drunk, the classic 'need a cab' situation. It's literally all right there in the first few minutes and I, and several of my friends, missed it. Makes me so steamed.

That’s actually exactly why I found it so clever! It completely went right over Sherlock’s head too and I mean, Sherlock isn’t always right, we know that. Pal isn’t indestructible regardless of what he’d like to believe or make others believe. But he’s not, and right from the first episode we see him struggling (and leaving a lot of us puzzled) by something that was so in-our-face, you know? It’s pretty interesting!

  • ep 1: lets chase some bad cabbies and flirt a lot and then eat some dim sum
  • ep 9: i get high on hard drugs because the love of my life married another and my entire world is a weighted hell on my small, weak shoulders

External image

I like this image and the series it comes from.  It’s absolutely awful, the amount of out-of-focus negative space around her.  It leaves her on this isolated little island of painful clarity- she’s the other woman.  No one will comfort her.  No one knows, or if they do, they don’t care or wish to appear to care.  The harsh line that frames her separates her from the crowd of people who comfort and surround the widow, the woman who gets the attention.  All she gets is this nasty little window.  Maybe she’ll be in a tabloid, “The Other Woman”, and bring disgrace to a man who just wanted to have some fun.  Later, when they all realize that the bad cabbie knew how to exploit the guilt and weaknesses of his victims, it will occur to everyone that SHE was probably the weakness he found.

That blurring of her actual figure, blurring her from view, reality, is genius when, just nearby, she is in sharp focus, but only through a viewfinder.  She’s lost in the crowd, drowning in shadow, but was/is essentially nothing in this equation but a liability, both to the man she grieves quietly and the family she was stealing pieces of him from.

Makes me wonder- does she choose the negative space, or is she simply shoved to the side?  Brilliant stuff.  Love it all.