Welcome to Baker Street

53. Guilty as charged

Sherlock keeps silent, trying to convince himself that the shiver that runs down his spine is just a figment of his imagination. Then he states firmly, "I won't commit murder. I will not kill her."

Kevin shrugs dispassionately, the perfect image of utter indifference.

"In the end, what you do is absolutely irrelevant. It only matters what people think happened, what they think of you. And I am quite positive that there's a couple of people in Scotland Yard who'd be willing to believe that you are indeed a murderer." Kevin licks his lips, anticipating the shameful downfall of the great detective.

"I don't care what Sergeant Donovan and Anderson think I might be capable of doing, but I have never put a gun to anyone's head," Sherlock raises his voice, wavering with anger.

"So far, Mr Holmes. So far. There's a first time for everything. But let me explain how it goes." Kevin carefully wears a pair of gloves and says, "You have two options. Option number one: I shoot her with this," and with one fluid movement, he pulls Sherlock's Browning L9A1 out of his pocket.

The detective does a double-take when he sees his own firearm. There it is, his missing toy.

"Does it look familiar?" Kevin smiles down at the gun. "I had an accomplice of mine borrow it from your flat while you and Doctor Watson were in Giulia's apartment, discovering that your friend had disappeared. That nursery rhyme was a clever little riddle, wasn't it? I knew it wouldn't take you long to decipher its meaning, but it still bought enough time for my associate to break into your living room and collect something for me. As I was saying, if you choose option number one, I'll kill your friend right in front of your eyes, and you won't do anything to stop me. I want to remind you you are constantly held at gunpoint." He nods to the guard aiming his gun at Sherlock's head.

"You will stand there and enjoy the show, but then you will take the rap for her murder."

"And how do you plan to frame me? Ensuring that I will be found here alone with her dead body and my Browning is not enough. There has to be hard evidence," Sherlock retorts. He has been in enough crime scenes to know what is necessary to convict someone.

"Oh, but there is plenty of it. Ballistics will confirm that the bullet belongs to your gun—the very one that even Dr Watson would recognise. Thanks to the shooting game that you've played out of boredom this morning with the smiley face on your wall, you have gunpowder traces on your hands. The only fingerprints that will be found on the weapon are yours, of course; I took my precautions, as you can see." He waves his gloved hands in the air.

"Not to mention that you have a motive, too; virtually the whole neighbourhood heard your angry outbursts against her. Don't you think it might look suspicious? I am pretty sure that after your recent shouting and temper tantrum, many people will be inclined to blame you for her murder."

Holmes glares at him. That psychopath really thought everything through. And deep down, Sherlock knows that those pieces of evidence would be more than enough to convince many people of his guilt.

"You want to turn the whole world against me? Go for it, knock yourself out. But don't think that I'm defenceless: I have an ace up my sleeve," Sherlock's eyes sparkle without the slightest hesitation.

"Who? Mycroft Holmes? Yeah, I am sure he would side with his younger brother and defend him. And he would even have the influence to spare you from a life sentence." Kevin nods pensively, evaluating that possibility. "Such a shame that he won't be there to help you out."

The detective frowns. His brother would never pass on the opportunity to throw such a thing back in his face for the rest of his days.

"What are you talking about?"

"Mr Holmes, your fame is utterly unjustified. You're so slow. The Parliament is my first target, remember? Your brother would never miss such a relevant political event. He is right there at this very moment, checking that everything is perfect, making sure that there isn't any threat..." he trails off, checking his watch and contemplating the perfection of his plan.

"Needless to say, he is within the blast radius. You can't save him now, and he won't be able to save you in the future."

The bank becomes eerily quiet as a disheartening sensation of defeat takes hold of the detective. Sherlock gazes upon vacancy for long seconds while he desperately forces his brain to come up with a solution. He processes every piece of information as he thrusts open all the doors in his mind palace only to find empty rooms. He has just one chance left, and he knows it.

He eventually surrenders and stares right into the killer's cold eyes.

"And what is option number two?"

That's a rhetorical question.

Kevin tilts his head and bares his teeth like a predator in front of its prey.

"Far easier, Mr Holmes," he answers, passing the gun to his guard, who hands it to Sherlock without ever lowering his own weapon.

"You shoot her."