The Lying Detective (Part 1)

(Open POV)

A pistol has fired and smoke drifts from the muzzle. The face of John Watson is lying on his back and staring blankly upwards. The very quiet sound of a woman whimpering in pain can be heard, and Mary's voice can just be heard saying tearfully, 'Look after Rosie'.

Watsons' home...

John's face is upright, and he is actually lying on his back on his bed, staring blankly upwards.

House...

A woman's voice speaks with a soft German accent.

"Tell me about your morning. Start from the beginning." A woman said, nearby.

John is reflected in a window. Outside the window is a wicker fence, and inside the room is a bunch of what look like pale white roses in a vase.

"I woke up." John said, smiling tightly.

He is in what appears to be the back room of a house. He is sitting in a chair a few feet away from a woman facing him as she sits in a low armchair. Dark blue floor-length curtains are tied back either side of French windows at the rear of the room, looking out into the back garden, and similar curtains hang either side of a smaller window beside him. On a table under the smaller window stands the vase of flowers. There is a jagged red rug on the floor between John and the woman. It's clear as the conversation continues that this woman is a therapist and is not Ella.

"How did you sleep?" The therapist asked.

"I didn't. I don't." John said.

"You just said you woke up."

"I stopped lying down."

Watsons' home...

John sits up in bed and shifts back to lean against the headboard. The duvet on the other side of the bed is rucked up and a hand is poking out from under it, resting on the pillow. Blonde curly hair is also visible.

"Alone?" The therapist asked, as a voiceover.

John looks across to the mostly-hidden person lying beside him.

Therapist's room...

"Of course alone." John said.

The therapist has ash blonde shoulder-length hair, is wearing glasses, and has a notebook on her lap, "I meant Rosie, your daughter."

"Uh, she's with friends." John said.

"Why?" The therapist asked.

"Can't always cope ... and Jared has been trying to cope ... and, uh, last night wasn't ... good." John said.

Watsons' home...

John stands in the hallway of his house leaning against the wall. The hall is in darkness. He holds his left shoulder with his right hand and drinks from a glass, ice cubes rattling.

Therapist's room...

"That's understandable." The therapist said.

"Is it? Why? Why is it understandable? Why does everything have to be understandable?" John asked, smiling and then laughs bitterly. "Why can't, um, some things be unacceptable and-and we just say that?"

John gestures briefly at the end of the sentence, then lowers his hand onto the other one and taps his index finger against it.

"I only mean it's okay." The therapist said.

"I'm letting my daughter and my best friend down. How the hell is that okay?" John asked.

"You just lost your wife." The therapist said, softly.

"And Rosie just lost her mother while Jared just lost one of his best friends." John said, pulling in a harsh breath, then clears his throat.

Watsons' home...

John sits at his kitchen table with a steaming mug beside him. He lifts his hands, clasps them together and props his chin on them. In the background, someone is moving around in the living room. Whoever it is is very out of focus but their shape suggests that it's a woman.

"You are holding yourself to an unreasonable standard." The therapist said, as a voiceover.

The person walks to John's side and puts an arm around his shoulder.

Therapist's room...

"No, I'm failing to." John said.

"So there is no-one you talk to, confide in?" The therapist asked.

"No-one. Jared is trying to support me and Rosie after what happened. But I know he does it due to his empathy being so strong."

Watsons' home...

John has now put on a jacket and walks towards the front door, holding a set of keys in one hand and a briefcase in the other. He turns back towards the other person, whom we can't see except their arm.

"Oh, I'm picking up Rosie this afternoon from Jared's, after I've seen my therapist. Got a new one; seeing her today." John said.

"Are you gonna tell her about me?" Mary asked, nearby,

"No." John said, shaking his head.

"Why not?"

"'Cause I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't ... you know I can't. She thinks you're dead."

"John, you've got to remember. It's important."

Mary is standing at the kitchen table with her hand on the back of one of the chairs. She is wearing the same clothes she wore in the Aquarium but there is no blood or bullet hole on her shirt.

"I am dead." Mary said, while John nods. "Please, for your own sake and for Rosie's. And for Jared's, since he cares so much for you and Rosie. This isn't real. I'm dead." John looks away. "John. Look at me."

"Hm." John said, turning his head to Mary.

"I'm not here." Mary said, as John nods. "You know that, don't you?"

John stares blankly into the corner of the room for several seconds, rubbing his ear with one finger.

"Okay, I'll see you later." John said, his voice breaking slightly.

John looks into the kitchen again and he turns and walks away.

"Is there anything you're not telling me?" The therapist asked, as a voiceover.

Consultation room...

John bites his lip and then presses his lips together. After a moment he looks up and over the therapist's left shoulder. Mary is standing by the wall behind her, looking off into the distance. John huffs out a small laugh.

"No." John said, clearing his throat awkwardly.

Mary is now looking towards John and tears run down one cheek.

"What are you looking at?" The therapist asked, turning in her chair and looks towards where John was looking.

"Nothing." John said, sadly.

"You keep glancing to my left." The therapist said, facing John again.

"Oh, I suppose I was just ... looking away." John said, laughing nervously.

"There is a difference between looking away and looking to. I tend to notice these things."

"I'm sure." John said, smiling tightly.

The therapist breathes out a small laugh, "Now I am reminding you of one of your friends, I think. The one that isn't Jared Shay."

"It's not necessarily a good thing." John said, still smiling humorlessly.

"Do you talk to Sherlock Holmes?" The therapist asked.

"I haven't seen him. No-one's seen him. He's locked himself away in his flat. God knows what he's up to."

"Do you blame him?"

John twiddles his thumbs compulsively.

"I don't blame ... I don't think about him." John said, shaking his head.

"Has he attempted to make contact with you and Jared?" The therapist asked.

"No."

"How can you be sure? He might have tried."

"No, if Sherlock Holmes wants to get in touch, that's not something you can fail to notice." John said, sighing out a breath through his nose.

Just then, the sound of a car accelerating hard can be heard outside. John turns his head towards the front room and a red car comes into view through the window, does a dramatic U-turn with a squeal of tyres and stops outside the house. There's the sound of shattering glass and a black plastic rubbish bin flies through the air and crashes to the ground. John and the therapist get up from their seats and walk towards the front door as the sound of an approaching police car's siren can be heard. John opens the front door and walks outside just as a helicopter can be heard overhead. John looks at the expensive-looking red car and then squints upwards towards the helicopter, while the police siren continues to wail. The red car is parked at an awkward angle outside the house and rubbish bins lying on their sides near it. Smoke is still rising from the car's tortured tyres. Police cars are just pulling up from both ends of the road. Back on the ground, the badge on the front of the car showing that it's an Aston Martin. The driver's door opens and the sound of Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 (Ode to Joy) can be heard from the car's stereo. The driver and their companion get out. John squints up at the helicopter again.

"Well, now ..." The therapist said, standing in the doorway behind John.

John lowers his head to look at the driver and his face fills with surprise.

"... won't you introduce me?" The therapist asked.

John stares at the driver and their companion as if he can't believe what he is seeing.

LONDON...

It is dusk and a man in his fifties, wearing a white suit, stands on the balcony of a riverside building in the Southwark area, looking at the view. The balcony is many storeys above ground. We might recognise him from the advertisement on the bus shelter where John last saw his mystery redhead.

Shortly afterwards, the man has come off the balcony into a room which has floor-to-ceiling glass windows on three sides. He shakes hands with a white-haired man and then walks over to one of the windows to look outside. There are several other people in the room chatting with each other around a large white oval table in the middle of the room.

News footage is shown of the man, wearing a black tuxedo and coming down a grand staircase smiling and waving as cameras flash and reporters shout questions.

The footage is captioned News 24/7 on the bottom left of the screen and on the right the man is identified as Culverton Smith and underneath his name, Entrepreneur / Philanthropist. He continues downstairs into the throng of reporters who continue to take photos and hold microphones towards him. He raises his hands to them, smiling as he continues onwards.

"No, thank you, thank you." Smith said, in a northern English accent.

Glass walled room...

Smith smiles to himself. Nearby a woman in her mid-thirties, with mid-blonde shoulder-length hair and wearing a large pair of glasses, walks across the room leaning heavily on a cane. She greets one of the men.

"Hello." Faith said, in a northern English accent.

The man Fath is talking to turns one of the chairs to make it easier for her to sit down. Behind Smith, a woman approaches him.

"Mr Smith?" Cornelia asked, as Smith turns his head slightly towards her. "Whenever you're ready."

Smith turns and looks towards the table where everyone is now sitting down, still talking to each other.

Smith has now stopped to talk to the reporters, "Uh, the charity fun..."

Riverside room...

Smith turns to Cornelia, "Now, please."

Raising her hand to a headset in her ear, Cornelia walks away across the room.

"Bring them through." Cornelia said, talking into her microphone.

At the end of a corridor outside the room, the door opens and a woman in a white nurse's uniform, cap and gloves and with a white mask over her nose and mouth walks through carrying a clipboard. She is followed by several other nurses, mostly female but at least one male, similarly attired. Each of them is wheeling a drug stand beside them. Inside the glass room we see clearly for the first time that there are six people seated around the table, three on each side. Faith sits between two men on the left-hand side, and two men and a woman sit on the other side. Smith stands at the end of the table looking at them.

"It's difficult having such good friends." Smith said, walking along the right-hand side of the table, putting a hand briefly on the shoulder of the two men as he passes. "Friends are people you want to share with. Friends and ..." Reaching the other end of the table, he points towards Faith. "... family."

Outside the room...

The nurses and their stands progress along the corridor.

"What's the very worst thing you can do to your very best friends?" Smith asked, reaching Faith and putting both hands on her shoulders and he rubs her shoulders and then strokes her neck with one hand.

Faith laughs a little nervously. The man sitting to her right speaks.

"Something on your mind?" Ivan asked.

"Yes, Ivan. Oh, yes." Smith said, patting Faith's shoulder and she tilts her head back and smiles at him.

"Whatever you tell us stays in this room. I think I speak for everyone."

The others chorus their agreement with comments of 'Of course', and 'Yeah'. Smith walks back to the head of the table and leans his arms on the back of the chair there.

"Well? What is the worst thing you could do?" Faith asked.

Smith draws in a long breath through his nose.

"Tell them your darkest secret." Smith said, narrowing his eyes. "Because if you tell them and they decide they'd rather not know, you can't take it back. You can't unsay it." He smiles briefly. "Once you've opened your heart, you can't close it again."

Smith's friends look at him silently. After a moment, he laughs raucously. The others laugh too as he flaps a hand at them.

"I'm kidding!" Smith yelled, continuing to laugh for a moment, then his smile drops. "Of course you can." He nods to Cornelia standing near the door. The door is already open and now the nurses process into the room. "Well, everyone, please, roll up your right sleeves. Roll up your right sleeves. Come on." The seated people look anxious as the nurses wheel their drug stands into the room and each one goes to one of Smith's guests. "Oh, i-it's, uh, it's a bit of insurance."

"I don't understand." Faith said, pointing to the drug stand nearest to her. "What is that?"

"TD12. One of ours." Ivan said, chuckling.

"One of yours?"

"We make it, my company – TD12. Sells mainly to dentists and hospitals for minor surgical procedures. Interferes with ..." Ivan said, gesturing towards his head as Faith stumbles into another room, leaning heavily on her cane, and slumps against the door. "... the memory."

"The memory, yes!" Smith said, pointing towards Ivan and Faith hobbles deeper into the room. "I-I-I want to thank you, Ivan, for allowing me to use it."

"Well, I didn't exactly know who you were going to be using it on." Ivan said.

Smith chuckles.

"You mean you didn't ask?" Faith asked.

"Is everyone ready?" Smith asked, looking round the table.

"No." Faith said, anxiously.

"Please, roll up your sleeves. Come on – roll up!" Smith said, looking at everyone.

Faith drops her cane to the floor and leans heavily on a desk, then straightens up and looks down to run her finger over her right arm just below the elbow.

Glass room...

The nurses are beginning to attach drips to the right arms of other seated guests, although Faith's nurse hasn't started yet.

"This is obscene." The other female guest said.

"All I'm doing, Faith, dear ..." Smith said, walking behind Faith and turns her chair slightly so that she can look at him. "... is getting something off my chest ..." He bends and takes her right wrist. "... without getting it on yours." He starts to unbutton the sleeve of Faith's blouse. "What you're about to hear me say may horrify you, but you will forget it."

Around the table, the nurses continue their preparations.

"If you think about it, civilisation has always depended on a measure of elective ignorance." Smith said, rolling up Faith's sleeve and looking around the table.

Smith is wearing a blue suit, laughing raucously. It looks as if he's in a TV studio.

Glass room...

Smith chuckles slightly and passes Faith's arm to her nurse.

TV studio...

Faith has sat down at the desk and reaches down to a small round sticking plaster on her right arm just below the elbow.

Glass room...

The nurse finishes attaching a drip to Faith's right arm. Smith is now seated in the chair at the head of the table.

"These drip feeds will keep the drug in your bloodstreams at exactly the right levels." Smith said, while Cornelia opens the door and the nurses start to leave the room. "Nothing that is happening to you now will stay with you for more than a few minutes." He spoke more quietly. "I'm afraid that some of the memories you've had up to this point might also be ..." Faith struggles to pick up and control a fountain pen. "... corrupted." He smiles, revealing his stained and jagged teeth. The people around the table are starting to look drowsy. "I'm going to share something with you now; something personal and of importance to me." He stands up. "I have a need to confess, but you – I think – might have a need to forget." Smith chuckles. "By the end of this, you'll be free to go. And don't worry – by the time you're back in the outside world, you will not remember any of what you've heard."

"Ignorance is bliss." Faith said.

"Well, what's wrong with bliss?!" Smith exclaimed, as Faith has got a notepad on the desk in front of her.

Faith runs her hand over her face.

"Some of you know each other and some of you don't." Smith said, walking slowly around the table as Faith breathes shakily, looking down at the notepad. "Please, be aware that one of you is a high-ranking police officer." Faith forces her hand onto the notepad and scribbles, 'Police officer'. "One of you is a member of the judiciary." Faith writes 'Judge?' then, staring into the distance, angrily slams her pen hand down three times on the desk. "One of you sits on the board of a prominent broadcaster."

A drop of blood falls onto the notepad. Faith looks at where the drop has fallen just under where she has written 'BROADCASTER'. She turns her hand over and looks at where she inadvertently cut herself at the base of her little finger, presumably against the nib of the fountain pen.

"Two of you work for me and one of you, of course, is my lovely daughter, Faith." Smith said, reaching out and puts his hand on the back of Faith's head, rubbing it quite hard.

Faith has written 'ME' next to the bloodstain. Her hand drags across the paper, smearing the blood through the word.

"You are the people I need to hear me. I have made millions, for myself, for the people round this table, for millions of people I've never even met." Smith said.

TV studio...

The news footage and Smith talking to reporters.

"There are charities that I support who wouldn't exist without me." Smith said, walking around the table.

Smith is wearing a tracksuit and breaking the tape at the end of a fun run, raising his arms in triumph. Someone dressed in a large bird costume is also finishing the race just behind him.

The Culverton Smith Wing...

Smith is cutting a ribbon at the opening of The Culverton Smith Wing at a hospital on Thursday 20th July 2014 as shown on a plaque on the wall nearby. Medical staff stand behind him applauding.

"If life is a balance sheet – and I think it is – well, I believe I'm in credit!" Smith said, chuckling, then his smile fades. "But I have a situation that needs to be ... managed ..." He turns and walks away from the table. "I have a problem ... and there is only one way that I can solve it."

"And what's that?" Faith asked, a little drowsily.

TV studio...

Smith turns back, walks to the table and leans his hands on it.

"I'm terribly sorry." Smith said, pausing for a long moment, then draws his lips back from his teeth. "I need to kill someone."

Faith writes 'NEED TO KILL'. Gritting her teeth in concentration she adds 'SOMEONE'.

Glass room...

"Who?" Faith asked, leaning forward a little.

Smith chuckles.

TV studio...

Faith writes 'Who?'. Faith puts her pen down and tears the sheet of paper from the notepad.

Faith's office...

At the open door of her office, Ivan comes to the doorway holding his jacket in one hand and undoing the top button of his shirt. He stops, wobbling slightly.

"Were we in a meeting? Was there a meeting?" Ivan asked, vaguely.

Faith stares down at the sheet of paper. Ivan looks around, confused, then wanders away. Putting one hand to her head, Faith puts down the piece of paper and in flashback remembers her father in the glass room.

"I need to kill someone." Smith said, as in her office, Faith looks up at the sound of someone at the doorway. "Faith." He walks in, tutting as Faith picks up the paper again. "My dear, dear child."

"I can't remember. Can't remember who you're gonna kill." Faith said, tearfully.

"Dear, in five minutes you won't even remember why you were crying." Smith said, reaching Faith's side, he puts his arm around her and pulls her to his chest. "The others are all fine."

"I know."

"You know, they've gone down the pub." Smith said, stroking Faith's hair. "It's all on me." He chuckles and Faith sobs and he reaches out to turn the piece of paper so that he can read what's written on it. "Oh, Faith. Don't you think I should take that? It's only going to upset you."

Smith kisses the top of Faith's head, then looks grimly towards the door.

Without segue, a pair of hands is holding the piece of paper which had been folded in half, as shown by the sharp crease in it, but is now open.

Living room of 221B Baker Street...

"Three years ago ..." Faith said.

It is night time but the curtains are open. Despite lamps being on all around the room, it looks dark and gloomy in there. Faith, wearing an ankle-length long-sleeved dark red dress, is standing facing the right-hand window. Sherlock is slumped in his chair with a dark blue dressing gown over his clothes and he is holding and looking at the sheet of paper. The room is an even worse mess than usual, with papers and files scattered everywhere. There is a pile of books on the table beside John's chair, although the 'me-balloon' is no longer there.

"... my father told me he wanted to kill someone. One word, Mr Holmes ..." Faith said.

Sherlock folds the paper over and looks at the back of it, then straightens his fingers and notices that they are trembling slightly. He looks like hell. He hasn't shaved for a couple of days and his hair is unwashed and flatter to his head than usual.

"... and it changed my world forever." Faith said, as Sherlock looks up at her as she clenches her hands over the top of her cane in front of her, still facing the window. "Just one word."

"What word?" Sherlock asked, lowering the paper and he picks up his mobile phone.

"A name." Faith said, turning to face Sherlock as he works on the phone.

"What name?" Sherlock asked.

Faith walks across the room to where the client's chair is facing the fireplace. The fire is lit.

"I can't remember." Faith said, sitting down, causing Sherlock to look up at her. "I can't remember who my father wanted to kill ..." She looks down at her hands on top of her cane. "... and I don't know if he ever did it."

Sherlock looks back to the phone and sighs.

"Well, you've changed. You no longer top up your tan and your roots are showing." Sherlock said, holding up the phone to look more closely at a photograph of Faith and her father smiling into the camera then lowering the phone and looking at her. "Letting yourself go?"

"Do you ever look in the mirror and want to see someone else?" Faith asked.

"No. Do you own an American car?"

"I'm sorry?"

"No, not American; left-hand drive, that's what I mean." Sherlock said, closing his eyes and waving a hand vaguely.

"No. Why-why do you ask?"

Sherlock blinks and looks across to Faith.

"Not sure, actually." Sherlock said, shrugging. "Probably just noticed something."

Above and to the left of her head from Sherlock's perspective, imaginary chalk writing appears in large letters reading 'SOMETHING' and a chalk line draws down to form an arrow pointing to the bottom right of her skirt – again from Sherlock's perspective. He blinks a couple of times and focuses in to where there's a straight dark line of dirt on the skirt, then he grimaces and gestures angrily in front of him. The imaginary chalk disperses and disappears.

Sherlock looks down at his hand held out in front of him and sees that it's trembling. He clenches it into a fist with a sharp snap, then stretches the fingers out again. They continue to tremble.

"Are you okay?" Faith asked.

"Oh, of course you don't own a car. You don't need one, do you, living in isolation, no human contact, no visitors." Sherlock said, still holding out his shaking hand, as he speaks, he unfolds the piece of paper again and looks at it vaguely.

"Okay, how do you know that?" Faith asked, nervously, reaching up to fiddle with her necklace with one hand.

"It's all here, isn't it? Look." Sherlock said, brandishing the paper, standing up, and wanders across the room toward Faith, showing her the paper. "Cost-cutting's clearly a priority for you. Look at the size of your kitchen: teeny-tiny." He walks past her towards the right-hand window then turns back to Faith. "Must be a bit annoying when you're such a keen cook."

"I don't understand." Faith said.

"Hang on a minute ..." Sherlock said, turning to the window. "... I was looking out of the window. Why was I doing that?"

Sherlock steps closer to the window and looks out of it through the rain pouring down it.

"I don't know!" Faith yelled.

"Me either. Must have had a reason." Sherlock said, shaking his head and turns around. "It'll come back to me." He walks back across the room, folding the paper in half and sniffing it as he goes. "Presumably you downsized when you ... when you left your job ..." Sherlock raises the paper to his mouth and bites into the edge of it. "... and maybe when you ended your relationship."

Sherlock slumps heavily down into his chair. On the table beside him, a spoon and a used syringe with the last dregs of brownish fluid in it rattle noisily on the saucer on which they're lying.

"You can't know that." Faith said.

"'Course I can. There wasn't anything physical going on, was there?" Sherlock asked, holding up the paper and starts to run his fingers along the fold. "Quite some time, in fact." He sharply finishes running his fingers along the fold and then waves the paper at Faith. "There, see? It's obvious."

"You can't tell things like that from a piece of paper." Faith said, upset.

"Think I just did, didn't I?" Sherlock asked, nodding his head before sniffing. "I'm sure that was me."

"How?"

"Dunno." Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely. "Just sort of ... happens, really." He leans forward and lowers his head. "It's ... like a reflex. I can't stop it."

Raising his head, Sherlock looks across to Faith, then does a double-take and homes in on the wet patch on the top of her dress' right shoulder. Looking away briefly, he returns his gaze to her and three chalk words appear above her, one over each shoulder and one over the top of her hair. Each word reads 'DAMP'. Hauling himself to his feet, he waves his hand at her twice and the two words over her shoulders dissipate while she flinches away from him, then he sweeps his hand over the top of her head and the last word also dissipates and the chalk dust floats away. She looks up at him nervously as he reaches out and touches his fingers to her right shoulder.

"Coat." Sherlock said, turning and walks towards the fireplace.

"I don't have a coat." Faith said, sadly.

"Yeah, that's what I just noticed. I wonder why?" Sherlock asked, walking round the other side of John's chair and heading in the direction of the kitchen.

One of the closed doors of the kitchen slides open and Bill Wiggins looks through the gap, "Who you talkin' to? Did Jared stop by to help?"

"Piss off." Sherlock said, pushing the door closed and turns away.

"So what do you think?" Faith asked.

"Of what?"

"My case."

"Oh, it's way too weird for me. Go to the police; they're really excellent at dealing with this complicated sort of stuff. Tell them I sent you; that ought to get a reaction." Sherlock said, picking up a large handbag from John's chair. "Night-night."

Sherlock tosses the handbag towards Faith. In slow motion the bag flies across the room and Faith raises her hands to catch it but before it reaches her it goes into ultra-slow motion. Sherlock frowns and heads towards it at normal speed, looking closely at it as it drifts very slowly across the room. He reaches down and puts his hand underneath it and a chalk letter 'g' appears. Sherlock lifts his hand and touches the underside of the bag and a variety of chalk numbers scroll up beside the 'g', peaking at '1619' before rolling back to '0g' when he takes his hand away again. Giving the almost-frozen Faith a look, he turns and walks back across the room, wiping out the chalk as he walks across in front of it and he is back in his previous position when the bag goes into normal speed and Faith catches it. She stands up and walks towards him as he slides open the kitchen doors and starts to walk through them.

"Please." Faith said, as Sherlock turned back to her. "I have no-one else to turn to."

"Yes, but I'm very busy at the moment. I have to drink a cup of tea." Sherlock said, half closing the doors, goes to the kitchen table and picks up a teacup with two syringes in it.

Liquid can be heard bubbling nearby. Sitting at the left of the table in front of a complicated contraption of pipes clamped together, a gas tank and what looks like a plastic drugs drip bag clipped to one pipe with a large clothes peg, Bill looks at him.

"Is 'cup of tea' code?" Wiggins asked.

A clear plastic tent has been hung from the ceiling around the sink. Sherlock reaches through the opening to empty the syringes from the teacup onto the draining board.

"It's a cup of tea." Sherlock said.

"Because you might prefer some ..." Wiggins said, making air-quotes with the fingers of his right hand. "... 'coffee'."

Walking back across the kitchen, Sherlock throws him a dark look.

Faith is still standing in the living room, "You're my last hope."

"Really? That's bad luck, isn't it? Goodnight. Go away." Sherlock said, turning to Faith and taking hold of the handles on both of the sliding doors.

Sherlock slides the doors closed. Faith shuts her eyes in despair. Sherlock turns back to the work surface nearby.

"What's bad luck?" Wiggins asked.

"Stop talking. It makes me aware of your existence." Sherlock said, exasperated, leaning his hands on the work surface and lowering his head.

"I always 'ave bad luck. It's congenital."

"Handbag." Sherlock said, raising his head.

"That's not rude. Congenital: it just means ..."

Sherlock turns to the doors and slides them open, "Handbag!"

Faith has gone.

Downstairs, Faith is just opening the front door. Outside, torrential rain is pouring down.

"Stop. Wait!" Sherlock yelled, nearby.

Faith turns to see Sherlock half-hurrying and half-falling down the stairs, his right hand braced against the wall. He stops at the bottom of the stairs.

"Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it, do you hear me?" Sherlock asked, urgently, making Faith stare at him, looking confused as the consulting detective points at her. "Off it." He spoke sternly, emphatically. "Off it."

"Sorry?" Faith asked, limping back towards Sherlock. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Your skirt." Sherlock said, pointing down towards Faith's feet.

"My skirt?"

"Look at the hem of it!" Sherlock said, urgently. "That's what I noticed. I'm ..." He puts his hand to his face briefly. "... still catching up with my brain. It's terribly fast." He points to the bottom of Faith's dress and takes a step closer to her, still bracing himself on the wall with the fingertips of his other hand. "Those markings. Do you see them?" Faith looks down. "You only get marks like that by trapping the hem of your skirt in a car door but they're on the left-hand side, so you weren't driving; you were in the passenger seat."

"I came in a taxi."

"There is no taxi waiting in the street outside." Sherlock said, shaking his head against his befuddled mind. "That's what I checked when I went to the window. And you've got all the way to the door and not made any move to phone for one, and look at you. You didn't even bring a coat – in this rain? Now, well, that might mean nothing, except for the angle of the scars on your left forearm; you know, under that sleeve that you keep pulling down."

Looking down, Faith reaches across and pulls her left sleeve down.

"Y-you never saw them." Faith said, looking up again.

"No, I didn't, so thank you for confirming my hypothesis. Don't really need to check that the angle's consistent with self-harm, do I?" Sherlock asked, reaching towards Faith.

Faith flinches back, "No."

"Then you can keep your scars. I want to see your handbag."

"Why?" Faith asked.

"It's too heavy. You said I was your last hope and now you're going out into the night with no plan on how you're getting home ... and a gun." Sherlock said, as Faith lowers her head.

Sherlock focuses in on Faith's walking cane, which is black with a white band across the top of the handle and some curly patterning up its length. He nods and sniffs sharply and has a brief flashback of John walking away from the house in Lauriston Gardens in 'A Study in Pink', leaning heavily on his cane. Sherlock shakes the memory away, his face unhappy.

"Chips." Sherlock said.

"Chips?" Faith asked.

Sherlock takes a coat – presumably one of Mrs Hudson's – from the coat hooks on the wall and sighs as he hands it to her. Faith takes the coat.

"You're suicidal. You're allowed chips, trust me. It's about the only perk." Sherlock said, taking off his dressing gown and hangs it on a hook before taking hold of his greatcoat.

Faith turns and walks out of the door. Sherlock closes his eyes and grimaces, bracing both hands against the wall.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson asked, coming up the hall from the direction of her flat as Sherlock straightens up and takes his coat from the hook and starts to put it on, before looking at him worriedly. "Are you going out?"

"I think I remember the way." Sherlock said, pointing to the front door. "It's through there, isn't it?"

"Oh, you're in no state. Look at you." Mrs Hudson said, sadly.

"Yeah, well, I've got a friend with me, so ..." Sherlock said, turning and heads for the open door.

"What friend? Is it Jared?"

"'Bye!" Sherlock said, closing the door behind him and looks up into the pouring rain.

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson said, worriedly.

Standing on the doorstep, Sherlock wraps his coat around him, then turns left and walks under the awning of Speedy's where Faith is waiting.

"Come on." Sherlock said.

They head off into the rain.

TV FOOTAGE...

Smith, wearing a suit and tie, looks directly into the camera, "I'm Culverton Smith, and in this election year I'll be voting ..."

Formal reception...

Mycroft – wearing a suit and bow tie and holding his phone in one hand – walks out of a room and sighs silently at the person waiting for him.

"For God's sake. I was talking to the prime minister." Mycroft said, annoyed.

"I am sorry, Mr Holmes. It's your brother." A man said, nervously, causing Mycroft to raise his eyebrows at him. "He's left his flat."

"Is Jared with him?"

"No. The fanboy wasn't with your brother."

"Was it on fire? Was my brother's flat on fire?" Mycroft asked, facetiously.

TV FOOTAGE...

Smith, wearing a denim jacket with a handkerchief in the breast pocket and an open-necked pink shirt, looks on excitedly as an offscreen waiter ignites the contents of a wide flat metal dish beside his table in a restaurant. He grins quirkily into the camera, then laughs silently.

"Even when I'm on the road, I still like quality food." Smith said, as a voiceover.

London...

Someone squirts tomato ketchup onto a cardboard carton of chips. Sherlock and Faith are standing under the awning of a fish and chips stand while the rain pours down. Not long afterwards they are sitting on the bench of a covered bus stop outside a church. Sherlock is holding the piece of paper that Faith gave him. The rain is easing up.

"You see the fold in the middle? For the first few months you kept this hidden, folded inside a book." Sherlock said, looking at the piece of paper closely.

Beside Sherlock, Faith is eating from the carton of chips on her lap.

"Must have been a tightly packed shelf, going by the severity of the crease." Sherlock said, thinking about the folded piece of paper being put inside the pages of a book. "So obviously you were keeping it hidden from someone living in the same house at a level of intimacy where privacy could not be assumed." He thought of a hand putting the closed book back in its place on a shelf amongst many other books. "Conclusion: relationship." The consulting detective then thought of two people standing in front of the bookshelf, leaning towards each other, about to kiss. "Not any more, though." He points to the top of the opened piece of paper. "There's a pinprick at the top of the paper." Sherlock thought about someone pinning the paper to a noticeboard with a drawing pin. "For the past few months it's been on open display on a wall. Conclusion: relationship is over." He then thought about the shadows of the two people drawing away from each other. "The paper's been exposed to steam and a variety of cooking smells ..." Sherlock thought about the piece of paper pinned to the noticeboard. Just in front of it, the contents of a saucepan on the cooker are boiling and steam issues from under the lid. "... so it must have been on display in the kitchen." He lifts the paper to his nose and sniffs it. "Lots of different spices. You're suicidal, alone and strapped for cash, yet you're still cooking to impress. You're keen, then. The kitchen is the most public room in any house, but since any visitor could be expected to ask about a note like this, I have to assume you don't have any. You've isolated yourself."

"Amazing." Faith said, happily.

"I know."

"I meant the chips."

Sherlock chuckles and looks at her, then looks away, his smile fading.

"Hm." Sherlock said, quietly, before raising his eyes skywards at the sound of an approaching helicopter.

Sherlock stands and walks forwards as the helicopter comes into view, its on-board camera looking down at him. He smiles upwards.

"Let's go for a walk." Sherlock said.

Surveillance room in MI5's headquarters...

A wall is full of screens showing CCTV footage of various areas of the city as well as the live footage from the helicopter. Two screens to the left of the others have street maps of the area east of Hyde Park, one in slightly tighter focus than the other, and a red dot is flashing and bleeping on one of the maps.

Watsons' home...

A mobile phone shows a close-up of its active screen indicating an incoming call. The caller is identified as Mycroft. John is sitting on the end of his bed and Mary stands at the door leading to Rosie's bedroom, looking down at the phone.

Jared is playing on his Nintendo Switch and he looked over at John, "John. Phone."

"You should answer it." Mary said.

"It's Mycroft." John said.

Mary smiles, "Might be about Sherlock."

"Of course it's about Sherlock. Everything's about Sherlock." John said, as his phone continues to buzz.

London...

"How did you know my kitchen was tiny?" Faith asked, and she and Sherlock are walking along a street.

The rain has stopped.

"Look at the fading pattern on the paper." Sherlock said, showing Faith the paper. "It's not much but it's enough to know your kitchen window faces east. Now, kitchen noticeboards ..."

Sherlock walks a few paces into the road, looking up towards the Christmas lights strung across the street, and draws a rectangle in the air. It instantly turns into a noticeboard. He walks towards it.

"By instinct we place them at eye level where there's natural light." Sherlock said, taking a drawing pin from the board and pins the piece of paper to the board. Smoothing the paper down he turns to Faith who walks into the road to join him. "Now look: the sun's only struck the bottom two thirds ..." He draws his hand horizontally across the paper one third of the way down it. "... but the line is straight, so that means we know the paper is facing the window."

Sherlock turns and walks a few paces away from the floating imaginary board. Pointing upwards at about forty-five degrees, he draws another rectangle and a window appears in the air. He turns and walks back to the noticeboard, which now has sunlight streaming onto it.

"But because the top section is unaffected ..." Sherlock said, gesturing to the piece of paper. "... we know the sunlight can only be entering the room at a steep angle." He walks towards the window again, from which the sunlight is coming and behind him, just in case we'd forgotten, there is no magical noticeboard floating in mid-air. "If the sunlight was able to penetrate the room when the sun was lower in the sky ..." Sherlock walks away from the non-existent window towards the non-existent noticeboard. "... then the paper would be equally faded top to bottom." The noticeboard is back with sunlight streaming onto it. "But no. It only makes it when the sun is at its zenith, so I'm betting that you live in a narrow street on the ground floor."

Sherlock looks towards the window which is back floating above the street. Through the glass he can see the terraced houses facing Faith's flat and it's clear that her window is indeed on the ground floor. There's either a narrow street between the flat and the houses opposite, or the kitchen is at the back and the houses have short gardens. The sun is a few degrees above the roof of the house opposite.

"Now, if steeply angled sunlight manages to hit eye level on the wall opposite the window, then what do we know about the room?" Sherlock asked, pointing towards the noticeboard, where the sunlight is now only shining on the bottom couple of inches of the board.

Sherlock walks to the window, takes one side of it and pulls it towards the noticeboard. The sunlight moves up the noticeboard as the window approaches it. Once the window is about ten feet from the board and the sunlight is hitting the bottom two thirds of the piece of paper, Sherlock stops and lets the window go.

"The room's small." Sherlock said, causing Faith to smile at him.

Overhead, the helicopter has found them and shines its spotlight down onto them. Faith looks up.

"Oh." Faith said, while Sherlock also looks up at the chopper. "Big Brother is watching you!"

"Literally." Sherlock said, smirking.

MI5...

Mycroft walks into the surveillance room, a grim look on his face. Lady Smallwood is standing behind the computer desks.

"We can keep tabs. You didn't have to come in." Lady Smallwood said.

"I was talking to the prime minister." Mycroft said.

"Oh, I see."

Mycroft looks at the screens, and particularly at a camera watching Sherlock walking along a road, "What's he doing? Why's he just wandering about like a fool?"

"She died, Mycroft. He's probably still in shock." Lady Smallwood said, frowning.

"Everybody dies. It's the one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. How can it still come as a surprise to people?" Mycroft asked.

"You sound cross. Am I going to be taken away by security again?" Lady Smallwood asked, turning to Mycroft.

"I have, I think, apologised extensively."

"You haven't made it up to me."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

London...

"Sex." Faith said, happily.

Walking with her along Regent Street towards Piccadilly Circus, Sherlock looks round to her. They are now each carrying a can of energy drink.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked.

"Sex. How did you know I wasn't ... getting any?" Faith asked.

"It's all about the blood." Sherlock said, gesturing to the bloodstain on the paper. "This one comes from the very first night. You can see the pen marks over it. I think you discovered that pain stimulated your memory, so you tried it again later. I'm no expert, but I assume that since your lover failed to notice an increasing number of scars over a period of months, that the relationship was no longer intimate."

"How do you know he didn't notice?"

"Oh, well, because he would have done something about it." Sherlock said, shrugging.

"Would he?"

"Wouldn't he? Isn't that what you people do?"

"Well, that's interesting." Faith said.

"What is?" Sherlock asked.

"The way you think."

"Superbly?"

"Sweetly."

"I'm not sweet; I'm just high."

By now, they've reached Piccadilly Circus.

Sherlock stops and turns around, "This way."

"What? We just came that way." Faith said, at a loss for words.

"I know. It's a plan." Sherlock said, wandering back the way they just came.

"What plan?" Faith asked, following Sherlock.

MI5 surveillance room...

Several agents start to laugh.

Mycroft, with his phone raised to his ear, looks at the wall screens, "What is it? What-what now?"

"Sorry. Um, traced his route on the map." The agent said, sitting at one of the desks.

Mycroft and Lady S stare at the street map on the agent's computer screen. It shows in red the route that Sherlock has taken from the Marylebone area in a south-easterly direction down towards Piccadilly Circus. On several occasions Sherlock has disappeared from the surveillance and so the red lines are broken and only appear on certain roads and sections of road. The left-hand side of the map is obscured by either Mycroft's or Lady S's shoulder but the rest of the stronger red lines spell out

U

C

K

O

F F

The tracking signal is currently flashing and beeping at the top right-hand corner of the 'K,' so the words apparently haven't been written directly left to right.

Out on the street, Sherlock looks up to a nearby surveillance camera, smiles and raises his can of energy drink to it in salute before taking a swig from it. Mycroft, with his phone raised to his ear again, sighs.

"Is he with someone? Is he with Jared? I trust him with Jared. Is he with him?" Mycroft asked.

"Not sure. We keep losing visual. Mostly we're tracking his phone." The agent said.

TV FOOTAGE...

As the audience sitting behind him applauds and cheers, Smith sits at a table with three large red buttons on it. A man and woman sit either side of him behind the other two buttons. They too applaud as Smith slams his hand down onto his button.

Smith points towards the camera in front of him, "Don't call us; we'll call..."

Watsons' home / MI5 surveillance room...

"I'm trying to sleep. And Jared is in the living room playing on his Nintendo Switch. Can you stop ringing my damn phone?" John asked, quietly, tetchily into his phone.

"Sherlock has left his flat for the first time in a week, so I'm having him tracked." Mycroft said, over the phone from the surveillance room.

"That's nice." Jared said, walking into the bedroom and grabbing the phone from John before putting it into the speakerphone. "Hey Mikey."

"Jared. Don't call me Mikey."

"Nice job with the insult, Jared." John said, sitting fully clothed on the end of his bed. "It's very touching how you can hijack the machinery of the state to look after your own family. Can I go to sleep now? After Jared goes back to the living room to play his video game."

"Sherlock gone rogue is a legitimate security concern." Mycroft said, sternly. "The fact that I'm brother changes absolutely nothing. That is on top of Jared staying somewhere on Earth for an extended period of time is a legitimate security concern. It didn't, the last time, and I assure both of you, it won't with ..."

Mycroft stops himself and pauses for a long moment. At the other end of the phone, John frowns.

"... with Sherlock." Mycroft said, eventually.

"So me hanging out with John like this while we're both mourning over Mary isn't something to worry about." Jared said, sadly.

"Since I know that you're with Doctor Watson, Jared, I know that you're safe. And that I won't have to contact UNIT."

"Sorry, what? Contact UNIT?" John asked. "Why does Kate Stewart needs to be called?"

"Please phone me if he gets in contact. Thank you." Mycroft said.

Watsons' home...

After a moment, John lowers his phone and terminates the call.

Surveillance room...

Lady Smallwood turns to Mycroft, "Do you still speak to Sherrinford?"

"I get regular updates." Mycroft said.

"And?" Lady Smallwood asked.

"Sherrinford is secure." Mycroft said, putting his phone into his trouser pocket before walking away.

London...

Sherlock and Faith are walking across the southern Golden Jubilee Bridge beside Hungerford Bridge. He is holding her cane and she has her right arm linked through his left.

"Are we gonna walk all night?" Faith asked.

"Possibly. It's a long word." Sherlock said.

"What is?"

"'Bollocks'."

Faith laughs. Sherlock smiles round at her.

Sherlock's journey is continuing and that includes the Houses of Parliament and Trafalgar Square. One overhead shot shows Sherlock walking on a roundabout just south of Trafalgar Square which has a statue nearby of King Charles I mounted on a horse. Faith stands a few yards away, watching him. The clips move on to another area of Trafalgar Square, then The Mall, then onto the Millennium Bridge looking towards Southwark Bridge and the Shard.

TV FOOTAGE...

The sun is starting to rise. Over the latter part of the footage, the voice of Evan Davis, the main presenter of the week-night BBC show Newsnight can be heard and as he continues speaking we switch to the studio.

"Culverton Smith. All this charity work: what's in it for you?" Evan Davis asked.

"We must be careful not to burn our bridges." Smith said, looking into the camera instead of at Evan.

London...

It is dawn and Sherlock and Faith are sitting on a bench on the South Bank not far from Hungerford Bridge. Facing the river, they each hold a filled half baguette wrapped in a paper serviette. Many pigeons are pecking at the ground a few feet away.

"D'you know why I'm going to take your case? Because of the one impossible thing you've said." Sherlock said.

"What impossible thing?" Faith asked.

"You said your life turned on one word."

"Yes: the name of the person my father wanted to kill."

"That's the impossible thing. Just that, right there."

"What's impossible?"

"Names aren't one word. They're always at least two. Sherlock Holmes; Faith Smith; Santa Claus; Winston Churchill; Napoleon Bonaparte. Actually, just 'Napoleon' would do."

"Or Elvis?"

"Well, I think we can rule both of them out as targets." Sherlock said.

"Okay, I got it wrong, then. It wasn't only one word; it can't have been." Faith said, sadly.

"And you remember quite distinctly that your whole life turned on one word, so that happened, I don't doubt it, but how can that word be a name – a name you instantly recognised that tore your world apart?"

"Okay, well, how?"

"No idea. Yet." Sherlock said, drawing in a breath. "But I don't work for free."

Sherlock holds out his hand towards Faith, the palm upwards. She looks down at it for a moment, then looks up at him.

"D'you take cash?" Faith asked.

"Not cash, no." Sherlock said, looking round at Faith pointedly.

After a moment, Faith reaches down to her handbag sitting on the bench beside her, unzips the top, takes out a pistol and puts it into his hand. He stands up, stumbles forward unsteadily to the riverside railing, pulls his arm back and hurls the pistol as hard as he can towards the river. It splashes into the water and disappears from view. Sherlock half-turns towards Faith.

"'Taking your own life'. Interesting expression. Taking it from who? Oh, once it's over, it's not you who'll miss it." Sherlock said, resting one hand on the railing, he looks westwards along the river towards the London Aquarium.

Sherlock thought about a pistol firing towards Jared, then he is looking at the exterior of the Aquarium as the gunshot echoes and then smoke rises from the end of the pistol.

Sherlock now has both hands on the railing as he continues to gaze along the river, "Your own death is something that happens to everybody else."

Faith has looked in the direction Sherlock's looking but now turns to face him again. Sherlock lowers his head, his back to Faith.

"Your life is not your own." Sherlock said, his voice becoming strained. "Keep your hands off it."

As Sherlock looks down, it's as if he and the railing are suspended in mid-air with no ground or river below them. His feet are not touching anything. He lifts his right hand and looks at how badly it's shaking. He has a very brief flash of the word 'SOMEONE' handwritten in white over a dark blue background. The writing is almost identical to that on the note that Faith wrote to herself. The last two letters of the word 'KILL' are in the top left-hand corner of his vision. At the riverside, Sherlock closes his eyes and blows out a breath.

"You're not what I expected. You're ..." Faith said.

Again the white, blue-backgrounded 'SOMEONE' flashes before Sherlock's eyes. Groaning, he slumps on top of the railing. He stares down into the blank void beneath his feet. The tip of his right shoe is now wedged into the bottom rail of the railing and he struggles to get his left foot onto the rail as well.

"What ... what am I?" Sherlock asked, breathlessly, anxiously.

"Nicer." Faith said, smiling.

The words in front of Sherlock's mind's eye now read, in Faith's handwriting, 'NEED TO KILL SOMEONE'. Sherlock screws up his eyes, shaking the vision away and still clinging desperately to the railings.

"Than who?" Sherlock asked.

"Anyone." Faith said, shaking her head.

Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a loud anguished scream. He thought about a syringe filled with dark fluid. Sherlock slumps down onto the concrete in front of the railing, groaning. As he doubles over, a voice sounds in his head.

"I, that am lost. Oh, who will find me ..." A child's voice said, singing.

Inside Sherlock's head...

The pirate child and the Irish setter trot through the shallows at a beach, then the youngster with the red wellingtons seems to be running towards them.

"Deep down be..." The child's voice said, singing.

London...

Sherlock's head snaps up and he breathes heavily as he looks towards the bench.

"Sorry, I ..." Sherlock said, trailing off to see that Faith is no longer sitting there, and he looks each way along the walkway. "Faith? Faith?"

Frowning, Sherlock leans his head back against the railings for a moment, then hauls himself to his feet. Straightening his coat, he walks away.

Sherlock is walking along the streets, perhaps making his way home.

Sherlock's own words echo in his head, "You said your life turned on one word. A name can't be one word."

Sherlock walks past some houses which have basement flats. He walks to the street-level railings of one of those houses and looks over them, flashing back to the last time he stood at the door of a basement flat, when he visited John's home and was met at the front door by Jared holding Rosie in his arms and Molly standing beside him.

"... if you were to come round asking after him, that he'd rather have anyone but you." Molly said, her voice echoing in Sherlock's head.

Flashback...

Molly and Jared stand outside the porch looking at Sherlock.

Molly pauses for a moment, "Anyone."

London...

Sherlock turns away.

"You're not what I expected." Faith said, her voice echoing in Sherlock's head.

"What ... what am I?" Sherlock asked, his voice in his head.

"Nicer."

"Than who?"

Flashback...

Faith sits on the bench looking at Sherlock.

"Anyone." Faith said, her voice echoing in Sherlock's head.

TV screen...

"Don't think anyone else is going to save him, because there isn't anyone." Mary said, her voice echoing in Sherlock's head.

On the DVD recording which she sent to Sherlock and Jared, Mary shakes her head.

London...

"Anyone." Faith said, her voice echoing in Sherlock's head.

"Anyone." Molly said, her voice echoing in Sherlock's head.

"Anyone."

"Anyone."

"Anyone." Mary said, her voice echoing as she shakes her head on the DVD.

Sherlock spins around and stares intensely down the road.

"I have a situation ..." Smith said, with Sherlock's eyes wide and the consulting detective starting to walk down the road. "... that needs to be managed."

Further along the narrow street, it's as if the oval table from Smith's glass-walled room has appeared in the middle of the road. Smith's six guests are sitting either side of it with the drip stands beside them and Smith sits at the far end. The street scenery around the table is fuzzy and out of focus. As Sherlock slowly walks towards the table, Smith smiles and stands up and walks towards him.

"There's only one way that I can solve it." Smith said, his voice echoing in Sherlock's head.

"And what's that?" Faith asked.

Smith has now passed the table and continues to walk towards Sherlock, "I need to kill someone."

Sherlock stops.

"Who?" Faith asked, nearby.

"Who?" Sherlock asked.

Smith chuckles silently.

"Anyone!" Smith said, laughing.

"Of course!" Sherlock said, while Smith continued to laugh, putting the back of one hand up to his mouth. "He doesn't want to kill one person; he wants to kill anyone." He stares at Smith, his eyes wide. "He's a serial killer!"

"Anyone." Smith said, his hand lowered again.

"He could be."

"Anyone."

"Why not? Why shouldn't he be?" Sherlock asked, starting to smile, then his smile drops and he looks confused.

Smith and the table instantly disappear and a man walks past in front of Sherlock, looking at him disapprovingly. A man's voice angrily yells, 'Move!' and Sherlock is standing in the middle of a very narrow stretch of road. Cars have come to a halt in front of him, behind him, and from a side turning to his right, some of them honking their horns.

The driver of the car in front of Sherlock has his door open and calls out to him in irritation, "Hey, you! What's the matter with you?"

"Anyone!" Smith said, his voice echoing in Sherlock's head.

As Smith's voice continues to echoingly repeat the word, Sherlock's vision homes in on the driver, who has got out of his car and is leaning an arm on the open door while looking at him in half-irritation, half-concern.

"Do you know where you are? Are you drunk?" The driver asked.

Sherlock blinks.

"Shezza." Wiggins said.

The driver has been replaced by Bill, who is looking at him sternly.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked.

221B's living room...

"What were you doing in the middle of a bloody street?" Wiggins asked, standing in front of the fireplace.

London...

"You should be at Baker Street." Sherlock said, his head twitching and he stumbled slightly.

221B's living room...

"I am. So are you." Wiggins said.

London...

In the street, the scenery around Sherlock goes very out of focus as he lowers his head a little and blinks rapidly. Behind him, a large backdrop ripples down to cover the view.

221B's living room...

The backdrop is the far wallpaper of the living room with a two-dimensional image of the sofa at the bottom. The backdrop thumps down into place and straightens out while Sherlock raises his head and stares around in front of him.

"They found your address; they brought you here." Wiggins said, as Sherlock turns and looks around the room, confused. "You've 'ad too much ..." Sherlock turns back to him, wide-eyed and bewildered. "... an' that's me sayin' this."

Flailing in panic, Sherlock stumbles backwards and up onto the now solid sofa. His back ought to crash into the wall but instead he lands flat on his back on the rug some distance in front of the sofa.

TV studio...

Smith is on TV looking bored as the audience applauds behind him. He gestures towards the camera.

"Kill." Smith said, smacking his hand down onto the big red button on the table in front of him.

221B's living room...

Sherlock struggles to turn over onto his side. He's back on his feet, possibly standing on the sofa, and he turns and stares around the room wide-eyed.

London...

Brief cut-away of Smith in his tracksuit during a fun run, holding up his index fingers and thumbs to the crowd as he forms the letter 'W' with them.

221B's living room...

"Sherlock." Wiggins said, distantly.

Sherlock rolls onto his back again on the rug.

London...

Smith stands inside the door of a shop as the star of a TV show, looking out through the glass. A female assistant stands at a cash register deeper in the shop. Smith reaches up to a sign on the door and turns it around so that from outside it reads 'Sorry We're CLOSED'. In the bottom left-hand corner of the screen are the words 'BUSYNESS KILLER' except the 'Y' is actually a pair of scissors. The word KILLER is in red. Presumably this is the name of a TV show in which he is appearing/starring.

221B's living room...

Sherlock elevates off the rug without using his hands or feet. Bill stares in shock. By the door to the landing, Sherlock begins walking up the wall. Floating impossibly sideways, he clumsily steps over a lot of magazines piled up against the wall, then puts his feet together and turns towards Bill.

London...

Smith smiles ecstatically.

"Anyone." Smith said, in a whisper.

221B's living room....

"Anyone." Molly said, her voice echoing in Sherlock's head.

"They're always poor ..." Sherlock said, now standing upright on the floor in front of the sofa before horizontally walking up the wall again, and he's back in front of the sofa. "... and lonely, and strange."

TV studio...

Smith in a tuxedo, laughing and pointing in a TV studio or theatre while the audience laughs and applauds.

221B's living room...

"But those are only the ones we catch." Sherlock said, intensely, in front of the sofa.

TV studio...

Smith is in a brown jacket and white shirt, holding his hands up in mock-surrender and laughing while the offscreen audience also laugh.

221B's living room...

"Who do we catch?" Wiggins asked.

"Serial killers." Sherlock said.

TV studio...

Smith is laughing and pointing to something in front of him while the offscreen audience also laugh and whoop.

221B's living room...

Sherlock is back on the wall, standing horizontally above the frosted glass window. He spins on the spot, his coat flaring out around him.

"What if you were rich and ..." Sherlock said, back on the floor in front of the sofa, squeezing his eyes shut.

TV studio...

Smith is in his tuxedo smiling and clapping his hands together.

221B's living room...

"... powerful and necessary." Sherlock said.

Outside Buckingham Palace...

Smith is standing outdoors, holding up and proudly pointing to his new OBE.

221B's living room...

Again, horizontal on the wall, Sherlock steps unsteadily downward, putting one foot on the arm of the chair beside the sofa.

"Anyone." Smith said, his voice echoing in Sherlock's head.

London...

Smith puts the back of one hand to his mouth as he giggles.

221B's living room...

Horizontally, Sherlock reaches across to put his hands on the wall behind the sofa.

"What if ..." Sherlock said, upright in front of the sofa, and gasping.

Bill stares disbelievingly. Sherlock is now horizontally halfway up the wall behind the sofa, his arms spread wide to steady himself as he carefully steps sideways/upwards along the part of the wall which juts out a little into the room.

"... you had the compulsion to kill, and money? What then?" Sherlock asked, intensely, upright in front of the sofa.

An imaginary version – of Smith is standing in front of the sofa in 221B's living room. Wearing a blue shirt and tie, he folds his arms and smiles.

Sherlock, standing on the right arm of the sofa and tilted towards the sofa at an impossible angle, topples forward and crashes down onto the sofa. Bill watches him go with a look of shock. Sherlock's eyes close as his body settles onto the cushions.