The Syndicate

I felt we had a special something.


OLD BAILEY, COURT TEN. Sherlock has been called to give his evidence and is standing in the witness box. Jim is in the dock opposite him, still nonchalantly chewing on his gum. John is sitting in the public gallery upstairs.
PROSECUTING BARRISTER: A “consulting criminal”.
SHERLOCK: Yes.
PROSECUTING BARRISTER: Your words. Can you expand on that answer?
SHERLOCK: James Moriarty is for hire.
PROSECUTING BARRISTER: A tradesman?
SHERLOCK: Yes.
PROSECUTING BARRISTER: But not the sort who’d fix your heating.
SHERLOCK: No, the sort who’d plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I’m sure he’d make a pretty decent job of your boiler.
(There’s muffled laughter from some people in the court, and the prosecuting barrister tries to hide her smile.)
PROSECUTING BARRISTER: Would you describe him as ...
SHERLOCK (interrupting): Leading.
PROSECUTING BARRISTER: What?
SHERLOCK: Can’t do that. You’re leading the witness. (He looks towards the defending barrister.) He’ll object and the judge will uphold.
(The judge looks exasperated – clearly this isn’t the first time Sherlock has done this during his evidence.)
JUDGE: Mr. Holmes.
SHERLOCK (to the prosecuting barrister): Ask me how. How would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?
JUDGE: Mr. Holmes, we’re fine without your help.
(Kitty comes into the public gallery. John looks round at her as she finds a seat.)
PROSECUTING BARRISTER: How would you describe this man – his character?
SHERLOCK: First mistake. (He raises his eyes and locks his gaze onto Jim.) James Moriarty isn’t a man at all – he’s a spider; a spider at the centre of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.
(Jim almost imperceptibly nods his head in approval of the description. The prosecuting barrister clears her throat awkwardly.)
PROSECUTING BARRISTER: And how long ...
SHERLOCK (closing his eyes in exasperation): No, no, don’t-don’t do that. That’s really not a good question.
JUDGE (angrily): Mr. Holmes.
SHERLOCK: How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up. (Sarcastically) I felt we had a special something.
(Jim raises his eyebrows in an “ooh!” expression.)
JUDGE: Miss Sorrel, are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?
SHERLOCK: Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample.
JUDGE: Mr. Holmes, that’s a matter for the jury.
SHERLOCK: Oh, really?
(His eyes turn towards the jury box. John raises his hand to his head in an all-too-recognisable “oh, shit, NO!” gesture. Sherlock turns the full force of his gaze onto the twelve people sitting in the jury box and has deduced all of them within a couple of seconds.)
SHERLOCK: One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably the City.
(He focuses on the woman at the far left of the front row. She has a notebook resting on the ledge in front of her and is writing in shorthand.)
SHERLOCK: The foreman’s a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her shorthand.
JUDGE: Mr. Holmes!
SHERLOCK (scanning rings on the jury members’ fingers): Seven are married and two are having an affair – with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they’ve just had tea and biscuits.
(He turns to the judge.)
SHERLOCK: Would you like to know who ate the wafer?
JUDGE (angrily): Mr. Holmes. You’ve been called here to answer Miss Sorrel’s questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess.
(Sherlock takes a breath but can’t help smiling a little at the acknowledgement of his ‘intellectual prowess’. John stares at him sternly.)
JUDGE: Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt. Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?
(Sherlock pauses as he gives the question some thought, then opens his mouth.)

Shortly afterwards, a prison officer marches Sherlock into one of the cells under the courts and shoves him inside, slamming the door shut behind him. A recess has apparently been called in the trial and so a little later two more officers walk Jim to the adjoining cell and lock him inside. As if sensing each other, the two men turn and look at the wall separating them. Jim’s expression slowly becomes murderous.

You’re not bored now, are you?


ROLAND-KERR COLLEGE. Jeff looks down at the bottles briefly then meets Sherlock’s eyes.
JEFF: You ready yet, Mr. ’olmes? Ready to play?
SHERLOCK: Play what? It’s a fifty-fifty chance.
JEFF: You’re not playin’ the numbers, you’re playin’ me. Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff? Or a double-bluff? Or a triple-bluff?
SHERLOCK: Still just chance.
JEFF: Four people in a row? It’s not just chance.
SHERLOCK: Luck.
JEFF: It’s genius. I know ’ow people think.
(Sherlock rolls his eyes.)
JEFF: I know ’ow people think I think. I can see it all, like a map inside my ’ead.
(Sherlock looks exasperated.)
JEFF: Everyone’s so stupid – even you.
(Sherlock’s gaze sharpens.)
JEFF: Or maybe God just loves me.
(Sherlock straightens up and leans forward, folding his hands in front of him on the table.)
SHERLOCK: Either way, you’re wasted as a cabbie.

John has arrived at Roland-Kerr College. As the taxi pulls away, John tucks the notebook into his jacket and looks at the two identical buildings in front of him. Clearly the map isn’t precise enough to indicate exactly where the phone is. After a moment, he makes his choice and heads towards the buildings.

In the classroom, Sherlock lifts his folded hands in front of his mouth and gazes at Jeff intently.
SHERLOCK: So, you risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?
(Jeff nods down to the bottles.)
JEFF: Time to play.
SHERLOCK (unfolding his fingers and adopting the prayer position in front of his mouth): Oh, I am playing. This is my turn. There’s shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody’s pointed it out to you.
(Flashback to Jeff sitting in the driver’s seat of the cab, which is when Sherlock noticed this.)
SHERLOCK: Traces of where it’s happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there’s no-one to tell you.
(Jeff tries not to fidget under Sherlock’s gaze.)
SHERLOCK: But there’s a photograph of children. The children’s mother has been cut out of the picture. If she’d died, she’d still be there.
(Flashback to the photograph attached to the dashboard of the cab. There is indeed a third person at the left of the photograph but the photo has been cut along that side to remove her.)
SHERLOCK: The photograph’s old but the frame’s new. You think of your children but you don’t get to see them.
(Jeff’s gaze slides away from Sherlock and for the first time there’s a hint of pain in his eyes.)
SHERLOCK: Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts.
(He extends his index fingers.)
SHERLOCK: Ah, but there’s more.
(Jeff lifts his gaze back to Sherlock as he points his index fingers towards him.)
SHERLOCK: Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you’re wearing’s at least ... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What’s that about?
(Jeff has got control of himself again and his expression says nothing as he gazes back at Sherlock. The detective’s eyes widen slightly as he makes his most important deduction.)
SHERLOCK (softly): Ahh. Three years ago – is that when they told you?
JEFF (flatly): Told me what?
(Sherlock’s deduction seems to appear beside Jeff’s head:

DYING

SHERLOCK: That you’re a dead man walking.
JEFF: So are you.
SHERLOCK: You don’t have long, though. Am I right?
(Jeff smiles.)
JEFF: Aneurism.
(He lifts his right hand and taps the side of his head.)
JEFF: Right in ’ere.
(Sherlock smiles in satisfaction.)
JEFF: Any breath could be my last.
SHERLOCK (frowning again): And because you’re dying, you’ve just murdered four people.
JEFF: I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can ’ave on an aneurism.
SHERLOCK (thoughtfully): No. No, there’s something else. You didn’t just kill four people because you’re bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children.
JEFF (looking away and sighing): Oh.
(He looks at Sherlock again.)
JEFF: You are good, ain’t you?
SHERLOCK: But how?
JEFF: When I die, they won’t get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs.
SHERLOCK: Or serial killing.
JEFF: You’d be surprised.
SHERLOCK: Surprise me.
(Jeff leans forward.)
JEFF: I ’ave a sponsor.
SHERLOCK: You have a what?
JEFF: For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they’ll be. You see? It’s nicer than you think.
SHERLOCK (frowning): Who’d sponsor a serial killer?
JEFF (instantly): Who’d be a fan of Sherlock ’olmes?
(They stare at each other for a moment.)
JEFF: You’re not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There’s others out there just like you, except you’re just a man ... and they’re so much more than that.
(The side of Sherlock’s nose twitches in distaste.)
SHERLOCK: What d’you mean, more than a man? An organization? What?
JEFF: There’s a name no-one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either. Now, enough chatter.
(He nods down to the bottles.)
JEFF: Time to choose.
(Sherlock looks down to the bottles, his eyes moving from one to the other.)

Elsewhere in the college, John is running through the corridors.
JOHN (calling out): Sherlock?
(He runs from door to door, trying them and peering in through windows.)
JOHN: Sherlock!

CLASSROOM.
SHERLOCK: What if I don’t choose either? I could just walk out of here.
(Sighing in a combination of exasperation and disappointment, Jeff lifts up the pistol and points it at Sherlock.)
JEFF: You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head.
(Sherlock smiles calmly.)
JEFF: Funnily enough, no-one’s ever gone for that option.
SHERLOCK: I’ll have the gun, please.
JEFF: Are you sure?
SHERLOCK (still smiling): Definitely. The gun.
JEFF: You don’t wanna phone a friend?
(Sherlock smiles confidently.)
SHERLOCK: The gun.
(Jeff’s mouth tightens, and slowly he squeezes the trigger. A small flame bursts out of the end of the muzzle. Sherlock smiles smugly.)
SHERLOCK: I know a real gun when I see one.
(Calmly Jeff lifts the pistol/cigarette lighter and releases the trigger. The flame goes out.)
JEFF: None of the others did.
SHERLOCK: Clearly. Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.
(He stands up and walks towards the door. Jeff puts the gun onto the desk and calmly turns in his seat.)
JEFF: Just before you go, did you figure it out ...
(Sherlock stops at the door and half-turns towards him.)
JEFF: ... which one’s the good bottle?
SHERLOCK: Of course. Child’s play.
JEFF: Well, which one, then?
(Sherlock opens the door a little but shows no sign of leaving the room.)
JEFF: Which one would you ’ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?
(Sherlock closes the door again.)
JEFF (chuckling): Come on. Play the game.
(Slowly Sherlock walks back towards him. When he gets to the table, he reaches out and sweeps up the bottle nearest to Jeff, then walks past him. Jeff looks down at the other bottle with interest but his voice gives nothing away as he speaks.)
JEFF: Oh. Interesting.
(He picks up the other bottle as Sherlock looks down at the bottle in his own hand.)
(Out in the corridors, John is still running along and searching.)
(In the classroom, Jeff has opened his bottle and tips the capsule out into his hand. He holds it up and looks at it closely as Sherlock examines his own bottle.)
JEFF: So what d’you think?
(He looks up at Sherlock.)
JEFF: Shall we?
(In the corridors, John pulls open yet another door and looks inside the room before hurrying onwards.)
JEFF: Really, what do you think?
(He has stood up and is facing Sherlock.)
JEFF: Can you beat me?
(John races up a flight of stairs and continues his search.)
JEFF: Are you clever enough to bet your life?
(John bursts through a door and stares ahead of him as he finally sees who he’s looking for. His eyes fill with horror. Inside the classroom, Sherlock lifts his gaze from the bottle he’s holding ... and the camera zooms over his shoulder and out of the window behind him, soaring across the courtyard outside and in through another window to reveal John standing in an identical classroom in the other building, too far away to be of help. John cries out in horror.)
JOHN: SHERLOCK!
(Unaware that they’re being watched, Jeff continues to hold up his pill as he looks at Sherlock.)
JEFF: I bet you get bored, don’t you? I know you do. A man like you ...
(Sherlock undoes the lid of the bottle.)
JEFF: ... so clever. But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it?
(Sherlock takes out the capsule and holds it between his thumb and finger, raising it to the light to examine it more closely.)
JEFF: Still the addict.
(Slowly Sherlock lowers the pill again, holding it at eye level and gazing at it.)
JEFF: But this ... this is what you’re really addicted to, innit?
(Sherlock holds the pill in his fingers and stares at it.)
JEFF: You’d do anything ... anything at all ...
(Sherlock’s fingers begin to tremble with excitement and anticipation.)
JEFF: ... to stop being bored.
(Slowly Sherlock begins to move the pill closer to his mouth. Jeff matches the movement with his own pill.)
JEFF: You’re not bored now, are you?
(Each of their hands gets closer to their own mouth.)
JEFF: Innit good?
(A gunshot rings out and a bullet impacts Jeff’s chest close to his heart, then goes through his body and smashes into the door behind him. As he falls to the floor, Sherlock drops his pill in surprise. In the opposite building, John has his pistol still raised and aimed out of the window. He lowers the gun to his side. In the other building, Sherlock turns, slides over the desk behind him and hurries to the window, bending down to stare through the bullet hole in the glass. The window of the opposite room is open but there is nobody in sight. As Sherlock straightens up, Jeff breathes heavily and coughs. Sherlock turns back, looking around the room and sees one of the pills lying on the desk as Jeff convulses on the floor and gasps and coughs in pain. Sherlock snatches up the pill, kneels down and brandishes it at Jeff, who has a large pool of blood underneath him and is staring up at him in shock.)
SHERLOCK: Was I right?
(Jeff turns his head away in disbelief.)
SHERLOCK: I was, wasn’t I? Did I get it right?
(Jeff doesn’t reply. Sherlock angrily hurls the pill across the room and stands up.)
SHERLOCK: Okay, tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my ‘fan’. I want a name.
JEFF (weakly): No.
SHERLOCK: You’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you. Give me a name.
(Jeff shakes his head. Grimacing angrily, Sherlock lifts his foot and puts it onto Jeff’s shoulder. Jeff gasps in pain.)
SHERLOCK: A name.
(Jeff cries out in pain.)
SHERLOCK: Now.
(Still Jeff can only whine in pain. His face intent and manic, Sherlock leans his weight onto his foot. Jeff whimpers.)
SHERLOCK (furiously): The NAME!
JEFF (agonized): MORIARTY!