Edited by hannahw1032

~ Tuesday, February 9th, 2016 ~

     | | Third Person | |

     It was a cooler day in London, England; about minus ten degrees Celsius. A man holding an air gun hurried down a dark alley. Who would see him? After all, it was only 3:34 A.M. and nobody would be up anyway.

     He had pale, off-white skin and a brown scarf covering his mouth and donned a black, heavy coat with a fancy leather hat. His long, fragile fingers gripped the gun tightly as he reached the dead end of the alley. He slowed his pace and stopped to stare at the tall brick wall before him.

'The man said the cave was here! Was I set up?' he wondered, looking around. He listened for sirens, footsteps, anything to note that this was a trap, but the night was quiet.

He loaded the air gun and looked around to see cold, steel railings leading to the roofs. The two red–brick buildings were close together, but large enough for the man to fit.

'Where? Where was the cave?' the man thought, looking around wildly. He checked his golden watch: 3:46 a.m. 'The meeting will begin soon. I can't be late!'

His icy blue eyes identified details on the walls. 'Perhaps I missed something.' He spotted strange slashes, presumably engraved with a stick. Stepping backwards, he examined the scratches with his back to the left building.

There are eleven sticks.
How do you make NINE?
(Yes, the capitals are important)
(No, the answer is not -2)
Solve this riddle to pass.
(Do show your work to the safety camera to see)
— Manager

'Manager? Is this person just a fool who wants to hire me?' the man wondered.

He looked around. 'Where are the sticks? What camera? What is going on?'

Suddenly, nine bricks shifted aside in the building in front of him and eleven sticks fell out. Above, one brick popped out of place, shifted to the left and a safety camera appeared.

"How do you make eleven turn into nine without subtracting two?" the man wondered aloud to himself. "Is this some joke?"

"This is quite amusing, is it not?" he heard a voice say from inside the building.

"Oh, yes. Quite," another voice chuckled.

"Remind me to do this against Moran next time I see him. I wonder if he'll for fall it."

"He won't. He's the second the most dangerous man in London. Smart, too."

"Do you remember the first?"

"No."

"Tut tut. Can you remember anything other than medical history? Nevertheless, the first is Moriarty."

"I told you, I've never heard of him!"

"Oh, I know. I can forgive you on that part."

"Ah... Why do I bother?"

"I don't know."

The voices quieted down and the man could no longer hear their conversation.

"Moriarty."

When the voice spoke this name, he felt as though he should have heard it before.

He came to a sudden realization. 'Yes! The mastermind criminal and his second–in–command was Moran!' the man remembered. 'But who are these people and who does this Moriarty want me to kill?'

Something just clicked in the man's brain as he figured out the "riddle."

He arranged the sticks: NINE. Each stick represented a line, which equaled eleven. "I have it, let me in."

"Leave your weapons outside," a new voice ordered.

"Okay." The man placed his air gun uncertainly on the uneven pavement. He headed towards the wall.

"Knock," an impatient voice came.

"Uh, how many times?" the man asked stupidly.

Chuckles came from inside. "How many times would you like to knock?"

"Um, what?" The man frowned, beginning to wonder if he had gotten the wrong address.

"How about thirty times?" a different, cold voice suggested. "For how many people you murdered at a shop?"

"Oh."

What else could the man say?

"Ohhhh. This was a trap!" he realized.

"Ah yes, the slow mind of criminals and stupid people!" a voice chuckled.

     He knocked thirty times and the wall fell down. He kicked it and stupidly realized that it was a blown up balloon with concrete around it, with the stick scratchings.

     "Well," he muttered.

     He heard laughing above him and looked up to see three known men: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Greg Lestrade.

"Stupid minds! You realize how fun this is now when I don't do it to your men, correct, Lestrade?" Sherlock turned to his friend while the police put handcuffs on the man.

"That's insulting," John pointed out.

"I don't care," Sherlock looked at John for a moment before facing Lestrade again.

"It's not funny. You may have a high IQ, but then again, not everyone does and you must respect that!" Lestrade sighed, sounding more exasperated than angry.

"Oh, there's no fun in that. Care to join us for breakfast?" Sherlock asked.

"No, thanks," Lestrade sighed at Sherlock's reluctance. "We have other business to attend to."

"Feel free to call us if your men don't have a high enough IQ to solve puzzles, even if they are simple!" Sherlock called as Lestrade huffed and entered the building from the metal porch.

"Oh, Sherlock! You must not insult people! Frankly, it makes them feel worthless!" John followed his friend from the porch to a living room.

"Then what have I done wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Again, why do I even bother?" John grumbled.

"And again, I don't know," Sherlock replied, heading towards the stairs.

After a long sigh, John followed his best friend down the winding stairs and they exited the door, where the man was being escorted into a car.

"Ah, you seem to be right, John."

John looked at Holmes incredulously. "I was right and you were wrong? Is that possible?"

"Oh no, I was not wrong. Merely playing a joke, but you were right as well," Sherlock did one of his rare laughs, at John's reaction.

"Of course..." John muttered. He turned, frowned and looked back at Holmes, "Alright, I have to ask. What was I right about?"

"Not being able to trick Moran with this riddle and the fake walls," Sherlock replied.

"That's obvious!" John protested.

"Well, you did well for an obvious thing, hm?" Sherlock remarked as the taxi headed off.

"Ugh."

"Don't be glum, John!" Sherlock sighed. "We still have to eat breakfast together. You can live through my little remarks during and after that, correct?"

"Oh, boy."

—

~ Somewhere else in England ~

| | Mystery P.O.V. | |

I saw the news of Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Inspector Lestrade capturing a serial killer, yet he was certainly stupid, judging by his awful clothes on a winter day.

"They're not going to catch me as easily!"

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Words: 1110

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