All language subtitles for S.S01E03.The.Great.Game.1080p.NF.WEB-DL.DD5.1.H.264-playWEB_track3_[eng]

Just tell me what happened
from the beginning.

We had been to a bar.

Nice place, and, uh,
I got chatting
with one of the waitresses,

and Karen weren't happy
with that, so...

When we get back to the hotel,

we end up having
a bit of a ding-dong,
don't we?

She's always getting at me,
saying I weren't a real man.

Wasn't a real man.

- What?
- It's not "weren't,"
it's "wasn't."

Oh.

Go on.

Well... Then I don't know
how it happened,

but suddenly
there's a knife in my hands...

And me old man
was a butcher,

so I know how to
handle knives.

- He learned us
how to cut up a beast.
- Taught.

- What?
- Taught you
how to cut up a beast.

- Yeah, well, then I done it.
- Did it.

Did it! Stabbed her,

over and over and over,
and I looked down,
and she weren't...

Wasn't

moving no more.

Any more.

God help me,
I don't know how it happened,

but it was an accident,
I swear.

Hey. You've got to help me,
Mr Holmes!

Everyone says you're the best.

Without you...

I'll get hung for this.

No, no, Mr Bewick, not at all.

Hanged, yes.

What the hell are you doing?

- Bored.
- What?

- Bored!
- No...

Bored!

Bored!

Don't know what's got into
the criminal classes.

Good job I'm not one of them.

So you take it out
on the wall?

Oh, the wall had it coming.

What about that Russian case?

Belarus.
Open and shut domestic murder.

Not worth my time.

Oh, shame.

Anything in? I'm starving.

Oh...

It's a head.

- A severed head!
- Just tea for me, thanks.

- No, there's a head
in the fridge.
- Yes?

A bloody head!

Well, where else
was I supposed to I put it?
You don't mind, do you?

- Well...
- Got it from Bart's morgue.

I'm measuring the coagulation
of saliva after death.

I see you've written up
the taxi driver case.

Uh... Yes.

A Study in Pink. Nice.

Well, you know.
Pink lady, pink case,
pink phone.

There was a lot of pink.

Did you like it?

Um... No.

Why not?
I thought you'd be flattered.

Flattered?

"Sherlock sees through
everything and everyone
in seconds.

"What's incredible, though,
is how spectacularly
ignorant he is

- "about some things."
- Now hang on a minute.
I didn't mean that...

Oh, you meant "spectacularly
ignorant" in a nice way.

Look, it doesn't matter to me

- who's Prime Minister
or who's sleeping with who.
- No, no.

Whether the Earth
goes round the sun.

Oh, God, that again.
It's not important!

Not important...

It's primary school stuff.
How can you not know that?

Well, if I ever did,
I've deleted it.

Deleted it?

Listen. This is my hard drive,
and it only makes sense

to put things in there
that are useful.
Really useful.

Ordinary people
fill their heads
with all kinds of rubbish.

That makes it hard to get
at the stuff that matters.
Do you see?

But it's the solar system!

Oh, hell!
What does that matter?

So we go around the sun.
If we went around the moon

or round and round the garden
like a teddy bear,

it wouldn't make
any difference.

All that matters to me
is the work!

Without that, my brain rots!

Put that in your blog.

Or better still,
stop inflicting your opinions
on the world.

- Where are you going?
- Out! I need some air.

- Excuse me.
-
Oh, sorry, love!

Ooh-ooh!

Have you two
had a little domestic?

Ooh, it's a bit
nippy out there.

He should have wrapped
himself up a bit more.

Look at that, Mrs Hudson.

Quiet.

Calm. Peaceful.

Isn't it hateful?

Oh, I'm sure something
will turn up, Sherlock.

A nice murder.
That'll cheer you up.

Mmm. Can't come too soon.

Hey, what have you done
to my bloody wall?

I'm putting this on your rent,
young man!

- Morning.
- Oh, morning.

See? I told you
you should've gone
with the lilo.

No, no, no, it's fine,
I slept fine.
It's very kind of you.

Well, maybe next time
I'll let you kip at the end
of my bed, you know.

What about the time
after that?

Experts are
hailing it as the artistic
find of the century...

- Say, do you want
some breakfast?
- Love some.

Yeah, well, you better
make it yourself, 'cause
I'm gonna have a shower.

It fetched over £20 million.

This one is anticipated
to do even better.

Back now to our main story.

There's been a massive
explosion in central London.

As yet, there are no reports
of any casualties

and the police
are unable to say

if there's any suspicion
of terrorist involvement.

Sarah!

The police have issued
an emergency number
for friends and relatives.

Sarah!

Sorry, I've got to run!

Excuse me, can I get through?
Excuse me. Can I get through?

I live over there.

Sherlock!

John.

I saw it on the telly.
Are you okay?

Me? What? Oh, yeah, fine.

Gas leak, apparently.

I can't.

Can't?

Stuff I've got on
is just too big.
I can't spare the time.

Never mind your usual trivia.
This is of
national importance.

- How's the diet?
- Fine.

Perhaps you can get
through to him, John.

- What?
- I'm afraid my brother
can be very intransigent.

If you're so keen,
why don't you investigate it?

No, no, no, no.

I can't possibly be away
from the office
for any length of time.

Not with the Korean
elections so...

Well, you don't need to know
about that, do you?

Besides, a case like this,
it requires...

Legwork.

How's Sarah, John?
How was the lilo?

Sofa, Sherlock.
It was the sofa.

Oh, yes, of course.

How... Oh, never mind.

Sherlock's business
seems to be booming
since you and he became...

Pals.

What's he like to live with?
Hellish, I imagine.

I'm never bored.

Good. That's good, isn't it?

Andrew West, known as Westie
to his friends. Civil servant.

Found dead on the tracks
at Battersea Station
this morning

with his head smashed in.

Jumped in front
of a train?

Seems
the logical assumption.

But?

Well, you wouldn't be here
if it was just an accident.

The MOD is working
on a new missile
defense system.

The Bruce-Partington
program it's called.

The plans for it
were on a memory stick.

That wasn't very clever.

- It's not the only copy.
- Oh.

But it is secret.
And missing.

- Top secret?
- Very.

We think West
must have taken
the memory stick.

We can't risk it falling
into the wrong hands.

You've got to find
those plans, Sherlock.

Don't make me order you.

I'd like to see you try.

Think it over.

- Goodbye, John.
- Mmm.

See you very soon.

Why did you lie?

You've got nothing on.
Not a single case.

That's why the wall
took a pounding.

Why did you tell your brother
you were busy?

Why shouldn't I?

Oh.

Nice.

Sibling rivalry.
Now we're getting somewhere.

Sherlock Holmes.

Of course. How could I refuse?

Lestrade. I've been summoned.
Coming?

- If you want me to.
- Of course.

I'd be lost
without my blogger.

You like
the funny cases,
don't you?

- The surprising ones.
- Obviously.

You'll love this.

- That explosion.
- Gas leak, yes?

- No.
- No?

- No. Made to look like one.
- What?

Hardly anything left
of the place,
except a strongbox.

A very strong box,
and inside it was this.

You haven't opened it?

It's addressed to you,
isn't it?

We've X-rayed it.
It's not booby-trapped.

How reassuring.

Nice stationery.

- Bohemian.
- What?

From the Czech Republic.

- No fingerprints?
- No.

She used a fountain pen.
Parker Duofold, iridium nib.

She?
Obviously.

Obviously.

But that... That's the phone.
The pink phone.

What, from The Study in Pink?

Well, obviously it's
not the same phone,

but it's supposed
to look like...

A Study in Pink?
You read his blog?

Of course. We all do.

Do you really not know that
the Earth goes round the sun?

It isn't the same phone.

This one's brand-new.

Someone's gone to a lot
of trouble to make it look
like the same phone.

Which means, your blog
has a far wider readership.

You have one new message.

- Was that it?
- No, that's not it.

What the hell are we
supposed to make of that?

An estate agent's photo
and the bloody Greenwich pips.

- It's a warning.
-A warning?

Some secret societies
used to send
dried melon seeds,

orange pips,
things like that.
Five pips.

They're warning us
it's going to happen again.

- I've seen this place before.
- Hang on.

- What's going to happen again?
- Boom!

Mrs Hudson!

You had a look, didn't you,
Sherlock, when you first came
to see about your flat?

The door's been opened,
recently.

No, can't be.
That's the only key.

I can't get anyone interested
in this flat.

It's the damp, I expect.
That's the curse of basements.

I'd a place once
when I was first married.

Black mould all up the wall...

Oh. Dear me.

Shoes.

He's a bomber, remember.

Hello.

"H... Hello... sexy."

Who's this?

"I've... sent you...
A little puzzle,

"just to say hi."

Who's talking?
Why are you crying?

"I... I'm not crying.

"I'm typing.

"And this

"stupid bitch

"is reading it out."

The curtain rises.

- What?
- Nothing.

No, what did you mean?

I've been expecting this
for some time.

"Twelve hours to solve

"my puzzle, Sherlock...

"...or I'm going to be

"so... naughty."

-So, who do you
suppose it was?
- Hmm?

Woman on the phone,
the crying woman.

Oh, she doesn't matter,
she's just a hostage.
No lead there.

For God's sake,
I wasn't thinking about leads.

You're not going to be
much use to her.

Are they trying
to trace it,
trace the call?

One was too smart for that.
Pass me my phone.

- Where is it?
- Jacket.

Careful!

- Text from your brother.
- Delete it.

Delete it?

Missile plans are out
of the country now.
Nothing we can do about it.

Well, Mycroft thinks there is.
He's texted you eight times.
Must be important.

Then why didn't he cancel
his dental appointment?

- His what?
- Mycroft never texts
if he can talk.

Look, Andrew West
stole the missile plans,

tried to sell them,
got his head smashed in
for his pains.

End of story.

The only mystery is this.

Why is my bother
so determined to bore me

when somebody else is being
so delightfully interesting?

Try and remember
there's a woman who might die.

What for?

There's hospitals
full of people dying, Doctor.

Why don't you go cry
by their bedside?
See what good it does then.

Ah!

- Any luck?
- Oh, yes!

Oh, sorry. I didn't...

Jim, hi! Come in! Come in!

Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.

-Ah!
- And, uh...

- Sorry.
- John Watson. Hi.

Hi. So you're Sherlock Holmes.

Molly's told me all about you.
You on one of your cases?

Jim works in IT, upstairs.

That's how we met.
Office romance.

- Gay.
- Sorry, what?

Nothing. Um, hey.

Hi.

Sorry. Sorry!

Well, I'd better be off.

- I'll see you at the Fox.
About six-ish?
- Yeah.

Bye.

It was nice to meet you.

You too.

What do you mean, gay?
We're together.

And domestic bliss
must suit you, Molly.

You've put on
three pounds
since I last saw you.

- Two and a half.
- No, three.

-Sherlock.
- He's not gay!

Why do you have to spoil...
He's not!

With that level of
personal grooming?

Because he puts
product in his hair?
I put product in my hair.

You wash your hair,
there's a difference.

No, no.
Tinted eyelashes.

Clear signs of taurine cream
around the frown lines,

those tired, clubber's eyes.
Then there's his underwear.

- His underwear?
- Visible above the waistline.

Very visible,
very particular brand.

That, plus the suggestive fact
that he just left his number
under this dish here.

And I'd say you'd better
break it off now and
save yourself the pain.

Charming, well done.

Just saving her time.
Isn't that kinder?

Kinder? No, no, Sherlock,
that wasn't kind.

- Go on, then.
- Hmm?

You know what I do.
Off you go.

- Oh... No.
- Go on.

I'm not going to stand here
so you can humiliate me
while I try and...

An outside eye,
a second opinion.
It's very useful to me.

- Yeah, right.
- Really!

Fine.

- Oh, they're just
a pair of shoes... Trainers.
- Good.

Um...

They're in good nick.
I'd say they were pretty new,

except the sole
has been well-worn,

so the owner must have
had them for a while.

Uh, very '80s.
Probably one of those
retro designs.

You're on sparkling form.
What else?

They're quite big. A man's.

But...

But there's traces of a name
inside in felt-tip.

And adults don't
write their names
inside their shoes,

so these belong
to a kid.

Excellent. What else?

Uh...

That's it.

- How did I do?
- Well, John.

Really well.

I mean, you missed
almost everything of
importance, but, you know...

The owner loved these.
Scrubbed them clean.

Whitened where
they got discoloured.

Changed the laces
three... No, four times.

Even so, there are traces
of his flaky skin

where his fingers have
come into contact with them

so he suffered from eczema.

The shoes are well-worn
more so on the
inner side,

which means the owner
had weak arches.

- British-made, 20 years old.
- 20 years?

They're not retro,
they're original.

Limited edition,
two blue stripes, 1989.

But there's still mud on them.
They look new.

Someone's kept them that way.

Quite a bit of mud caked
on the soles.

Analysis shows
it's from Sussex with
London mud overlaying it.

- How do you know?
- Pollen.

Clear as a map reference to
me. South of the river, too.

So the kid wore
these trainers,
came to London from Sussex,

20 years ago
and left them behind.

- So what happened to him?
- Something bad.

I mean, he loved those shoes,
remember. He'd never
leave them filthy.

Wouldn't let them go
unless he had to.

So, a child with
big feet gets...

Oh!

- What?
- Carl Powers.

Sorry, who?

Carl Powers, John.

What is it?

It's where I began.

1989, young kid,
champion swimmer,

came up from Brighton for
a school sports tournament,
drowned in the pool.

Tragic accident.
You wouldn't remember it.
Why should you?

- But you remember.
- Yes.

- Something fishy about it?
- Nobody thought so.

Nobody except me.

I was only a kid myself.
I read about it in the papers.

You started young, didn't you?

The boy, Carl Powers,
had some kind of fit
in the water,

but by the time
they got him out,
it was too late.

There was something wrong
somewhere. I couldn't get it
out of my head.

- What?
- His shoes.

- What about them?
- They weren't there.

I made a fuss.
I tried to get
the police interested

but nobody seemed to think
it was important.

He'd left all the rest
of his clothes in the locker.

But there was no sign
of his shoes.

Until now.

Can I help?

I want to help.
There's only five hours left.

It's your brother.

He's texting me now.

- How does he know my number?
- Must be a root canal.

Look, he did say...
National importance.

Hmph! How quaint!

- What is?
- You are.

Queen and country.

- You can't just ignore it.
- I'm not ignoring it.

Putting my best man onto it
right now.

Right, good!

Who's that?

John! How nice.
I'm hoping it won't be long.

How can I help you?

Thank you. Um...

I was wanting to...

Your brother sent me
to collect more facts

about the stolen plans,
the missile plans.

- Did he?
- Yes.

He's investigating now.
He's, uh...

Investigating away.

Um, I just wondered what else
you could tell me
about the dead man.

Um, 27.
Clerk at Vauxhall Cross.

MI6.

He was involved in
the Bruce-Partington program
in a minor capacity.

Security checks A-OK.

No known terrorist
affiliations or sympathies.

Last seen by his fiancee
at 10.30 yesterday evening.

Lucy, love,
I've got to go out.

I've got to see someone.

Westie!

Right.

He was found
at Battersea, yes.
So he got on the train?

- No.
- What?

He had an Oyster card,

but it hadn't been used.

- He must have bought a ticket.
- Hmm.

There was no ticket
on the body.

Then...

Then how did he end up
with a bashed in brain
on the tracks of Battersea?

That is the question.

The one I was rather hoping
Sherlock would provide
an answer to.

How's he getting on?

He's fine.

And it is going... very well.

He's, um...
He's completely focused on it.

- Poison!
- What are you going on about?

Clostridium botulinum.

It's one of the deadliest
poisons on the planet.

Carl Powers.

Oh, wait.
Are you saying
he was murdered?

- Remember the shoelaces?
- Mmm.

The boy suffered from eczema.

It'd be the easiest thing
in the world to introduce the
poison into his medication.

Two hours later,
he comes up to London,

the poison takes effect,
paralyses the muscles
and he drowns.

But how come the autopsy
didn't pick that up?

It's virtually undetectable.
And nobody would've been
looking for it.

There are still tiny traces
of it left
inside the trainers

from where he'd put the cream
on his feet.

That's why they had to go.

- So how do we let
the bomber know?
- Get his attention.

- Mmm-hmm.
- Stop the clock.

- The killer kept the shoes
all these years.
- Yes.

- Meaning...
- He's our bomber.

"Well done, you.

"Come and get me."

Where are you?

Tell us where you are.

She lives
in Cornwall.

Two men broke in
wearing masks, forced her
to drive to the car park

and decked her out in
enough explosives
to take down a house.

Told her to phone you.

Check the read-out
from this pager.

Well, if she deviated
by one word, the sniper
would set her off.

Or if you hadn't
solved the case.

Oh... Elegant!

Elegant?

What was the point?
Why would anyone do this?

No, I can't be
the only person in the world
that gets bored.

You have one new message.

Four pips.

First test passed,
it would seem.

Here's the second.

It's abandoned,
wouldn't you say?

I'll see if it's
been reported.

Freak, it's for you.

Hello.

"It's okay
that you've gone
to the police."

Who is this?

Is this you again?

"But don't rely on them.

"Clever you,

"guessing about Carl Powers.

"I never liked him.

"Carl laughed at me,

"so I stopped him laughing."

You've stolen another voice,
I presume.

"This is about you and me."

Who are you?

What's that noise?

"It's the sounds of life,
Sherlock.

"But don't worry.
I can soon fix that.

"You solved my last puzzle
in nine hours.

"This time you have eight."

Great!

We've found it.

The car was hired yesterday
morning by an Ian Monkford.

Banker of some kind.
City boy. Paid in cash.

Told his wife he was
going away on a business trip,
and he never arrived.

You're still
hanging round him.

Yeah, well...

- Opposites attract, I suppose.
- No, we're not...

You should get yourself
a hobby. Stamps, maybe.
Model trains, safer.

Before you ask,
yes, it's Monkford's blood.
DNA checks out.

- No body.
- Not yet.

Get a sample sent to the lab.

Oh!

- Mrs Monkford?
- Yes.

Sorry, but I've already spoken
with two policemen.

No, we're not
from the police, we're...

Sherlock Holmes.
Very old friend
of your husband's.

We, um...

We grew up together.

I'm sorry. Who?

I don't think
he ever mentioned you.

Oh, he must have done.
This is...

This is horrible. I mean,
I just can't believe it.

I only saw him the other day.

Same old Ian.
Not a care in the world.

Sorry... My husband has been
depressed for months.

Who are you?

Pretty strange that
he hired a car.

Why would he do that?
It's a bit suspicious,
isn't it?

No, it isn't.
He forgot to renew the tax
on the car, that's all.

Ah, well! That was Ian.

- That was Ian all over.
- No, it wasn't.

Wasn't it? Interesting.

- Who was that?
- Why did you lie to her?

People don't like
telling you things.

They love to contradict you.

Past tense,
did you notice?

- Sorry, what?
- I referred to her husband
in the past tense.

She joined in.
Bit premature. They've only
just found the car.

You think she murdered
her husband?

Definitely not.
That's not a mistake
a murderer would make.

I see...
No, I don't.
What am I seeing?

Fishing.

- Try fishing.
- Where now?

Janus Cars.

Just found this
in the glove compartment.

Can't see how I can help you,
gentlemen.

Mr Monkford hired the car
from you yesterday.

Yeah, lovely motor.

Mazda Rx8.
Wouldn't mind
one of them myself.

Is that one?

No, they're all Jags.

I can see you're not
a car man, eh?

But surely
you can afford one.
A Mazda, I mean.

Yeah, that's a fair point.

You know how it is.
It's like working
in a sweetshop.

Once you start picking
at the licorice Allsorts,
when does it all stop?

- But you didn't know
Mr Monkford.
- No, he was just a client.

He came in here
and hired one of my cars.

I've no idea
what happened to him.
Poor sod!

Nice holiday, Mr Ewart?

- Eh?
- You've been away,
haven't you?

Oh, the...
No, it's sun beds, I'm afraid.

Too busy to get away.

My wife would
love it, though, bit of sun.

Have you got any change
for the cigarette machine?

- What?
- Well, I noticed one
on the way in,

and I haven't got any change.
I'm gasping.

Um... Oh.

No, sorry.

Oh, well! Thank you very much
for your time, Mr Ewart.

You've been very helpful.
Come on, John!

I've got change
if you still want to...

Nicotine patches, remember?
I'm doing well.

So, what was all that about?

I needed to look
inside his wallet.

- Why?
- Mr Ewart's a liar.

Hello.

"The clue's in the name.
Janus Cars."

Why would you be
giving me a clue?

"Why does anyone do anything?

"Because I'm bored.

"We were made for each other,
Sherlock."

Then talk to me
in your own voice.

"Patience."

How much blood
was on that seat,
would you say?

How much? About a pint.

Not about. Exactly a pint.
That was their first mistake.

The blood's
definitely Ian Monkford's,
but it's been frozen.

- Frozen?
- There are clear signs.

I think Ian Monkford gave
a pint of his blood
some time ago

and that's what
they spread on the seats.

- Who did?
- Janus Cars.

The clue's in the name.

- The god with two faces?
- Exactly.

They provide a very
special service.

If you've got any
kind of a problem,

money troubles,
bad marriage, whatever,

Janus Cars will
help you disappear.

Ian Monkford was
up to his eyes
in some kind of trouble.

Financial, at a guess.
He's a banker.
Couldn't see a way out.

But if he were to vanish,

if the car he hired was
found abandoned with his blood
all over the driver's seat...

- So where is he?
- Colombia.

Colombia?

Mr Ewart, of Janus Cars,

had a 20,000 Colombian
peso note in his wallet.

Quite a bit of change, too.

He told us he
hadn't been abroad recently,

but when I asked him
about the cars, I could see
his tan line clearly.

No one wears a shirt
on a sun bed.

- That, plus his arm.
- His arm?

He kept scratching it.
Obviously irritating him,
and bleeding.

Why? Because he'd
recently had a booster jab,

HepB probably.
Difficult to tell
at that distance.

Conclusion?
He'd just come back
from settling Ian Monkford

into his new life
in Colombia.

Mrs Monkford cashes in
the life insurance

and she splits it
with Janus Cars.

- Mrs Monkford?
- Oh, yes. She's in on it too.

Now go and arrest them,
Inspector,
that's what you do best.

We need to let our friendly
bomber know that
the case is solved.

I am on fire!

He says...

You can come and fetch me.

Help!

Help me, please!

- Feeling better?
- Mmm.

We've hardly
stopped for breath
since this thing started.

- Has it occurred to you...
- Probably.

No, has it occurred to you
that the bomber's playing
a game with you?

The envelope,
breaking into the other flat,

the dead kid's shoes,
it's all meant for you.

Yes, I know.

Is it him, then? Moriarty?

Perhaps.

- That could be anybody.
- Oh, could be, yeah.

Lucky for you, I've been
more than a little unemployed.

How do you mean?

Lucky for you,
Mrs Hudson and I
watch far too much telly.

Thank you, Tyra! Doesn't she
look lovely, everybody, now?

Anyway, speaking
of silk purses...

Hello?

"This one...

"...is a bit...

"...defective.

"Sorry.

"She's blind.

"This is...

"A funny one.

"I'll give you...

"12 hours.

Why are you doing this?

"I like

"to watch you...

"Dance."

And I see you're back
to your bad habits.

Continuing into
the sudden death

of the popular TV personality
Connie Prince.

Miss Prince, famous
for her makeover programmes,

was found dead two days ago
by her brother in the house
they shared...

Connie Prince, 54.
She had one of those
makeover shows on the telly.

- Did you see it?
- No.

- Very popular.
She was going places.
- Not any more.

Dead two days.
According to one of
her staff, Raoul de Santos,

she cut her hand
on a rusty nail in the garden.

Nasty wound.

Tetanus bacteria
enters the bloodstream...

Good night, Vienna.

I suppose.

- Something's wrong
with this picture.
- Eh?

It can't be as simple
as it seems

otherwise the bomber
wouldn't be directing us
towards it.

Something's wrong.

- John?
- Hmm.

Cut on her hand, it's deep.
Would have bled a lot, right?

- Yeah.
- But the wound's clean.

Very clean, and fresh.

How long would the bacteria
have been incubating
inside her?

Oh, eight, ten days.

The cut was made later.

- After she was dead?
- Must have been.

The only question is,
how did the tetanus enter
the dead woman's system?

- You want to help, right?
- Of course.

Connie Prince's background,
family history, everything.
Get me data.

Right.

- There's something else that
we haven't thought of.
- Is there?

Yes. Why is he doing this,
the bomber?

If this woman's death was
suspicious, why point it up?

- Good Samaritan.
- Who press-gangs
suicide bombers?

- Bad Samaritan.
- I'm... I'm serious, Sherlock.

Listen, I'm cutting you
slack here,
I'm trusting you,

but out there somewhere,
some poor bastard's
covered in Semtex

and just waiting for you
to solve the puzzle.
So just tell me,

what are we dealing with?

Something new.

Connection, connection,
connection.
There must be a connection.

Carl Powers,
killed 20 years ago.

The bomber knew him,
admitted that he knew him.

The bomber's iPhone
was in the stationery
from the Czech Republic.

The first hostage
from Cornwall,
the second from London,

the third from Yorkshire,
judging by her accent.

What's he doing?
Working his way around
the world, showing off?

"You're enjoying this,
aren't you?

"Joining the... dots.

"Three hours."

Boom...

Boom.

We're devastated,
of course we are.

Can I get you anything, sir?

Uh, no. No, thanks.

Raoul is my rock.

I don't think
I could have managed.

We didn't always
see eye to eye,

but my sister
was very dear to me.

And to the, uh,
public, Mr Prince.

Oh, she was adored.

I've seen her take girls
who looked like the back
end of Routemasters

and turn them into princesses.

Still, it's a relief in a way
to know that she's

beyond this vale of tears.

Absolutely.

Great.

Thank you. Thanks again.

It's a real shame.
I liked her.

She taught you
how to do your colours.

Colours?

You know,
what goes best with what.

I should never wear cerise,
apparently.

- Drains me.
- Who's that?

- Home office.
- Home office?

Well, home secretary actually.
Owes me a favour.

She's a pretty girl,
but she messed about
with herself too much.

They all do these days.

People can hardly
move their faces.

Is silly, isn't it?

- Did you ever see her show?
- Not until now.

Oh, you look pasty, love.

Ah, rained
every day but one...

That's the brother.
No love lost there,

- if you can
believe the papers.
- So I gather.

I've just been having
a very fruitful chat with
people who love this show.

The fan site's indispensable
for gossip.

...Don't you think, girls?

Off, off, off,
off, off, off, off!

It's more common
than people think.

The tetanus is in the soil,

people cut themselves
on rose bushes,

garden forks,
that sort of thing,

and if left untreated...

- I don't know what
I'm going to do now.
- Right.

I mean,
she's left me this place,

which is lovely...

- But it's not the same
without her.
- That's why...

...my paper wanted
to get the, um...

The full story
straight from
the horse's mouth.

Are you sure
it's not too soon?

- No.
- Right.

You fire away.

- John.
- Hi. Look,
get over here quickly.

I think I'm onto something.

You'll need to pick up
some stuff first.
You got a pen?

I'll remember.

-That'll be him.
- What?

- Ah, Mr Prince, isn't it?
- Yes.

- Very good to meet you.
- Yes, thank you.

- So sorry to hear about...
- Yes, yes, very kind.

Shall we, uh...

You were right, the bacteria
got into her another way.

- Oh, yes?
- Yes.

- Right, are we all set?
- Uh, yes. Shall we, um...

Not too close.
I'm raw from crying.

- Oh, who's this?
- Sekhmet.

Named after
the Egyptian goddess.

How nice. Was she Connie's?

Yes, a little present
from yours truly.

Sherlock, light reading?

Oh, uh...

- 2.8.
- Bloody hell!

- What are you playing at?
- Sorry!

You're like Laurel and bloody
Hardy, you two!
What's going on?

Actually, I think we've got
what we came for.
Excuse us.

- What?
- Sherlock.

- What?
- We've got deadlines.

But you've not taken anything!

Yes! Ooh, yes!

You think it was the cat.
It wasn't the cat.

Not... Yes. Yeah, it is.

It must be.
It's how he got the tetanus
into her system.

- Its paws stink
of disinfectant.
- Lovely idea.

No, he coated it
onto the claws of her cat.

It's a new pet,
bound to be a bit
jumpy around her.

A scratch is
almost inevitable.
She wouldn't...

I thought of it the minute
I saw the scratches
on her arm,

but it's too random
and too clever
for the brother.

- He murdered his sister
for her money.
- Did he?

- Didn't he?
- Nope.

It was revenge.

- Rev... Who wanted revenge?
- Raoul, the houseboy.

Kenny Prince was the butt
of his sister's jokes

week in, week out.
A virtual bullying campaign.

Finally he had enough.
Fell out with her badly.
It's all on the website.

She threatened to
disinherit Kenny.

Raoul had grown
accustomed to
a certain lifestyle...

Wait. Wait. Wait a second.
What about the disinfectant
then, on the cat's claws?

Raoul keeps a very
clean house. You came
through the kitchen door,

saw the state of that floor,
scrubbed within
an inch of its life.

You smell of disinfectant.
No, the cat doesn't
come into it.

Raoul's Internet records do,
though. I hope we can
get a cab from here.

Raoul de Santos
is your killer.

Kenny Prince's houseboy.

Second autopsy shows it wasn't
tetanus that poisoned
Connie Prince,

it was botulinum toxin.

We've been here before.
Carl Powers. Tut-tut.

- Our bomber's
repeated himself.
- So how'd he do it?

- Botox injection.
-Botox?

Botox is a diluted form
of botulinum.
Among other things,

Raoul de Santos was employed
to give Connie her
regular facial injections.

My contact at the home office
gave me the complete records

of Raoul's Internet purchases.

He's been bulk-ordering
Botox for months.

Bided his time, then upped
the strength to a fatal dose.

- Are you sure about this?
- I'm sure.

All right, my office.

- Hey, Sherlock, how long?
- What?

How long have you known?

Well, this one
was quite simple actually.

And like I said,
the bomber repeated himself.
That was a mistake.

Yeah, but Sherlock, the
hostage, the old woman, she's
been there all this time!

I knew I could save her.

I also knew that
the bomber had given us
12 hours.

I solved the case quickly,
that gave me time to
get on with other things.

Don't you see?
We're one up on him.

Hello?

Help me!

Tell us where you are.

- Address?
- He was so...

His voice...

No, no, no, no!
Tell me nothing
about him, nothing.

He sounded so soft.

Hello?

Sherlock?

What's happened?

The explosion,
which ripped through several
floors, killing 12 people...

Old block of flats.

...caused by
a faulty gas main.

A spokesman
from the utility company...

He certainly gets about.

Well, obviously
I lost that round.

Although technically,
I did solve the case.

He killed the old lady
because she started
to describe him.

Just once,
he put himself
in the firing line.

What do you mean?

Well, usually, he
must stay above it all.

He organises these things,
but no one ever
has direct contact.

What, like
the Connie Prince murder,
he arranged that?

So people come to him
wanting their crimes

fixed up like
booking a holiday?

Novel.

Huh!

Taking his time this time.

Anything on
the Carl Powers case?

Nothing.

All the living classmates
check out spotless,
no connection.

- Maybe the killer
was older than Carl?
- The thought had occurred.

So why is he doing this, then?

Playing this game with you.
Do you think he
wants to be caught?

- I think he wants
to be distracted.
- Oh...

I hope you'll be
very happy together.

- Sorry, what?
- There are lives
at stake, Sherlock.

Actual human lives!
Just so I know,
do you care about that at all?

- Will caring about them
help save them?
- Nope.

Then I'll continue
not to make that mistake.

- And you find that easy,
do you?
- Yes, very.

- Is that news to you?
- No, no.

I've disappointed you.

That's good,
that's a good deduction, yeah.

Don't make people
into heroes, John.

Heroes don't exist,
and if they did,
I wouldn't be one of them.

Excellent.

A view of the Thames.

South Bank, somewhere between
Southwark Bridge and Waterloo.

You check the papers,
I'll look online.

Oh, you're angry with me,
so you won't help.

Not much cop,
this caring lark.

- Archway suicide...
- Ten-a-penny.

Two kids stabbed
in Stoke Newington.

Ah.

"Man found
on the train line,
Andrew West."

Nothing!

It's me. Have you found
anything on the South Bank

between Waterloo Bridge
and Southwark Bridge?

Do you reckon
this is connected,
then, the bomber?

Must be.
Odd, though,
he hasn't been in touch.

Then we must assume
that some poor bugger's
primed to explode, yeah?

Yes.

- Any ideas?
- Seven, so far.

Seven?

He's dead about 24 hours.

Maybe a bit longer.

Did he drown?

Apparently not.
Not enough of the Thames
in his lungs. Asphyxiated.

Yes, I'd agree.

There's quite a bit
of bruising around
the nose and mouth.

More bruises
here and here.

Fingertips.

He's late 30s, I'd say,
not in the best condition.

He's been in the river
a long while.

The water's destroyed
most of the data.

But I'll tell you one thing.

That lost Vermeer
painting's a fake.

- What?
- We need to
identify the corpse,

- find out about
his friends and...
- Wait, wait, wait, wait.

What painting?
What are you on about?

It's all over the place,
haven't you seen the posters?

Dutch old master, supposed to
have been destroyed
centuries ago.

Now it's turned up,
worth £30 million.

Okay, so what has that
got to do with the stiff?

Everything.

Have you ever heard
of the Golem?

Golem?

It's a horror story, isn't it?
What are you saying?

A Jewish folk story.
A gigantic man
made of clay.

It's also the name
of an assassin.

Real name Oscar Dzundza.

One of the deadliest assassins
in the world.

That is his trademark style.

- So this is a hit?
- Definitely.

The Golem squeezes
the life out of his victims
with his bare hands.

But what has this got to do
with that painting?
I don't see...

You do see,
you just don't observe!

Yes, all right,
all right, girls!
Calm down.

Sherlock, do you want to
take us through it?

What do we know
about this corpse?

The killer's not left us
with much, just the shirt
and the trousers.

They're pretty formal,
maybe he was going out
for the night.

The trousers are heavy-duty.

Polyester. Nasty.
Same as the shirt. Cheap.

They're both too big for him.
So some kind of
standard-issue uniform.

Dressed for work, then.
What kind of work?

There's a hook on his belt,
for a walkie-talkie.

Tube driver?

- Security guard?
- More likely.

- That'll be borne out
by his backside.
- Backside?

Flabby, you'd think he'd led
a sedentary life,

yet the soles of his feet

and the nascent varicose veins
in his legs show otherwise.

So, a lot of walking
and a lot of sitting around.

Security guard's looking good.
The watch helps too.

The alarm shows
he did regular night shifts.

Why regular? Maybe he just
set his alarm like that
the night before he died.

No, no, no.
The buttons are stiff,
hardly touched.

He set his alarm like that
a long time ago,
his routine never varied.

But there's something else.
The killer must have
been interrupted,

otherwise he would have
stripped the corpse
completely.

There was some kind of badge
or insignia on the shirt front

that he tore off,

suggesting the dead man
worked somewhere recognisable,

some kind of institution.

I found this
inside his trouser pockets.

Sodden by the river,
but still recognisably...

- Tickets?
- Ticket stubs.

He worked in a museum
or gallery.

Did a quick check.
The Hickman gallery
has reported

one of its attendants
is missing.

Alex Woodbridge.

Tonight, they unveil
the rediscovered masterpiece.

Now, why would anyone
want to pay the Golem

to suffocate
a perfectly ordinary
gallery attendant?

Inference, the dead man
knew something about it,

something that would
stop the owner
getting paid £30 million.

The pictures are fake.

Fantastic.

- Meretricious.
- And a happy new year.

Poor sod.

I'd better get my feelers out
for this Golem character.

Pointless,
you'll never find him,
but I know a man who can.

- Who?
- Me.

Why hasn't he phoned?
He's broken his pattern. Why?

Waterloo Bridge.

- Where now, the gallery?
- In a bit.

The Hickman's
contemporary art,
isn't it?

- Why have they got hold
of an old master?
- Don't know.

It's dangerous
to jump to conclusions.

Need data.

Stop!

Can you wait here?

I won't be a moment.

Sherlock?

Change? Any change?

- What for?
- Cup of tea, of course.

Here you go, 50.

Thanks.

- What are you doing?
- Investing.

Now we go to the gallery.
Have you got any cash?

No, I need you to find out
all you can about
the gallery attendant.

- Lestrade will
give you the address.
- Okay.

We'd been sharing
about a year.

- Just sharing.
- Mmm.

- May I?
- Yeah.

Sorry.

Stargazer, was he?

God, yeah. Mad about it.

It's all he ever did
in his spare time.

He was a nice guy, Alex.

I liked him.

He was, uh...

Never much of a one
for hoovering.

What about art?
Did he know anything
about that?

It was just a job, you know?

Mmm.

Has anyone else been round
asking about Alex?

No.

- We had a break-in, though.
- When?

Last night.
There was nothing taken.

Oh, there was
a message left for Alex
on the land line.

Who was it from?

Well, I can play it for you
if you like.
I'll get the phone.

Please.

Oh, should I speak now?
Alex?

Love, it's Professor Cairns.

Listen, you were right.
You were bloody right.

Give us a call when...

Professor Cairns?

- No idea, sorry.
- Mmm.

Can I try and ring back?

No good.
I've had other calls since.

Sympathy ones, you know.

Don't you have
something to do?

Just admiring the view.

Yes.

Lovely. Now get back to work.
We open tonight.

- Doesn't it bother you?
- What?

That the painting's a fake.

- What?
- It's a fake.

It has to be.
It's the only possible
explanation.

You are in charge, aren't you,
Miss Wenceslas?

Who are you?

Alex Woodbridge
knew that the painting
was a fake,

so somebody sent the Golem
to take care of him.
Was it you?

Golem? What the hell
are you talking about?

Are you working
for someone else?
Did you fake it for them?

- It's not a fake.
- It is a fake.

I don't know why.
But there's something wrong
with it, there has to be.

What the hell are you
on about?

Do you know I could
have you sacked on the spot.

Not a problem.

- No?
- No, I don't work here,
you see.

Just popped in to give you
a bit of friendly advice.

How did you get in?

- Please!
- I want to know.

The art of disguise is knowing
how to hide in plain sight.

- Who are you?
- Sherlock Holmes.

Am I supposed to be impressed?

You should be.

Have a nice day.

He wouldn't.

- He just wouldn't.
- No.

Stranger things have happened.

Westie wasn't a traitor.

That's a horrible thing
to say!

I'm sorry.
But you must understand...

That's what they think,
isn't it, his bosses?

He was young man, about to
get married, he had debts.

Everyone's got debts,

and Westie wouldn't want
to clear them by selling
out his country.

Can you, um...
Can you tell me exactly
what happened that night?

We were having a night in.

Just watching a DVD.

He normally falls asleep,
you know,
but he sat through this one.

He was quiet.

Out of the blue he said
he just had to go
and see someone.

And you've no idea who?

Hi, Luce. You okay, love?

- Yeah.
- Who's this?

John Watson, hi.

This is my brother, Joe.

John's trying to find out
what happened to Westie, Joe.

- You with the police?
- Sort of, yeah.

Tell them to get off
their arses, will you?
It's bloody ridiculous.

I'll do my best.

Well, uh...

Thanks very much
for your help. And again,
I'm very, very sorry.

He didn't steal those things,
Mr Watson.

I knew Westie,
he was a good man.

He was my good man.

- Spare change?
- No.

Any spare change?

Alex Woodbridge didn't know
anything special about art.

- And?
- And...

Is that it?
No habits, hobbies,
personality?

Give us a chance.
He was an amateur astronomer.

Hold that cab.

- Spare change, sir?
- Don't mind if I do.

Can you wait here?

Fortunately,
I haven't been idle.

Come on.

Beautiful, isn't it?

I thought you
didn't care about...

Doesn't mean
I can't appreciate it.

Listen, Alex Woodbridge
had a message on
the answerphone at his flat.

- A Professor Cairns.
- This way.

Nice. Nice part of town.

- Uh, any time
you want to explain?
- Homeless network.

- Really is indispensable.
- Homeless network?

My eyes and ears,
all over the city.

Ah, that's... clever.

- So you scratch their backs,
and...
- Yes, and I disinfect myself.

Sherlock! Come on!

What's he doing,
sleeping rough?

Well, he has a very
distinctive look.

He has to hide somewhere
where tongues won't wag...

Much.

- Oh, sh...
- What?

- I wish I...
- Don't mention it.

No! No! No! No!

It'll take us weeks
to find him again.

Or not. I have an idea where
he might be going.

- What?
- I told you.

Someone left
Alex Woodbridge a message.

There can't be that many
Professor Cairns
in the book. Come on.

Jupiter, the fifth planet
in our solar system,
and the largest.

Jupiter is a gas giant.
Planet Earth would
fit into it 11 times.

Yes, we know that.

-
Titan is the largest moon...
- Come on, Neptune.

Many are actually long dead...

- Tom, is that you?
- ...exploded into supernovas.

Discovered by
Urbain Le Verrier
in 1846...

...composed mainly
of hydrogen.

Their light would take
so long to reach us...

Golem!

...many are actually
long dead, exploded into...

I can't see him.
I'll go round. I'll go.

Who are you
working for this time,
Dzundza?

A star begins
as a collapsing ball of
material composed mainly of...

Golem!

Let him go

or I will kill you.

The fourth planet
of the solar system named
after the Roman god of war.

...it is a gas giant...

...takes so long
to reach us...

...into supernovas...

...exploded into supernovas...

It's a fake.
It has to be.

That painting has been
subjected to
every test known to science.

It's a very good fake, then.

You know about this,
don't you?
This is you, isn't it?

Inspector,
my time is being wasted.

Would you mind
showing yourself

and your friends out?

The painting is a fake.

It's a fake,
that's why Woodbridge
and Cairns were killed.

Oh, come on,
proving it's just a detail.
The painting is a fake.

I've solved it,
I've figured it out.

It's a fake,
that's the answer,
that's why they were killed.

Okay, I'll prove it.
Give me time.
Will you give me time?

Ten...

It's a kid.
Oh, God, it's a kid.

- What did he say?
- Ten.

-Nine...
- It's a countdown.
He's giving me time.

- Jesus...
- The painting is a fake,

but how can I prove it?
How? How?

Eight...

This kid will die. Tell me
why the painting is a fake.
Tell me!

-Seven...
- No, shut up.
Don't say anything.

It only works
if I figure it out.

It must be
possible. It must be
staring me in the face.

-Six...
- How?

- Woodbridge knew, but how?
-Five...

- It's speeding up!
- Sherlock!

- Oh!
-Four...

In the Planetarium,
you heard it too.

Oh, that is brilliant,
that is gorgeous!

-Three...
- What's brilliant? What is?

This is beautiful. Love this!

-Two...
- Sherlock!

The Van Buren Supernova.

Please,
is somebody there?
Somebody help me.

There you go. Go and find out
where he is and pick him up.

Van Buren Supernova,
so-called.

Exploding star.
Only appeared
in the sky in 1858.

So how could it have been

painted in the 1640s?

Oh...

Oh.

Oh, Sherlock...

You know, it's interesting.
Bohemian stationery,

an assassin named after
a Prague legend,
and you, Miss Wenceslas.

This whole case
has a distinctly
Czech feeling about it.

Is that where this leads?

What are we
looking at, Inspector?

Well, criminal conspiracy,
fraud,

accessory after the fact,
at the very least.

The murder of the old woman,
all the people in the flat...

I didn't know
anything about that.

All those things, please,
believe me.

I just wanted my share.

The 30 million.

I found a little old man in
Argentina.

A genius...
I mean, really.

Brushwork, immaculate.

- Could fool anyone.
- Mmm.

Well, nearly anyone.

But I didn't know how to
go about convincing the world
the picture was genuine.

It was just an idea.

A spark which
he blew into a flame.

Who?

I don't know.

It's true!

It took a long time,
but eventually I was

put in touch with people.

His people.

Well, there was never
any real contact.

Just messages...

Whispers.

And did those whispers
have a name?

Moriarty.

-So this is where
West was found?
- Yeah.

- Are you going to be long?
- I might be.

- Are you the police, then?
- Sort of.

I hate 'em.

- The police?
- No, jumpers.

People who chuck themselves
in front of trains.
Selfish bastards.

Well, that's one way
of looking at it.

I mean it.
It's all right for them.

It's over in a split second.
Strawberry jam
all over the lines.

What about the drivers, eh?

They've got to live with it,
haven't they?

Yeah, speaking of
strawberry jam,
there's no blood on the line.

- Has it been cleaned off?
- No, there wasn't that much.

You said his head
was smashed in.

It was,
but there wasn't much blood.

Okay.

Well, I'll leave you
to it, then.

- Just give us a shout
when you're off.
- Right.

Right, so, Andrew West
got on the train

somewhere. Or did he?

There was no ticket
on the body.

How did he end up here?

- The points.
- Yes!

I knew you'd
get there eventually.

West wasn't killed here,
that's why there was
so little blood.

- How long have you been
following me?
- Since the start.

You don't think I'd give up
on a case like this

just to spite my brother,
do you?

Come on, we've got
a bit of burglary to do.

Missile defence plans
haven't left the country,

otherwise Mycroft's people
would have heard about it.

Despite what people think,
we do still have
a secret service.

Yeah, I know, I've met them.

Which means whoever stole
the memory stick can't sell it

or doesn't know
what to do with it.

My money's on the latter.

We're here.

Where?

Sherlock!
What if there's someone in?

There isn't.

Jesus...

Where are we?

Oh, sorry, didn't I say?
Joe Harrison's flat.

Joe...

Brother of West's fiancee.
He stole the memory stick,

killed his prospective
brother-in-law.

Then why did he do it?

Let's ask him.

Don't! Don't.

He wasn't meant to...

What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus.

Why did you kill him?

It was an accident.

I swear it was.

But stealing the plans
for the missile defense
program

wasn't an accident,
was it?

I started dealing drugs.

I mean, the bike thing's
a great cover, right?

I don't know how it started.

I just got out of my depth.

I owed people thousands.
Serious people.

Then at Westie's
engagement do, he starts
talking about his job.

I mean, usually,
he's so careful.

But that night,
after a few pints,
he really opened up.

'He told me about these
missile plans.

Beyond top secret.

He showed me
the memory stick,
he waved it in front of me.

You hear about these things
getting lost,

ending up on rubbish tips
and whatnot.

But there it was.
And I thought...

Well, I thought
it could be worth a fortune.

It was pretty easy
to get the thing off him,
he was so plastered.

Next time I saw him,

I could tell
by the look on his
face that he knew.

- What are you doing here?
- What have you done
with the plans?

What are you talking about?

What happened?

I was going to
call an ambulance,
but it was too late.

I just didn't have a clue
what to do.

So I dragged him in here.

I just sat in the dark,
thinking.

When a neat little idea
popped into your head.

Carrying Andrew West
way away from here.

His body would've gone on
for ages

if the train hadn't hit
a stretch of track
that curved.

-And points.
- Exactly.

Do you still have it, then,
the memory stick?

Fetch it for me,
if you wouldn't mind.

Distraction over,
the game continues.

Maybe that's over, too.
We've heard nothing
from the bomber.

Five pips, remember, John.

It's a countdown.
We've only had four.

No, no, no!

Course he's not
the boy's father.

Look at the turn-ups
on his jeans!

- I knew it was dangerous.
- Hmm?

- Getting you into crap telly.
- Mmm.

Not a patch on Connie Prince.

Have you given Mycroft
the memory stick yet?

Yep. He was over the moon.

Threatened me
with a knighthood... again.

- You know, I'm still waiting.
- Hmm?

For you to admit that a little
knowledge of the solar system

and you'd have cleared up
the fake painting
a lot quicker.

It didn't do you
any good, did it?

No, but I'm not the world's
only consulting detective.

True.
I won't be in for tea.

I'm going to Sarah's.

There's still
some of that risotto
left in the fridge.

Mmm!

- Ah, milk, we need milk.
- I'll get some.

- Really?
- Really.

- And some beans, then?
- Mmm.

Bought you a little
getting-to-know-you present.

That's what it's all been for,
isn't it?

All your little puzzles,
making me dance.

All to distract me from this.

Evening.

This is a turn-up, isn't it,
Sherlock?

John! What the hell?

Bet you never saw this coming.

What

would you like me
to make him say...

...next?

Gottle o' gear,
gottle o' gear,

- gottle o' gear.
- Stop it.

Nice touch, this.

The pool,

where little Carl died.

I stopped him.

I can stop John Watson, too.

- Stop his heart.
- Who are you?

I gave you my number.

I thought you might call.

Is that a British
Army Browning
L9A1 in your pocket,

or are you just
pleased to see me?

Both.

Jim Moriarty.

Hi.

Jim?

Jim from the hospital?

Oh, did I really make
such a fleeting impression?

But then, I suppose,
that was rather the point.

Don't be silly.
Someone else
is holding the rifle.

I don't like getting
my hands dirty.

I've given you a glimpse,
Sherlock,
just a teensy glimpse

of what I've got
going on out there
in the big bad world.

I'm a specialist, you see.

Like you.

"Dear Jim,

"please will you fix it for me

"to get rid of my lover's
nasty sister?"

"Dear Jim, please will you
fix it for me to disappear
to South America?"

Just so.

Consulting criminal.

Brilliant. Isn't it?

Isn't it?

No one ever gets to me.

And no one ever will.

I did.

You've come the closest.
Now you're in my way.

- Thank you.
- Didn't mean it
as a compliment.

- Yes, you did.
- Yeah, okay, I did.

But the flirting's over,
Sherlock.

Daddy's had enough now.

I've shown you what I can do.

I cut loose all those people,
all those little problems,

even 30 million quid,
just to get you
to come out and play.

So take this
as a friendly warning...

...my dear.

Back off.

Although I have loved this,

this little game of ours.

Playing Jim from IT,

playing gay.

Did you like
the little touch
with the underwear?

People have died.

That's what people do!

I will stop you.

No, you won't.

Are you all right?

You can talk, Johnny boy.
Go ahead.

- Take it.
- Hmm? Oh...

That? The missile plans.

Boring!

I could have
got them anywhere.

Sherlock, run!

Good!

Very good.

If your sniper pulls
that trigger, Mr Moriarty,
then we both go up.

Isn't he sweet?
I can see why you
like having him around.

But then, people do
get so sentimental
about their pets.

They're so touchingly loyal.

But oops!

You've rather shown
your hand there, Dr Watson.

Gotcha.

Westwood.

Do you know what
happens if you don't
leave me alone, Sherlock?

Do you?

Oh, let me guess.
I get killed.

Kill you?

Mmm, no.
Don't be obvious.

I mean, I'm gonna kill you
anyway someday.

I don't want to
rush it, though.

I'm saving it up for
something special.

No, no, no, no, no.

If you don't stop prying,

I'll burn you.

I'll burn the heart
out of you.

I have been reliably informed
that I don't have one.

But we both know that's not
quite true.

Well, I'd better be off.

Well, so nice to have had
a proper chat.

What if I was to
shoot you now?

Right now?

Then you could cherish
the look of surprise
on my face.

'Cause I'd be surprised,
Sherlock.

Really, I would.

And just a teensy bit...

Disappointed.

And of course,
you wouldn't be able to
cherish it for very long.

Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.

Catch you... later.

No, you won't!

All right?

- Are you all right?
- Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.

I'm fine. Sherlock...

Sherlock!

Oh, Christ.

- Are you okay?
- Me? Yeah, fine.
I'm fine. Fine.

That, uh...

...thing that you...
That you did.

That, um...
you offered to do...
That was, um...

Good.

- I'm glad no one saw that.
- Hmm?

You ripping my clothes off
in a darkened swimming pool.

People might talk.

You would do little else.

- Oh...
- Sorry, boys.

I'm so changeable!

It is a weakness with me,
but to be fair to myself,

it is my only weakness.

You can't be allowed
to continue.

You just can't.

I would try to convince you,

but everything I have to say
has already crossed your mind.

Probably my answer has
crossed yours.