Page 471 - SHERLOCK transcripts

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are wearing thick gloves. Mycroft stands next to the grave, shining a flashlight down into the
hole. Sherlock and Greg shovel out a few more loads and then, when Sherlock plunges the
spade down again, it’s met with a hollow thump. He slowly straightens up, realising that they
have reached the coffin.
Some time later Greg groans in pain as he and Sherlock, now out of the grave, bend down to
lower the coffin to the ground at its foot. Greg uses a crowbar to lever up one end of the coffin
lid and then hands it to Sherlock to lever up the other end. They then lift off the lid and set it
down beside the coffin, inside which – illuminated by Mycroft’s torch – is a very rotted almost
skeletal corpse with worms wriggling in the eye sockets of the skull. Surrounding the corpse are
the rotted remains of a wedding dress. Greg stays back and Sherlock, leaning over the coffin,
puts the back of his hand to his nose and mouth, presumably appalled by the smell.
SHERLOCK: Urgh!
(Mycroft directs the light from his torch into the coffin. Kneeling down beside the coffin and
breathing heavily, Sherlock starts to rummage around and under the corpse, searching for a
second body. There clearly isn’t one.)
MYCROFT: Oh dear. The cupboard is bare.
(Sherlock rises up on his knees and stares into the grave.)
SHERLOCK: They must have buried it underneath. They must have buried it underneath the
coffin.
(Standing up and leaping over the coffin, he jumps down into the grave and starts grabbing
handfuls of earth, tossing them over the side of the hole. The other two walk to the edge of the
grave and look down at him, then straighten up and exchange another look. Greg sighs and
they look down into the grave again as Sherlock pants heavily while he continues throwing out
handfuls of earth.)
LESTRADE: Bad luck, Sherlock.
(Sherlock continues frantically scrabbling in the grave.)
LESTRADE: Maybe they got rid of the body in another way.
MYCROFT: More than likely. At any rate, it was a very long time ago. We do have slightly more
pressing matters to hand, little brother. Moriarty, back from the dead?
(Sherlock is still frenetically pawing handfuls of earth together, but stops when a harsh female
voice begins to whisper.)
VOICE (rhythmically, as if reciting lyrics to a song): Do not forget me.
(He raises his head and turns. Up above, both Greg and Mycroft turn and look towards the
coffin, clearly hearing the voice as well.)
VOICE (harshly whispering): Do not forget me.
(Mycroft shines his torchlight into the coffin. Greg’s jaw drops and Mycroft stares in disbelief as
the corpse’s skeletal right hand begins to lift from where it was resting on the body’s chest. The
arm slowly straightens out. As Sherlock frowns at the sound of creaking bones, the coffin seems
to shake and the corpse’s head begins to lift up. A woman’s furious scream can be heard, and
Sherlock’s eyes widen as the skeleton plunges into the grave on top of him. It flattens him to
the floor ...

... and Holmes starts violently and wakes up to find himself lying on his side on a narrow rocky
ledge. Water is pouring over him as if it is raining heavily.)
HOLMES (sounding exasperated as he props himself up onto one elbow): Oh, I see. Still not
awake, am I?
(He shifts position and turns to look along the ledge. Behind him, beyond the end of the ledge a
few feet away, a massive waterfall plunges over the side of the mountain. A few yards in the
other direction, Professor Moriarty stands looking at him. In the distance, a full moon lights up
the night sky. Holmes grimaces and pulls down the visor of his deerstalker hat, trying to keep
the water out of his eyes.)
MORIARTY: Too deep, Sherlock. Way too deep.
(Holmes stumbles to his feet.)
MORIARTY: Congratulations. You’ll be the first man in history to be buried in his own Mind
Palace.
(Holmes has been looking towards the waterfall but now turns to face him.)
HOLMES (gesturing behind him): The setting’s a shade melodramatic, don’t you think?
MORIARTY: For you and me? (He looks up at the spray splashing over him.) Not at all.
HOLMES: What are you?
MORIARTY: You know what I am. I’m Moriarty. (In a slightly sarcastic voice) The Napoleon of
crime.

Transcripts by Ariane DeVere (arianedevere@livejournal.com)