MARCH 2ND, 10:19 PM
John Watson paced through the dark halls of the Meadow Museum. Only his own voice answered, as it echoed back against the walls. At the end of a long marble hallway John caught a glimpse of a human figure, leaning against a tall statue at least twice their size. In the dark, he couldn’t make out the full form of either.
John gazed around the hall once more. “Sherlock?” Nothing but white walls. Behind him, a trail of blood, red dots scattered across black-and-white marble floors. It almost sent John into a panic, until he looked down a realized the blood trial belonged to him. His tan slacks were ripped on the right leg. Blood flowed freely. Right now, adrenaline masked the pain, a result of his brain sending signals to flood his body with epinephrine and norepinephrine.
He wasn’t looking forward to when that wore off.
For now, John ignored his cut leg. Leaving a trail behind him was not ideal; he would be very easy to track. Fortunately, it didn’t seem there was anyone around who cared to track him. He took some comfort he was trailing dots and not a solid streak. His blood was already clotting. The wound had to be superficial. No doubt he’d cut himself during his dubious entry through a shattered window.
John continued down the hall towards the figure. He drew his firearm and held it both hands, just in case. Whoever was at the end of the hall hadn’t moved.
John thought about how long his body had been in a state of hyperarousal, trying to estimate how long he had before he felt pain. In truth, his body probably entered this state twice -- when he arrived at the museum, and when he received the text that brought him here.
Come here. Hurry. - S.H.
Bring Gun. - S.H.
Holmes and his bloody vague texts. A Holmes text could mean anything. Bring gun could mean “I’m in immediate danger, save me.” It could mean, “I believe danger may be present, and I desire a gun be nearby.” Or it could mean, “I happen to need a paperweight and your gun will do quite well.”
But, because the first option was even remotely possible, John flew into a panic.
John entered into an open chamber, with multiple entrances and exits. Moonlight poured in from a skylight above, and the amber glow of streetlights spilled through windows on the far right walls.
The "Statue" was no statue at all -- it was a fossil. A massive Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton loomed over Watson as he moved closer to the figure, still looming underneath. A staircase to the left hugged the wall, turned right around the statue, and led to an observation platform above on the opposite side of the room.
Footsteps. Somewhere in the distance, upstairs. “Sherlock?”
John moved closer to the figure beneath the watchful prehistoric beast. As he approached, he recognized who it was immediately. Doctor Olgist, the very person they’d come to the states to see. He was hunched over beneath the statue, hiding from something, head hanging low.
“Doctor! Doctor? Are you--”
The footsteps came to a stop. John turned his eyes past the statue, to the observation deck above.
A figure in the shadows raised their hand. A metallic object reflected starlight.
Instinct took over. John raised his pistol, aimed, and --
“John!" Sherlock's voice, somewhere in the darkness. "Do NOT move! Stay right there!”
John squeezed his trigger. A loud, metallic creak emanated through the halls. Then a sudden snap.
The Tyrannosaurus towering over John shuddered. The Skeleton tilted and swung, as if coming to life. Its head lurched forward, and the structure could no longer hold.
A cascade of bones rained upon him.
Gunshots rang out. The world went dark.