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“Perhaps we should split up. Cover more ground that way.” Holmes tapped his chin in thought as he surveyed the museum foyer. It looked very odd at night, completely empty of visitors. Only the moonlight through the windows illuminated the space.
Beside him, Watson quietly harrumphed. “What if one of us gets into trouble?” he asked, in a tone where “one of us” meant “you”.
Holmes chuckled under his breath. “We each have a whistle, don't we? And Lestrade's finest are chomping at the bit outside to join the fray. Look, you go upstairs, I'll take the ground floor. If either of us sees something fishy, we shan't engage without telling the other.”
“And we'll meet back here in half an hour regardless.” Watson's face was stern, but even in the gloom Holmes could make out a sparkle of excitement in his eyes, the thrill of the chase which was echoed in his own features.
“Agreed. Half an hour.” Holmes checked his watch and patted the doctor's arm. “Off you go, old chap.”
They went their separate ways and began to explore the empty museum, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The curator was convinced that someone was planning a robbery; what they would steal was unclear, but a figure had been spotted two nights ago near the newest wing of the building, which was still under construction. Some of the exhibits there had already been moved in, ready to go on display. A selection of Egyptian artefacts, apparently, statues and jewellery and perhaps a sarcophagus.
Holmes didn't care what the target was, really. He was just looking to catch the culprits. The curator had involved the police, too, but they had agreed he and Watson could scope out the building first before any official moves were made. Holmes felt quite determined to catch the thieves in the act, for his own satisfaction, even if he wouldn't take the credit for the arrest.
He crept silently through the corridors, listening hard and rounding his feet as he walked so his footsteps didn't echo. All manner of beautiful paintings and historical pieces passed him by, things that his Watson would have stopped to appreciate on an ordinary visit. He paid them no mind.
A flash of light—a lantern! Then a hiss, like a warning, and it went out.
Holmes grinned in the dark.
He approached the new wing, which was cordoned off by a terribly ineffective velvet rope and a sign made to be ignored. There were voices in that room, hushed and urgent. How many? Two? Three? He held his breath and peeked around the corner of the archway leading in.
Three men stood around a narrow wooden crate, lit by a dark lantern on the floor. It was open, and the largest of the men was lifting something out with a great grunt of exertion. It looked to be a statue, perhaps of an Egyptian god. It was beautifully painted and inlaid with narrow bands of gold. The large man heaved it out of the crate and got one of his comrades, much smaller and skinnier than him, to help him carefully set it on the floor.
Holmes watched avidly, nibbling his bottom lip and wishing he had a Kodak.
“Perfect,” said the third man. He held himself with a confidence that showed him as the leader of this little operation. “She'll look even more beautiful once she's broken down.”
“What now?” the little one asked, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
“Close that up and cover it, and we'll get a move on. No-one will be any the wiser tomorrow.”
There wasn't much time to rally the troops, then. Holmes turned to leave.
The sole of his shoe squeaked over the floor.
“Who's out there?” the ringleader shouted. “Get them!”
Holmes made a run for it, reaching for the police whistle around his neck—then a mighty hand grabbed the collar of his coat and hauled him backwards. Heavens, that big fellow could move fast! He struggled, but the man held his upper arms and frogmarched him into the Egyptian room.
The leader raised an eyebrow. “A spy! Here, who are you? What're you doing?”
Holmes smiled, because it was better than acknowledging the painful grip his bulky captor had on his arms. “Looking for you, as it happens,” he said brightly. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock Holmes? The detective?”
“The curator hired me to find out who was trying to steal from the museum. I must say, taking the artefacts before they're even put on display is a significant time-saver. I admire your ingenuity.”
“Why, thank you, Mr Holmes. Coming from you, that's quite the compliment—though perhaps you aren't truly as smart as your reputation claims? I cannot help but notice we have not yet been arrested, and my friend there has a rather firm hold on you.”
Holmes attempted a shrug. “Oh, but I didn't come here alone. If I don't make my rendezvous with Watson, he'll come looking for me.”
“Dr Watson is here too, is he? Then you'd better hope he finds you in time.”
“Er—”
“Tie him up.”
“Don't you—ow—Watsmmph!”
Holmes knew he wasn't a particularly strong fellow, and though he fancied himself quite a slippery sort when it came down to it, he quickly learned that when a much larger assailant already had a hold of him it was very difficult to get away. Too soon he was stripped of his hat and coat, gagged, bound hand and foot, and hefted roughly over the big man's shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He struggled and grunted, to no avail.
“What now?” The smaller, skinnier thief sneered, grinning up into his flushed face. He reached out and tweaked Holmes's nose, then laughed.
The ringleader spoke up. “Do you know,” he said, “it occurs to me that as we're taking something from this fine exhibition, we really ought to leave something in return. It's only polite.”
Holmes had been concentrating on trying to loosen the rope around his wrists, but now he froze. What was the man talking about? He heard movement, footsteps, but he couldn't look behind to see what was happening. His arms were already beginning to ache.
The brute suddenly dropped him on the floor—but it wasn't quite the cold stone floor he'd been expecting. There was a white sheet beneath him, one of the dustsheets that were covering parts of the display. Mystified, Holmes tried to speak and failed spectacularly.
“Quiet.”
Their leader watching, stood by Holmes's head with his arms smugly crossed, the other two began to tuck the sheet around him, rolling and wrapping him up. Another sheet followed, and then more ropes to secure them, pilfered from the crate the thieves had broken open. By the end of it Holmes could hardly move, he was so thoroughly encased.
He tried regardless to wriggle free, to shout for Watson. No use. He settled for fixing the leader of the gang with a powerful glare, and resolved instead that once they inevitably abandoned him to his fate he would find a way to get loose.
“There we are! A perfect addition to the upcoming display.” The leader rubbed his hands together. “But, lads, we can't leave it lying around until the new wing opens, don't you agree?”
“Could get damaged,” said the little one. Holmes growled at him.
“Can't have that,” grunted the big one, and he kicked Holmes for good measure, making him squeak.
“Oh, yes, that would just be awful. Such a valuable item should be properly stored.” The leader looked over at the open crate and gave a theatrical start. “Why, here's the perfect place to keep it nice and safe! Let's get it packed up, shall we, and we can be on our way.”
Holmes made a valiant effort, but there was no way he could stop himself being picked up and placed none-too-gently in the open crate. There was a long, deep indentation in the straw within where the stolen statue had lain. It was a touch too narrow to fit him. The lid was set in place, and he heard the rustle of another sheet being draped over the top. When the thieves left they'd take their lantern with them. There would be no outward sign that he was in the room.
He shifted, trying to roll onto his back. It was already so warm within the tight layers of the sheets. He was starting to sweat, and it was hard to breathe through his nose. The straw made it worse; he badly wanted to sneeze.
Watson would come. When they didn't meet as arranged, he would come looking.
But what if he crossed paths with those thieves as they made their way out? What if they hurt him? Watson could certainly hold his own in a fight, and there were the Yarders awaiting the signal if he needed assistance, but there was still a chance he'd come to harm. And Holmes could do nothing to help him.
Maybe if he—
No. The ropes around his wrists were too tight, and his ankles fared no better. And what good was loosening either of those, when he was still wrapped up head to toe?
He slumped. How could he have let this happen? He'd been too cocky, too confident, certain he could sneak about without being seen or heard. And then, to think he could get out of this! He might have been able to pick himself out of a pair of handcuffs, but this humiliating trap was far beyond his abilities. He was thoroughly stuck.
He hoped that Watson would be the one to find him. That was usually his preference when he got himself into a mess anyway, but he absolutely dreaded Lestrade or another of the Yarders discovering him this time. He'd never live it down.
He mustn't panic. Watson was fine, he would be fine, Watson would come and look for him. That was what they'd agreed. And his doctor was a man of his word.
Don't panic, Holmes. Do what you're best at; think. Work it out. What is the absolute worst outcome of this scenario?
Nobody finds you, you die in a few days and become a dessicated husk, just like a real mummy.
Alright. Now, step by step. Don't panic.
Why wasn't that the logical conclusion? Why didn't it make sense?
Because Watson would come, preferably. He might give him a talking-to, but that was alright.
If he couldn't come—heaven forbid—then Scotland Yard would. Their rescue would almost be worth the embarrassment.
And if they couldn't, somebody at the museum would discover him. The curator, another member of staff, a builder, a visitor. Someone.
Watson would never give up the search either, unless—
Don't panic.
It was so warm. He was parched.
Don't bloody pani—
Wait. In the distance. That was a police whistle! Aha! And then a commotion, doors slamming, the repeated regimental stomp of standard-issue uniform boots echoing down the museum hall outside. Something was happening! Oh, he hoped it was good.
He waited, perfectly still. His arms and legs were growing numb. For a while there was nothing more. He wished he could see what was going on. Had the thieves been caught? Was Watson alright?
“Holmes?”
His heart leapt.
“Holmes, where are you?”
Holmes shouted as loudly as he could and feebly kicked the side of the crate. Watson! Come on, come here! I'm here, Watson! Help!
“Holmes?” The beloved voice came nearer. There was a flourish of fabric being pulled away, and then a knock on the lid of his prison. “Holmes? Are you in there? Say something!”
Of course he didn't manage anything coherent, but it did the trick. The lid was lifted and suddenly Watson was there, staring at him in complete astonishment. His mouth was hanging open.
“What the devil—?” He leaned down and untied the gag around Holmes's mouth. “My dear fellow, what happened to you? Are you alright?”
“Watson!” His voice cracked. “Kindly get me out of this. I can't manage it myself.”
“I'll say!” Watson widened his stance, reached into the crate, and lifted Holmes into his arms. Though he still couldn't move, Holmes felt safe at once.
Then Watson kissed him soundly—he must have come into the room alone—and he felt better still. He relaxed at last and let his head rest on Watson’s sturdy shoulder, sighing in relief.
“I thought you'd raise the alarm if you got into trouble,” Watson admonished him.
“Didn't have a chance. I crept up on them easily enough, but when I started back to you they heard me moving about.”
“What about your whistle?”
“I tried, but then it was too dangerous.”
“Holmes.” Watson shook his head and knelt to lay him on the ground. “They trussed you up like a—well, like a mummy! That's dangerous enough, isn't it? If I hadn't found you just now then you might have been stuck in there for days!”
Pink with exertion and annoyance, he began to pick at the knots. Holmes waited and sheepishly watched him work. Only when he'd been unwrapped and had his arms loose, and rubbed some feeling back into them, did he sit up and tug Watson into a firm embrace.
“I'm sorry,” he murmured against his shoulder, breathing in damp tweed and warm cologne and lingering tobacco smoke. “I wasn't thinking, at least not about the right things. Forgive me.”
Watson tutted, but he did hug him back. That was something. “Madman,” he murmured, and set to attacking the final knots. Soon Holmes was free; rumpled, embarrassed, sweaty and sore, but free.
Now he got a proper look at Watson. He grabbed the doctor’s hand. “Who did you punch this time, eh?”
‘That little skinny fellow.’ Watson could help but look a little pleased, it seemed. “The three of them came round a corner just as I did; the big one and another were carrying a statue between them, and he was keeping lookout, I believe. He saw me first and leapt at me, but I took him down. I'd wager he'll have quite the headache in the morning.”
‘Oh, good show, old boy!” Holmes gave him another kiss. “Then I suppose you blew your whistle?”
“Like a sensible chap, yes.” Watson nudged him. “Got the Yarders in and they took over. Lestrade was asking where you were, but none of those thieves would say. Looked rather smug about it too. Since I knew where you'd last gone, I volunteered to come and look for you.” He gently took hold of Holmes’s hands. “I must say, my dear, I—I'm very glad to have found you alive. You're sure you're alright? Not hurt?”
“Only my pride wounded, Watson, I assure you.” Holmes squeezed his fingers and tried to smile.
“Then can you stand?”
He was a little wobbly, but with Watson's steady grip on his elbow Holmes was able to walk out of the museum and greet Lestrade with some enthusiasm. The three thieves, his captors, were being shut in the back of a wagon as they emerged into the fresh night air. The statue had been wrapped up and lifted into another to follow the prisoners to the station. All was well; criminals caught, stolen goods recovered, Holmes and Watson free to go home and give their statements the next day if needed. Lestrade even let them have a lift back to Baker Street.
Only when they were back in their cosy little flat, after Watson had lit the fire and they'd both changed into nightshirts and dressing gowns, did Holmes feel able to let go. Even trapped in that crate, those inescapable bonds, he'd managed to hold his panic in check by trusting Watson to save him. Now he let himself feel it, knowing if he didn't it could eat away at him for days and send him spiralling into a terribly black mood.
He sat in Watson’s lap, both of them occupying the doctor’s armchair, and clung to him. He whispered how dark it had been, how unbearably warm, how weak and useless and foolish he'd felt. Watson listened without saying a word, soothing or otherwise, and never stopped touching him. One warm hand pressed Holmes's thin fingers to the doctor’s broad chest, and the other stroked up and down his spine all the while.
It was almost midnight by the time Holmes got it all out. Feeling worn out but lighter, he found he didn't want to sleep yet—so he set to thanking his Watson properly, for saving him and much more besides. That was enough to occupy them both until the morning.