to take an awfully long time before he hit the ground. A
hand grabbed at his shoulder, but when he looked up, all he could see was a grotesquely distorted face looming over him. He struck out with his fists, again and again, flailing around in a world of
jumbled shapes and colours. Someone was screaming, and he thought he recognized the voice. He thought it was his own voice, but it was a long, long way away.
Then there was darkness, and the feeling that his arms were being tightly held. And then there was just the darkness.
The realization that he was lying on a bed of straw in a brick-lined room came slowly. He didn’t know at what point he understood where he was: there came a moment, as he
was staring at the brickwork, that he realized that he had understood some time ago, but the information just hadn’t meant anything to him.
He was in a brick room, and he was lying on straw. That was a starting point.
And his name was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.
The rest seeped back gradually, like the sea washing over the beach as the tide comes in. The Diogenes Club. The cab. The fight. The liquid that had been sprayed over his face.
He checked his clothes, running his hands down his body. He was still wearing the same jacket, shirt and trousers that he had been wearing earlier. That, at least, was something to hold on to.
They were stained with dust and dirt, but not ripped.
The room was like the inside of a stable, but there was no smell of animals. The straw was clean and dry, and had been laid down on flagstones. The brickwork that formed the walls was
whitewashed and dry too: no moss, no trickling water, and the air was chilly but not damp. At first he’d thought he was in some sort of outbuilding, but the evidence suggested otherwise. He
was indoors – just not in a particularly well-appointed room.
There was a window in one wall, but it was tall and thin, barely wide enough for him to get his arm through if he tried. Certainly not large enough for him to escape. Even his friend Matty
wouldn’t be able to get through that. The glass looked dirty, from where he lay.
The wall opposite the window was interrupted by a door. It was heavy, and studded with big metal rivets like the heads of arrows that had been shot through from the other side. A small window in
the centre of the door was barred, and it looked as if a wooden shutter had been closed across it from the other side.
As Sherlock’s mind began to speed up, he realized that there were no hinges on the door. Or, at least, there were no hinges on the inside of the door. The hinges must have been on the
outside, which meant that the door opened outwards, not inwards. Sherlock didn’t think that he’d ever been in a room where the door opened outwards.
No, that wasn’t right. He had been in a room like that: the room in Bow Street Police Station where he and Amyus Crowe had spoken with his brother Mycroft a few months before. The
door to that room had been designed so that people in the room could not pry the hinges apart and thus remove the door, or hide behind the door when it opened and attack whoever came in.
He was in a cell.
He sat up suddenly, shocked into complete wakefulness. He was in a cell! Surely he hadn’t been arrested? Now that the blood was flowing more swiftly through his brain he remembered vague
images of himself flailing around in the street, punching people who came too close – but Amyus Crowe would have protected him, wouldn’t he? Protected him from arrest?
Unless Crowe had been arrested too. The big American had been on the verge of a fight, after all.
He checked his knuckles. They were scraped, and covered with dried blood.
He tried to work out how long he had been unconscious. His throat and mouth were dry, but he wasn’t particularly hungry. He couldn’t have been out for more than a couple of hours. It
was still the same day.
He climbed unsteadily to his feet. His toes tingled with pins-and-needles as the
hand grabbed at his shoulder, but when he looked up, all he could see was a grotesquely distorted face looming over him. He struck out with his fists, again and again, flailing around in a world of
jumbled shapes and colours. Someone was screaming, and he thought he recognized the voice. He thought it was his own voice, but it was a long, long way away.
Then there was darkness, and the feeling that his arms were being tightly held. And then there was just the darkness.
The realization that he was lying on a bed of straw in a brick-lined room came slowly. He didn’t know at what point he understood where he was: there came a moment, as he
was staring at the brickwork, that he realized that he had understood some time ago, but the information just hadn’t meant anything to him.
He was in a brick room, and he was lying on straw. That was a starting point.
And his name was Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.
The rest seeped back gradually, like the sea washing over the beach as the tide comes in. The Diogenes Club. The cab. The fight. The liquid that had been sprayed over his face.
He checked his clothes, running his hands down his body. He was still wearing the same jacket, shirt and trousers that he had been wearing earlier. That, at least, was something to hold on to.
They were stained with dust and dirt, but not ripped.
The room was like the inside of a stable, but there was no smell of animals. The straw was clean and dry, and had been laid down on flagstones. The brickwork that formed the walls was
whitewashed and dry too: no moss, no trickling water, and the air was chilly but not damp. At first he’d thought he was in some sort of outbuilding, but the evidence suggested otherwise. He
was indoors – just not in a particularly well-appointed room.
There was a window in one wall, but it was tall and thin, barely wide enough for him to get his arm through if he tried. Certainly not large enough for him to escape. Even his friend Matty
wouldn’t be able to get through that. The glass looked dirty, from where he lay.
The wall opposite the window was interrupted by a door. It was heavy, and studded with big metal rivets like the heads of arrows that had been shot through from the other side. A small window in
the centre of the door was barred, and it looked as if a wooden shutter had been closed across it from the other side.
As Sherlock’s mind began to speed up, he realized that there were no hinges on the door. Or, at least, there were no hinges on the inside of the door. The hinges must have been on the
outside, which meant that the door opened outwards, not inwards. Sherlock didn’t think that he’d ever been in a room where the door opened outwards.
No, that wasn’t right. He had been in a room like that: the room in Bow Street Police Station where he and Amyus Crowe had spoken with his brother Mycroft a few months before. The
door to that room had been designed so that people in the room could not pry the hinges apart and thus remove the door, or hide behind the door when it opened and attack whoever came in.
He was in a cell.
He sat up suddenly, shocked into complete wakefulness. He was in a cell! Surely he hadn’t been arrested? Now that the blood was flowing more swiftly through his brain he remembered vague
images of himself flailing around in the street, punching people who came too close – but Amyus Crowe would have protected him, wouldn’t he? Protected him from arrest?
Unless Crowe had been arrested too. The big American had been on the verge of a fight, after all.
He checked his knuckles. They were scraped, and covered with dried blood.
He tried to work out how long he had been unconscious. His throat and mouth were dry, but he wasn’t particularly hungry. He couldn’t have been out for more than a couple of hours. It
was still the same day.
He climbed unsteadily to his feet. His toes tingled with pins-and-needles as the
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