Fic | Sherlock Holmes | In A Tight Spot
Feb. 11th, 2010 04:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: In A Tight Spot
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1658
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade
Genre: General, angst
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Even Sherlock Holmes is afraid of something...
Author's Note: Written for Challenge 002: Phobia at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
mere_appendix
IN A TIGHT SPOT
I tried the door with my good shoulder once again. As it had on the three previous occasions, the solid, iron-banded wood refused to budge.
Inwardly I cursed Maxwell – he must have doubled back on us when we reached the landing, forcing us into this space, no bigger than a cupboard, with nowhere else to go. The only light in the tiny chamber was afforded by a single arrow slit; there was barely enough room for Holmes and myself to stand, side by side. I could just stand upright, but my taller friend was forced to stoop uncomfortably beneath the low ceiling.
Slamming my hand against the door in frustration I turned, and saw to my surprise that Holmes had slid down the wall behind him to sit in the cramped space, his bony knees touching the cool stone opposite. His head slumped onto his chest, his face averted, and I became aware that he was shivering.
“Are you all right, old fellow?” I asked, for it was not cold in the little chamber – quite the opposite, in fact.
“Is there any way out?” His voice, when it came, was strangely querulous, quite unlike his usual commanding tone.
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. There is no room to take a run up, and even if there were the door is too strong. I should break my shoulder if I tried.”
Holmes made a peculiar sound, somewhere between a wail and a moan. His long fingers curled into a fist, and he gritted his teeth as though trying to bring his emotions under control. This was so unlike him that my concern increased and I awkwardly lowered myself down to sit beside him, my old leg wound aching from our dash up the stairs after Maxwell. I rested a hand gently on his arm – beneath it I could feel him trembling. Glancing at his profile I could clearly see that his jaw was clenched, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. I realised that he had all the appearance of a man in the grip either of agonising pain, or… my gaze flew swiftly around the tiny room, at the bolted door and the pressing walls which seemed to close in around me and suddenly I understood.
“Holmes,” I said quietly, “Are you afraid of confined spaces?”
His harsh, quick breathing was loud in my ear. “It is not so much the lack of space,” he managed between gasps, “as the inability to escape from them.”
“You have never mentioned it to me.”
“I could control it. Can control it,” Holmes corrected himself unsteadily. His eyes were still closed, presumably to blot out the sight of the door to our prison, but he clutched at my arm with fingers of steel, as though he were a drowning man and I his lifebelt. Though I could feel his grip bruising my flesh I allowed him to hold on to me for it seemed to steady him a little. With my free hand I felt for his carotid artery – as I suspected, his pulse was racing away.
“It’s all right, old man, it’s all right,” I said in my most soothing voice. “They will find us. Lestrade was not far behind.”
He gave a strangled laugh. “It is not reassuring to be reminded that our rescue depends upon Lestrade, Watson.”
“You are too hard on the poor man, Holmes. Surely he can follow a staircase to its conclusion!”
“You are a gambling man,” Holmes said breathlessly, “Would you care to have a small wager to that effect?”
I pulled a face. “If it will distract you from our current predicament, by all means.”
He nodded tersely, and we agreed the terms of the bet. Once it was decided that Holmes would win five pounds if Lestrade did not find us within the next half hour, and I would claim the cash if he did, I set about doing my best to keep my friend calm. This was not easy, and eventually took the form of my telling Holmes a story loosely based upon my experiences in India before I was posted with the Fusiliers to Kandahar. He was quiet, doing his best to reassert the iron control he was usually able to exert over his body. Despite his obvious panic, it was evident that he was also embarrassed that I should be witness to his vulnerability.
The minutes ticked past, stretching out into what felt like hours. At length, I heard what appeared to be footsteps clattering on the stone stairs outside. I started up, steadying myself against the wall; Holmes raised his head, his ears pricking up like a hunting dog on point.
“Police boots,” he said, “Nothing else would make such a racket.”
Upon hearing this I immediately began to bang my fists upon the thick oak of the door. “Help!” I yelled as loudly as I could, for the wood would muffle the sound, “Help! In here!”
There was a confused muttering from outside, and then the familiar voice of Lestrade asked, “Is that you, Doctor Watson?”
My shoulders slumped in relief, and I probably would have sunk like a jelly to the floor had there been room. “Yes! We’re both trapped in here – Maxwell tricked us!”
“It didn’t get him far – my men cornered him in the courtyard as he was trying to make his escape.”
Holmes groaned. “How humiliating…” I could understand how he felt – to have been effectively locked in a cupboard while Lestrade captured our quarry would take him some time to live down.
“Can you get us out of here, Inspector?” I called.
There were more footsteps as Lestrade presumably made an investigation of the door. Low voices exchanged words I could not make out, and then there was an enormous thump upon the wood from the other side. I moved as far away as I could, which admittedly was no great distance. Another thump followed, together with a few grunts and profanities from the policemen outside.
“Lestrade, what is happening?” I asked, seeing that Holmes was beginning to tremble again though he tried to hide it.
“It’s all right, Doctor – the bolt’s stuck. It’s taking a bit of – ” There was a great screeching of metal which put my teeth on edge “ – persuasion!”
As Lestrade spoke, the door at last creaked open, revealing a circle of police constables and a bemused-looking inspector. He opened his mouth but had no time to ask any questions as Holmes scrambled to his feet and practically flew from the tiny chamber to freedom. I followed at a necessarily slower pace, my leg having stiffened from being forced into an uncomfortable position by our close confinement – I found him at the nearest window, leaning out over the moat, his shoulders heaving. He turned, sensing my presence behind him, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. I offered him a handkerchief, which he took gratefully, leaning against the wall as he tried to draw together his shattered composure.
“How long have you battled with this?” I asked eventually, when he was calm once more.
He gave me a sidelong glance, as though deciding whether he should tell me, and paused for a moment before he said, “Ever since I was eight years old. Our home was an old one, and always rumoured to have a priest hole. One wet afternoon I determined to discover its location, despite Mycroft’s warning not to.”
“I assume you found it.”
“Oh, yes. Found it, crawled inside and accidentally knocked the trap door shut behind me. I had not yet experienced a growth spurt and was therefore a fairly small child, but the space was beneath the floorboards and I had little room to move. It was pitch black, musty and damp, much like being buried alive.”
“Holmes - ” I began, but he waved a hand at me, shaking his head.
“In the end I was trapped there for three hours. After the first two Mycroft realised I was missing and alerted our parents, but it took them some time to locate me. When they did I should have received a sound beating for placing the house in such an uproar, but it soon became evident that I was considerably affected by my experience and so it was decided I had been punished enough.” Holmes smiled slightly. “I have avoided confined spaces ever since.”
“My God,” I murmured, imagining the small boy my friend had been trapped beneath the floor while his family searched desperately for him. “I can understand why.”
“I was, unfortunately for my parents, an inquisitive child. Mycroft knew of the priest hole, of course, but was far too idle to ever go looking for it.”
Seeking an opportunity to lighten the atmosphere, I said, “Would he have been able to get into it if he had?”
Holmes’s shaky smile broadened, and after a moment he threw back his head and laughed aloud at the image of his corpulent brother becoming stuck in the hole. “Watson, that is shameful,” he told me with mock severity.
I smiled back, hearing Lestrade approaching from behind. “There is something else,” I said as the inspector reached us. Holmes frowned, and I showed him my watch. “Thirty-four minutes. You win the bet.”
“Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said, his confused expression deepening as he looked from one of us to the other, “I have Maxwell down in the courtyard under escort. Are we done here?”
Holmes glanced back at the little room that had been our prison, and nodded. “Yes, Lestrade, we are indeed.” He straightened, in control once more, and led the way down the stairs. I was behind him with the inspector bringing up the rear. I reflected that Lestrade probably had no idea how close he had come to seeing Sherlock Holmes proving that he was, contrary to popular opinion, human after all.
FIN
Author: charleygirl
Rating: G
Words: 1658
Characters involved: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade
Genre: General, angst
Disclaimer: These characters, while out of copyright, were created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and do not belong to me.
Summary: Even Sherlock Holmes is afraid of something...
Author's Note: Written for Challenge 002: Phobia at
mere_appendixIN A TIGHT SPOT
I tried the door with my good shoulder once again. As it had on the three previous occasions, the solid, iron-banded wood refused to budge.
Inwardly I cursed Maxwell – he must have doubled back on us when we reached the landing, forcing us into this space, no bigger than a cupboard, with nowhere else to go. The only light in the tiny chamber was afforded by a single arrow slit; there was barely enough room for Holmes and myself to stand, side by side. I could just stand upright, but my taller friend was forced to stoop uncomfortably beneath the low ceiling.
Slamming my hand against the door in frustration I turned, and saw to my surprise that Holmes had slid down the wall behind him to sit in the cramped space, his bony knees touching the cool stone opposite. His head slumped onto his chest, his face averted, and I became aware that he was shivering.
“Are you all right, old fellow?” I asked, for it was not cold in the little chamber – quite the opposite, in fact.
“Is there any way out?” His voice, when it came, was strangely querulous, quite unlike his usual commanding tone.
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. There is no room to take a run up, and even if there were the door is too strong. I should break my shoulder if I tried.”
Holmes made a peculiar sound, somewhere between a wail and a moan. His long fingers curled into a fist, and he gritted his teeth as though trying to bring his emotions under control. This was so unlike him that my concern increased and I awkwardly lowered myself down to sit beside him, my old leg wound aching from our dash up the stairs after Maxwell. I rested a hand gently on his arm – beneath it I could feel him trembling. Glancing at his profile I could clearly see that his jaw was clenched, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. I realised that he had all the appearance of a man in the grip either of agonising pain, or… my gaze flew swiftly around the tiny room, at the bolted door and the pressing walls which seemed to close in around me and suddenly I understood.
“Holmes,” I said quietly, “Are you afraid of confined spaces?”
His harsh, quick breathing was loud in my ear. “It is not so much the lack of space,” he managed between gasps, “as the inability to escape from them.”
“You have never mentioned it to me.”
“I could control it. Can control it,” Holmes corrected himself unsteadily. His eyes were still closed, presumably to blot out the sight of the door to our prison, but he clutched at my arm with fingers of steel, as though he were a drowning man and I his lifebelt. Though I could feel his grip bruising my flesh I allowed him to hold on to me for it seemed to steady him a little. With my free hand I felt for his carotid artery – as I suspected, his pulse was racing away.
“It’s all right, old man, it’s all right,” I said in my most soothing voice. “They will find us. Lestrade was not far behind.”
He gave a strangled laugh. “It is not reassuring to be reminded that our rescue depends upon Lestrade, Watson.”
“You are too hard on the poor man, Holmes. Surely he can follow a staircase to its conclusion!”
“You are a gambling man,” Holmes said breathlessly, “Would you care to have a small wager to that effect?”
I pulled a face. “If it will distract you from our current predicament, by all means.”
He nodded tersely, and we agreed the terms of the bet. Once it was decided that Holmes would win five pounds if Lestrade did not find us within the next half hour, and I would claim the cash if he did, I set about doing my best to keep my friend calm. This was not easy, and eventually took the form of my telling Holmes a story loosely based upon my experiences in India before I was posted with the Fusiliers to Kandahar. He was quiet, doing his best to reassert the iron control he was usually able to exert over his body. Despite his obvious panic, it was evident that he was also embarrassed that I should be witness to his vulnerability.
The minutes ticked past, stretching out into what felt like hours. At length, I heard what appeared to be footsteps clattering on the stone stairs outside. I started up, steadying myself against the wall; Holmes raised his head, his ears pricking up like a hunting dog on point.
“Police boots,” he said, “Nothing else would make such a racket.”
Upon hearing this I immediately began to bang my fists upon the thick oak of the door. “Help!” I yelled as loudly as I could, for the wood would muffle the sound, “Help! In here!”
There was a confused muttering from outside, and then the familiar voice of Lestrade asked, “Is that you, Doctor Watson?”
My shoulders slumped in relief, and I probably would have sunk like a jelly to the floor had there been room. “Yes! We’re both trapped in here – Maxwell tricked us!”
“It didn’t get him far – my men cornered him in the courtyard as he was trying to make his escape.”
Holmes groaned. “How humiliating…” I could understand how he felt – to have been effectively locked in a cupboard while Lestrade captured our quarry would take him some time to live down.
“Can you get us out of here, Inspector?” I called.
There were more footsteps as Lestrade presumably made an investigation of the door. Low voices exchanged words I could not make out, and then there was an enormous thump upon the wood from the other side. I moved as far away as I could, which admittedly was no great distance. Another thump followed, together with a few grunts and profanities from the policemen outside.
“Lestrade, what is happening?” I asked, seeing that Holmes was beginning to tremble again though he tried to hide it.
“It’s all right, Doctor – the bolt’s stuck. It’s taking a bit of – ” There was a great screeching of metal which put my teeth on edge “ – persuasion!”
As Lestrade spoke, the door at last creaked open, revealing a circle of police constables and a bemused-looking inspector. He opened his mouth but had no time to ask any questions as Holmes scrambled to his feet and practically flew from the tiny chamber to freedom. I followed at a necessarily slower pace, my leg having stiffened from being forced into an uncomfortable position by our close confinement – I found him at the nearest window, leaning out over the moat, his shoulders heaving. He turned, sensing my presence behind him, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. I offered him a handkerchief, which he took gratefully, leaning against the wall as he tried to draw together his shattered composure.
“How long have you battled with this?” I asked eventually, when he was calm once more.
He gave me a sidelong glance, as though deciding whether he should tell me, and paused for a moment before he said, “Ever since I was eight years old. Our home was an old one, and always rumoured to have a priest hole. One wet afternoon I determined to discover its location, despite Mycroft’s warning not to.”
“I assume you found it.”
“Oh, yes. Found it, crawled inside and accidentally knocked the trap door shut behind me. I had not yet experienced a growth spurt and was therefore a fairly small child, but the space was beneath the floorboards and I had little room to move. It was pitch black, musty and damp, much like being buried alive.”
“Holmes - ” I began, but he waved a hand at me, shaking his head.
“In the end I was trapped there for three hours. After the first two Mycroft realised I was missing and alerted our parents, but it took them some time to locate me. When they did I should have received a sound beating for placing the house in such an uproar, but it soon became evident that I was considerably affected by my experience and so it was decided I had been punished enough.” Holmes smiled slightly. “I have avoided confined spaces ever since.”
“My God,” I murmured, imagining the small boy my friend had been trapped beneath the floor while his family searched desperately for him. “I can understand why.”
“I was, unfortunately for my parents, an inquisitive child. Mycroft knew of the priest hole, of course, but was far too idle to ever go looking for it.”
Seeking an opportunity to lighten the atmosphere, I said, “Would he have been able to get into it if he had?”
Holmes’s shaky smile broadened, and after a moment he threw back his head and laughed aloud at the image of his corpulent brother becoming stuck in the hole. “Watson, that is shameful,” he told me with mock severity.
I smiled back, hearing Lestrade approaching from behind. “There is something else,” I said as the inspector reached us. Holmes frowned, and I showed him my watch. “Thirty-four minutes. You win the bet.”
“Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said, his confused expression deepening as he looked from one of us to the other, “I have Maxwell down in the courtyard under escort. Are we done here?”
Holmes glanced back at the little room that had been our prison, and nodded. “Yes, Lestrade, we are indeed.” He straightened, in control once more, and led the way down the stairs. I was behind him with the inspector bringing up the rear. I reflected that Lestrade probably had no idea how close he had come to seeing Sherlock Holmes proving that he was, contrary to popular opinion, human after all.
FIN
