John was grumpy. Sherlock supposed it was justified as his Collarbone did look quite nasty. And there was no phone reception in whatever part of London they were under. The truck had been wrecked when the train passed and they had one torch.
John instructed Sherlock on the making of a sling to support his shoulder and then with a great deal of effort swallowed some painkillers with no water.
"We need to get out of here. How far do you think we've come?" John was speaking through gritted teeth. It made his voice sound rather sexy.
"It's too far to go back. I suggest we go forward. I think wherever our Dinosaur thieves have been hiding is fairly close."
"How do you figure that?" John had drops of sweat on his forehead, but he was shivering.
"No rats. There all over the place where the tunnels are disused, but they've obviously realised that in this part they stand a good chance of getting squashed flat and keep out of the way."
"Yuk. Rats."
"You don't like rats?"
"No."
"You always know where you are with a rat. This way John." He paused. "Can you walk?"
"Yes. I'm not staying here in the darkness waiting to be eaten."
They walk for fifteen minutes before they saw a light up ahead. A kind of strange blue glow in the tunnel. John drew his gun with his good hand. And they walked on.
At the Natural History Museum the last few visitors were filing out and the cleaning crew was setting about its daily routine of scrubbing the museum of the detritus of a multitude of school children. The places those kids managed to leave sandwiches would disgust you with human nature.
Billy Burke had been a cleaner at the museum since he'd left school aged 14. He loved the old place. And whilst all he ever did was mop and buff floors, on some level he felt like he was serving his country. It was a noble profession to make sure the museum was always presented at its very best to visitors. Almost a higher calling.
"Oh those dirty little bastards." He said looking at a case full of dinosaur eggs, the glass smeared liberally with bogies. He went to fetch a cloth. And that was when he heard a strange noise.
Probably no one else would have noticed it. But then no one knew the sounds of the museum at night like Billy. Over the years, whilst he silently cleaned, he had come to know all the creaks and groans and bangs as the building settled. But this grating noise was something different. Brandishing his mop as a weapon, with the faith of a man who had devoted a life to floor hygiene he tiptoed carefully behind an animatronic Triceratops and waited. No one was going to mess up his museum, not after he'd just mopped the bugger.