Near Kursk, Russia
Sherlock came awake in an unfamiliar, dark, odorous building. He was lying on some sort of bedding, and had just enough time to register that, yes, his ankle still hurt to a staggering degree when Pasha's head popped into his field of vision. "Back with us, then?" Pasha said, attempting a smile and not succeeding.
Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows. His head swam alarmingly for a moment, but he forced himself to stay upright and the sensation faded. He sensed movement behind him, and turned his head to see the bearded giant holding out a large glass full of milky liquid. "Drink this," that basso voice rumbled. "I am going to do painful things to your ankle. It will be unpleasant, but you will be able to walk in two days if we do this. If not, a week, maybe more."
Sherlock took the glass but made no move to drink. He looked now at his ankle. His shoes and socks had been removed, and his right trouser leg pushed up to reveal the area just above the joint swelling rapidly, with a long, deep, ugly tear through the skin on one side. It was no longer bleeding, but his leg was supported by a very bloody towel. The giant pointed at the mess. "That must be sewn. The bone is bruised but not broken. Infection is a danger, but I have a remedy for that." He held out a plate containing a mass of stinking green paste.
The giant paused, noting that Sherlock was still holding the glass. "You really must drink." Sherlock gave him a mulish look; the last thing he needed was to be sedated while they were under the control of a seven-foot hermit. The hermit sighed, reached over and pressed two fingers to the side of the battered ankle. Sherlock's vision whited out, and he came to himself lying prone on the bed again.
The big man leaned over and lifted his shoulders, folding two pillows firmly behind them. "Now, then. Drink."
Sherlock looked at the glass reluctantly. "What's in it?" he said, in a mortifyingly wobbly voice.
"Vodka and poppy juice. Drink all of that, and then we will wait just a bit for it to work. And while we wait, we will talk," said the giant. He looked genially over at Pasha, who had stayed conspicuously silent throughout all of this. "I think Pasha Alexeivitch and I have some negotiating to do." Pasha flinched and stared at his shoes.
Sherlock took the glass and drank. It wasn't unpleasant—a medicinal, sweetish taste with an undertone of raw alcohol. The black-robed hermit took the glass away and after a few minutes came back with a stack of medical supplies which he dropped on the foot of the bed next to the plate with the green paste. He then sat on an oversized stool and clasped his hands in his lap.
"So, then," he said cordially. "Why did you decide to steal my pig? And why are you driving a truck you stole from Gregor Borodin?"
Pasha choked on nothing and went into a coughing fit. Sherlock, starting to feel pleasantly floaty, stepped in. "You must be The Monk. We intended to leave money for the pig. Pasha has 450 rubles in his left pocket. And we borrowed the truck—we work for Borodin sometimes, you know."
The Monk nodded. "Yes, that is one of my names. Though I have not always been a man of God." He looked sternly at the two of them. "Lying is a sin, you know. More so than theft, I think. You may wish to rethink your statement. I have many old friends, from my previous life, who tell me things. And one of them told me of a missing truck not two hours ago. A truck, I should mention, that I have ridden in a number of times. For Borodin."
Sherlock was feeling remarkably unconcerned, though Pasha looked somewhat sick. "We do indeed work for him, you know. I'm the Crazy Englishman; you might have heard of me." He stuck out his hand, doing his best Normal-People Grin. "William Sigerson, at your service. I seem to be drunk now," he offered, in the interests of full disclosure.
The Monk smiled and took the hand in his. Sherlock noticed in mild amazement that it dwarfed his own; he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen hands much bigger than his.
"I am pleased to meet you," rumbled the Monk. "It's a pity we could not meet under better circumstances. I have always wanted to meet an Englishman, crazy or not. I hope that we can speak further together before Borodin kills you."
Sherlock blinked, very slowly. Pasha coughed one more time and leapt into the breach. "He's not going to kill us. I borrowed the truck, I told you. It will be back in place by Monday morning. We just wanted to take the pig back as a surprise for all the drivers. A feast, you know? And we have the money—here, look!"
Sherlock jerked; he'd started to nod off. He shook his head to clear it as Pasha fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the wad of bills. The money, in reality, was Pasha's and was intended for his daughter. There was an abrupt silence, and Sherlock realized that he had apparently just said that out loud. Pasha gaped at him, horrified.
The Monk chuckled. "Well. In vino veritas, it would seem. Though I think poppy juice and vodka works quicker than wine. So, tell me about this daughter."
Sherlock was already speaking before Pasha could open his mouth. "His eldest daughter is dead, an overdose. His younger daughter is somewhat estranged. She's getting married in two days and didn't tell him. He found out and decided to bring money and food for the wedding feast. That's the pig. I don't think a dead pig is a good idea, but I have no children so I don't really know. Do you think it's a good idea?" he said curiously. He really did want to know. And he could think of no reason not to ask, though Pasha's red face led him belatedly to think that maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.
"I think perhaps it would have been a better idea if Pasha Alexeivitch had come and asked me for the pig, in exchange for honest work." Pasha had the grace to look somewhat ashamed. He wasn't quite as good as Sherlock at mimicking emotion, but it was passable.
The Monk looked carefully at Sherlock, who had started gradually listing to one side. "I also think it is time we treated your wound and let you sleep, young sir." He leaned over and pushed Sherlock gently down on his back, reaching for the packets of medical supplies with his other hand. "Your friend and I will work something out in due time, and with God's help, in a day or so you may be on your way."
Despite Sherlock's rosy glow from the poppy juice, the next fifteen minutes were difficult. The Monk was efficient and gentle, but there is no way to stitch up a five-inch bone-deep gash that doesn't result in excruciating pain for the recipient, no matter how intoxicated. Pasha reached over to grasp Sherlock's hand and petted his head soothingly, while Sherlock gasped and sweated and shook.
Finally, finally it was done. Sherlock unlaced his fingers from Pasha's, and the older man grimaced and shook his hand to start the blood moving again. The Monk reached for the green paste and layered it liberally over the wound, then covered the whole with a clean cloth and pinned it in place. Sherlock closed his eyes and trembled, while Pasha rubbed a damp flannel over his sweaty face. And at some point, eventually, miraculously, he slept.
The night was a blur of evil dreams and heat. Sherlock was aware at times of Pasha at his side, wiping the cooling rag over his face and hands, but he quickly sank back into the drugged confusion of the poppy juice. Eventually, though, he lapsed into true sleep, and woke sometime past dawn, clear-headed, to see the Monk leaning over him, checking the bandages on his leg. The hermit, feeling himself observed, turned and beamed at him.
"So, how is it with you this fine morning?" he rumbled.
Sherlock took stock before he answered. He surprised himself by telling the unvarnished truth. "Fairly well. Some pain, but manageable." He glanced at his leg. "Do I really want to look?"
The Monk chuckled. "It will not be pretty, to be sure. But now that you are awake, I can tend it, if you'd like to watch."
Sherlock, before he could think about it, raised his eyebrows and sniffed "Obviously". But the huge man took no offense, walking away briefly and coming back with more packets of bandages and a bowl and towel.
The Monk looked at Sherlock before he began. "This will hurt, somewhat. But not badly. You will tell me if you need a moment, yes?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, which the hermit apparently took as agreement.
The leg looked…not bad, which was frankly shocking. Extensive bruising, of course, but the swelling was minimal and the skin along the tear, while red, lacked the shiny texture of true inflammation or infection. Sherlock became aware that he was gaping and closed his mouth, only to catch the eye of the Monk.
"Impressive, isn't it?" he rumbled. "The plant extracts both inhibit infection and reduce inflammation. Without this, you might have ended up very ill indeed."
Sherlock was fascinated. "Where does it come from? What's in it?"
"I don't honestly know," the hermit admitted. "It comes from a neighbor of mine. She cultivates the plants, marinates them in something, and gives me jars of the result. I am something of a healer for the neighborhood, though certainly Ekaterina could do better if she wished. She won't, though—she fears too much contact with people."
Sherlock wasn't sure how to take that. "Does she…do the locals think she's a witch or some such?"
The Monk spluttered with laughter. "Do you think this is a fairy tale? Baba Yaga in the forest?"
Sherlock felt his cheeks flame. "Well, you certainly look the part. This is not precisely a hotbed of intellectual life, and the smell's a trifle ripe for most salons, I would say."
The big man gave him a stern look. "Mind your manners, boy. You are a guest in my house, and I choose to forget why you originally came. But I could remember if pushed."
Sherlock subsided with a stroppy huff. The Monk worked on his ankle in strained silence, until finally giving a resigned sigh.
"All right. If we must speak of secrets, we must." He wiped his hands and started rewinding the bandages, glancing up at Sherlock through bushy brows. "My neighbor, Ekaterina Yeltsin, was a scientist, a biologist and botanist, studying plant extracts from the deep forest. She came to spend more and more time here, and less in the city, where her masters hoped to use her discoveries but keep them secret from the rest of the world. She started keeping two sets of records, one for herself, and one for submission."
He stopped briefly to pick up the soiled bandages and towel after finishing rewrapping Sherlock's ankle, then subsided onto the large stool to continue his story.
"When the USSR collapsed, many scientists left for the West, and many more were forced into other, menial jobs when money no longer existed to support their work. But some, like Ekaterina, one day found strange, dangerous men on their doorsteps, demanding their records and their obedience. Ekaterina was lucky. The day they came for her, I was visiting her small clinic in Kursk to pick up extracts in exchange for meat and produce. The men did not know I was there until it was too late."
He saw Sherlock's face and shook his head. "No, I did not kill them, though there was a time when I would easily have done so. But I did contact old friends of mine who ensured that these men were soon bound and on a train to China, and I helped Ekaterina gather everything she wished to save and then burned down her clinic. She has lived here in the forest, on her own, ever since."
Sherlock had sat silently through the story, but now turned his full attention to the Monk. "And you are not precisely a former Mafiya enforcer either, though I am sure you spent some time in that role."
The Monk raised his eyebrows, tacit permission for Sherlock to continue.
"Clearly you have spent time in the military at some point—the way you move, the way you watch me, speaks clearly to that. Your ease in approaching Pasha from behind also recalls Special Forces training—certainly I was in no shape to notice, but Pasha spent his youth in Afghanistan and is sometimes startlingly observant." He scanned the dim room, noting Pasha still sleeping on a nearby pallet—he retained a soldier's ability to sleep through anything. "Your surroundings don't contain much that gives a true indication of your origins, but by your accent you almost certainly grew up somewhere other than here—perhaps Moscow? I can understand your motivation in breaking with Borodin—the man is both psychotic and foolish, a combination most former soldiers would find terrifying. My only question would be, why work for him at all? Surely other prospects would have arisen for a man with your talents, rather than a backwater petty tyrant."
The big man shrugged his shoulders. "When the war in Afghanistan grew hot, I was 18 and a student at university in Moscow. I was studying what would today be called computer science, but at the time was a combination of mathematics and electronics theory. I discovered a serious error in the published work of one of my professors, a highly placed Soviet official, and because I was young and foolish I was outspoken in my criticism."
He rose and stretched, his long arms brushing the low wood ceiling. "Three weeks later I was in Afghanistan with a large rifle in my hands. I presume my death was intended—I was given no training to speak of, no real preparation at all." He reached for something from a bookshelf in the corner, then came back and settled on the stool again.
"But I surprised them, and myself." He gave a rueful grin. "I discovered I was good at killing. I knew how to shoot—my grandfather owned this land and cabin, and I spent many summers here hunting with him. I had also been a wrestler at school, and once I had my first real hand-to-hand fight at our camp I was quickly selected for special training." He raised his bushy eyebrows. "I'm sure you know what kind."
Sherlock nodded. "Special Forces? Death squad?"
The Monk sighed. "The latter, eventually. My group were sent in when conventional methods failed, or were not working fast enough. I became a very efficient killer, despite my youth. After the first few times, I felt little or no remorse—the subjects were objects, not people. I lasted almost 8 years before I broke." He gave Sherlock a somber, knowing look. "All men in such positions eventually break, unless they are truly monsters. And I was not, though I once aspired to be."
He reached over and held out the object he had picked up earlier—a silver picture frame, incongruous in this rustic cabin. "One of the few things I kept—I had planned to give it to my mother. The pictures show all. The first was taken on my first leave, about a year after my 'enlistment'. The second is at a promotion celebration, two months before my final departure."
The pictures are startling in what they reveal. The first shows a smiling, arrogant, beardless boy—very tall, muscular, clad in a spotless Soviet dress uniform with numerous decorations. He looks cold, intelligent and dangerous.
The second, though—the second is a different person. The smile is gone, the face half-covered with a trimmed black beard. The sparkling uniform has been replaced by camouflage and high black boots—the decorations are gone, as is the arrogance. And the eyes—in this candid photo, taken without preparation, the eyes are dead. This is a lethal, lost man.
Sherlock only realized he was staring when the Monk reached over and gently took back the frame.
"You see. I knew you would," he rumbled. He placed the frame back on its shelf and began putting together plates of food while he talked.
"So. One day we were sent to punish a village for their lack of cooperation. In this case, punishment went beyond the norm. My officer wished to make a name for himself, so he decided that we should take a Biblical approach—salting the earth, as it were. We were ordered to kill every man, woman and child. And I realized, quite suddenly, that I would not do it. I would not kill ignorant people for being ignorant. I would not shoot infants in their beds, nor murder little girls while they screamed for their mothers."
He came back to the bed and handed Sherlock a plate of cheese, buttered bread and apple pieces, settling back on the stool with his own similar plate. "I intended to simply leave—steal one of the trucks and come back to Russia. The other men did not oppose me—both because I was feared, and because none of them had the stomach for this operation either. The ambitious officer was foolish enough to try to stop me, and without a pause I shot him. Then I got in the truck and drove for the next three days, almost without stopping. When I neared Kursk, I burned the truck and my uniform in the deep forest, shaved off my beard and went looking for a job. It didn't take long to find Borodin."
He paused, and Sherlock spoke. "You couldn't go back to where you were known—you were both a deserter and a mutineer, and had killed your officer. But you could come here—no one had seen you since you were a child, so they would not identify you, but knowing the territory and people well gave you an innate advantage. And with the Mafiya, your skills would be in high demand."
The Monk smiled. "Exactly. And there I stayed, for almost 15 years. I went back to hurting and killing people, but only bad people. I told Borodin I would not touch civilians or innocents, and he needed my skills badly enough that he agreed. I had to remind him several times, but I kept my word."
"So what changed?" asked Sherlock. "How did you end up…?" and he waved his hand elegantly at the cabin and the Monk's black robes.
The giant smiled. "Ah, well, that you will not believe. But perhaps someday your heart will change. Mine did." Sherlock raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
"I had a vision. A real, true speaking from God." He laughed at the expression on Sherlock's face. " You see? I told you, you do not believe me. But it is nonetheless true." He rose and settled on the foot of the bed.
"You must understand, I was not raised in a religious household, and even my grandparents attended services only occasionally. So I never expected to return to the Church, and I certainly never expected to be chosen by God Himself."
He settled back on the bed, shoulders against the rough wall. "I was on a job for Borodin—acting as a bodyguard, primarily. We were in negotiations with a rival group for control of opium imports from Iraq. The negotiations broke down, not because of adverse actions on either side, but because Borodin is crazy and decided that he had been insulted. He lied to me—told me that the competitors had ordered the deaths of two of our agents, when in fact he had killed the men himself in a rage. He sent me to kill the competitor's eldest son. I felt no compunction—this son was, presumably, involved in his father's drug business, killing innocents by proxy."
"The boy was perhaps 20; tall, thin, a little like you, in fact. I found him home alone in the evening, reading. He had been taught well—he ran for a hidden gun when he saw me and pointed it professionally enough. But then he stopped—he could not pull the trigger. He was a child, not a drug runner, though I still believed him complicit in his father's operations."
"He fell to his knees and wept as I approached with my weapon out. I stopped, raised my gun, and just as I prepared to fire, a blast of the brightest light I have ever seen shone in my face, blinding me. I was paralyzed, unable to move in the slightest. I suspect I did not breathe. The boy made no sound—I think he could not, but I will never be sure. Certainly he saw nothing."
The big man looked earnestly into Sherlock's eyes. "You would think I would be terrified. I was not—I was awed, excited, but oddly not frightened. And suddenly I heard a voice, wise and loving. And it told me that, if I killed this boy, this innocent, I would be forever damned. It showed me what that meant—I remember no details, but I do remember the absolute horror I felt at that point, the desire to never see that again. And finally, it told me to leave and never kill another human being."
The hermit rose, dusting off his long skirts and picking up the plates from their meal. "I have kept that promise. I left that day—picked up my belongings from Borodin's headquarters and loaded them in my truck. I told Borodin that if he touched the boy or any other innocent in this or any other matter, I would ensure that evidence was placed, both with the police and with Kaminsky, to ruin, possibly kill him. And he knew I would know if he went back on his word, and that I would do exactly as I said I would. He also, very likely, assumed that I would kill him myself as a last resort, and I saw no reason to disabuse him of that notion. I believe God would forgive a few empty threats in the aid of a greater cause."
He walked over to a chest under the small window and started digging. "I have some clothes I collected for the poor. We should see if we can find trousers for you. Yours are ruined with blood, and I slit the leg." Apparently the sharing of secrets was over, then.
Across the room, Pasha abruptly snorted, coughed and sat up, blinking and rubbing his palm across his jaw. He saw Sherlock and smiled. "Villyam. Is it well with you?"
Sherlock smiled back involuntarily at Pasha's obvious fondness before schooling his face to a more dignified mien. "Surprisingly so. Apparently plant slime is the new miracle drug." He looked back at their host, who had briefly stopped digging through the clothing chest to put together another plate that he offered to Pasha.
While Pasha ate, the big man helped Sherlock to the outhouse, essentially carrying him like a child. When they returned, Pasha finished his meal while the Monk helped Sherlock change into a pair of comically-short khaki trousers, along with an elderly belt to keep them from falling off. Pasha grinned. "You look like a sack of flour tied in the middle." The worn, baggy trousers contrasted wildly with Sherlock's elegant shoes and tailored shirt (also, like the shoes, bought in Paris), but the hermit had nothing else that would come close to fitting.
Once Pasha had made a trek to the outhouse as well and the debris from breakfast had been disposed of, the Monk bustled back over to Sherlock's bed and dropped down on his oversized stool. "Now," he said, rubbing his hands together theatrically, "how shall we manage payment for my pig? I have some ideas, if you do not. And no," he gave Pasha a minatory look, "your money will not do. An element of penance is required, after all."
He turned his gaze to Sherlock. "You must keep to your bed for today, I think. But I have some translations I believe you can do for me. I was gifted with a collection of books not long ago, but two of them are in English. I have a laptop computer you can transcribe them into. It will perhaps not be exciting", he smirked, "but again, penance." Sherlock slouched down on the bed in sulky silence.
The big man then turned to Pasha. "You, though, I think can begin immediately. The truck is a very useful addition. You must keep it running to use the refrigeration, yes?" Pasha nodded. He and the Monk had manhandled the dead pig into the back the previous night, while Sherlock slept, and left it idling in place. The petrol wouldn't last forever, however, so they would have to move it soon to get more or risk the engine dying—and the pig going off when the cooling system quit.
The Monk smiled. "So, since the truck must move anyway, I believe it can move to a higher purpose. I have a number of deliveries and errands that need doing—I regularly make the rounds to provide medical care and minister to my flock, such as it is. But I happen to have several larger items to move now, and they won't fit easily into my own small truck—I would have to make several trips. So, you can help with these tasks. You, of course, will pay for the petrol and anything else we may need for the day. Is that acceptable?" He beamed at Pasha, as if actually caring whether Pasha found it acceptable or not. Sherlock found himself grinning at the Monk's manner. He had already resigned himself to several hours of profound dullness, but at least he wouldn't be required to make pastoral visits to the rural poor.
His own happy mood lasted only until the Monk handed him the books for translation, and he realized they were books of famous sermons.
The next several hours passed in mind-melting boredom. Pasha and the Monk came back briefly and they had a Spartan lunch of bread and cheese, washed down with a tangy apple cider than Sherlock quite liked. Then they took off again, leaving Sherlock alone with his sermons.
At first it wasn't too bad. He amused himself with alternate versions of the translations that subverted the meanings, trying to see how profoundly blasphemous he could be. But that palled quickly, if only because he knew that it would likely result in the Monk forcing him to redo the entire thing. Then he put the computer aside (knowing that he could virtuously point out that the battery was running low, and he had no way of crossing the cabin to plug it in at the one outlet connected to the generator), and cast his gaze around the room for something, anything, to entertain himself with.
Initially he entertained himself by mentally re-shelving the 50-odd books on the shelves, first by title, then by title as a subset within language, then by (apparent) publication date—the last was unsatisfactory to a degree since he couldn't pull the books down and check for accuracy.
That whole process used up 10 minutes.
Then he looked at the large framed wall map of Europe, Russia and Asia on the far wall and calculated the distances between his current location and every spot he'd visited in the past two years, followed by the approximate time it would take to reach each by various modes of transportation (plane, train, automobile, foot, and finally horseback).
That used up an additional 10 minutes.
In the process of mentally shelving the books, he had noticed an intriguing box at the end of the top shelf above the farm sink. It was potentially more interesting than the books, but carried two inherent disadvantages: first, he would have to get out of bed on his questionable ankle; and second, he would have to be sure he could put it back in place before the Monk returned. John had always been particularly stroppy about Sherlock "not respecting his privacy", but Sherlock had learned to be especially careful about returning everything to its original location, so that solved that problem. Sherlock wasn't sure, though, that he would be able to get the box back in place. He reluctantly shoved thoughts of the box aside.
With a disgruntled sigh, Sherlock picked the computer back up and spent another 10 minutes translating another boring, pedantic sermon. Then he found his gaze drifting up to the box once more. He shook himself mentally and returned to his work for a further 10 minutes.
He thought about the box.
He put the computer aside fretfully and cast around for something, anything, else to distract himself. In desperation, he began mentally reviewing the visible food products on the kitchen shelves, organizing them based on a variety of orders (category—dried, preserved, raw; color; growing season; point of original origin).
He thought about the box.
He forced his thoughts back to the foodstuffs, and created dinner menus based on the available materials, then calculated how long it would take to prepare each on the woodstove.
He thought about the box.
Finally, with a gusty sigh, he resigned himself to going after the box. One can only ignore one's nature for so long, after all. And he had managed to resist temptation for every bit of half an hour. Practically a new record.
First things first, then—testing his ankle. He gingerly shifted over and placed both feet flat on the floor. His attempt to put weight on the bad ankle, however, resulted in a bolt of pain that shot all the way up to his hip and caused an involuntary gasp. Clearly, standing and walking to the shelf was not an option without some sort of assistance.
He cast his eyes around the cabin again, looking for something that could be used to provide additional support. Finally, in the shadows on the far corner next to the door, he noticed a wooden rod that the Monk probably used to control the (now deceased) pig when moving it outside of its pen. Not exactly a crutch, but workable.
He slid carefully off the bed and onto his hands and knees, his bad leg flexed tightly to keep the ankle clear of the floor. This was still painful—the necessary movement and tightening of muscles pulling on the wound—but bearable, and nowhere near what load-bearing had entailed. He crept slowly and carefully across the cabin until he could reach out and grasp the wood rod. Gripping his prize firmly, he pushed himself off the floor, holding his bad ankle gingerly out to the side, until he reached a standing position.
That was the point at which he realized he had an additional issue: he was too short to reach the box. Not something that happened to him very often, but the Monk was after all almost seven feet tall and stored his things accordingly. He looked around the cabin again, considering his options.
He could drag the oversized wooden stool over. But he doubted he could climb up on it with one leg out of commission, and would prefer not to fall if possible. Jumping was out for similar reasons.
He carefully backed up to the counter next to the sink, put his "staff" carefully aside, and used his arms to lever himself up to a seated position on the counter. Then he stretched his arms up to the point where he felt overstretched and his back muscles spasmed, but finally had to admit defeat—he just couldn't reach.
He turned, ultimately, to his last option—the wooden rod itself. It wasn't optimal—the rod was quite narrow in diameter so his ability to manipulate the box was minimal and shaky at best. But at this point he was determined—he could no more give up now than he could walk out and trot across the barn lot. Physically and mentally impossible.
He took a firm grip on the counter with one arm and stood solidly on his good foot, holding the injured one carefully in mid-air, and extended his other arm and the wooden rod towards the edge of the box. The first attempts were unsuccessful, but after multiple frustrating tries he managed to move one corner of the box a couple of inches over the edge of the shelf. He put the rod aside and once again slid up onto the counter, reaching, straining to touch—and still couldn't quite reach.
He climbed carefully (but now somewhat angrily) down from the counter again, grabbed his wooden rod and resumed his poking at the edge of the box. He was elated to see the box move suddenly, to where at least four inches now hung over the lip of the shelf. He carefully shifted his weight to rest his hip against the counter in preparation for catching the box (since he would have to drop the rod as well, once the box started its descent). He felt a brief surge of smug satisfaction at having so neatly solved the problem, and that, as always, was when things went spectacularly wrong.
The box started to move, very much of its own volition, and rather faster than Sherlock hoped or indeed was quite prepared for. Sherlock lurched sideways, dropped the rod, and overbalanced as he attempted to keep from falling while still reaching up towards the now-teetering box. At the same time, he heard a slam and a clatter outside that indicated that Pasha and the Monk had returned and were, disastrously, on their way inside.
Things, far too many things, happened very rapidly after that. Pasha pushed the door open a crack, looking back over his shoulder at the Monk. Sherlock made a heroic grab for the rod, someone managing to reach, and pivoted back to poke frantically up at the box. But the box, with an odd, slithering, clinking noise, suddenly leapt off the shelf and tumbled straight for Sherlock's head. Sherlock, in an involuntary reaction, jerked back to get out from under and thoughtlessly stepped down with his entire weight on his bad ankle. He let out a howl of pain and tumbled to the floor. And just as the Monk followed Pasha through the door, the box upended in the air and sprayed its contents over Sherlock, over the sink, over the entire room, it seemed—marbles. Hard little glass missiles that bounced painfully off Sherlock's head and body as he cringed and panted with pain on the floor. Marbles that caromed off the hard surface of the sink and counter and rocketed across the room. Marbles which, unfortunately, also shot across the floor and under Pasha's feet, which led to him being deposited next to Sherlock with a curse and an almighty thud.
The box ended on its side on the edge of the sink, where the last few marbles rolled lazily out and pelted Sherlock and Pasha as they dropped off the edge of the sink. The Monk stood, still just inside the door, with his mouth slightly agape at the carnage. "Well," he rumbled mildly after a minute. "I see you found something to entertain yourself with." And for some reason that was the finishing touch. Pasha sputtered and went off into gales of gasping, hooting laughter, and the Monk followed him in short order. Sherlock just closed his eyes and sighed.