There were three boxes—crates, really—coming just to Holmes's waist. They had no markings on them I could see, even when Holmes whisked away the protective tarp and exposed their sides. Of course, one side of the stack remained hidden, flush to the wall.
Holmes ran a careful finger along the crate top, taking in the splintered and worn appearance of the wood with a rare focus. He seemed to be memorizing every chip and mark. Fifteen minutes later, he still hadn't opened the box, and his brow was darkening.
"Holmes, do you think there's something dangerous in the box? Is that why you're so cautious?"
His hands stilled. "I'm uncertain what these boxes hold, but my instincts speak of nothing that will endanger our lives."
Only the wind spoke for a time, as the leaf-filtered light made the shadows dance.
"Watson, may I make a confession?"
"Certainly."
"I fear these boxes--not for any danger they pose, but for the complexity they may contain; I'm loathe to face that. Yes, I thought you'd be surprised. My brain loves a puzzle, as you know, but as we speak it has hardly a drop of blood to call its own. I feel it, and regret it, and I doubt my skills." He looked away, picking his nails and starting to blush.