"Jesus Christ!" That was a gunshot! And fired indoors, if Lestrade was any judge... Rushing across to the door and turning the key, Lestrade pressed his ear to the wood. His heart sank as he heard thumps, crashes and shouts from more than one combatant – Moriarty's agents! They had invaded the house!
"Lestrade!" The Inspector felt a chill at Watson's frantic yell. "Open the thimble! The thimb...!" The doctor's voice was abruptly cut off. Knocked out or gagged, Lestrade didn't know, and he refused to consider any alternatives. There was no time, anyhow, heavy feet were already taking the stairs at a run.
Lestrade looked around desperately for something to barricade the door, but the bulkiest furniture was the wardrobe, far too heavy to move. So was the bed, which was occupied by their attackers' quarry! That left only the bureau, which felt far too light as Lestrade dragged it across and jammed it up against the door, just as the handle rattled. The panels began to shake with blows, already making ominous little splintering sounds. Those bastards were going to break in eventually... so he'd best be ready for them. "Sorry, Holmes," he muttered, reaching for his pistol and checking the magazine – at least it was fully loaded! "You're in for a rude awakening..."
He ran to the far side of the bed, yanked back the bedclothes, and hauled Holmes's limp form onto the floor. Whatever reaction he had hoped for, he was bitterly disappointed, the detective merely grunting slightly as he landed, not so much as twitching an eyelid.
"Bloody hell!" Lestrade growled. "All those days and nights you never got a wink... and here Moriarty's thugs have us all stitched up, and all you can do is..." Wait... stitch... 'Open the thimble!' What thimble?! Watson had never mentioned a bloody thimble! Was there a sewing box in here he hadn't seen? Hold on... the bureau! It should have been empty, but something had rattled in a drawer when he'd moved it across!
Crash! That had sounded horribly like an axe embedding itself into a wooden door panel.
Staying low, Lestrade hurried back to the door, jamming his shoulder against the lower half of the bureau, reached up and yanked the top left drawer right out. Something clattered and scraped against the wooden interior as it fell, bouncing onto the floor: a watch chain! It looked a lot like Watson's... and sure enough, there was a silver thimble mounted on it. Had the doctor put it there for safekeeping before coming down? But how did you open a thimble? Snatching up the chain, Lestrade peered closely at the bauble, and saw that the end was plugged with a small disc of black rubber. And thank God, the end of the chain had a long pin, just the tool to wedge the disc out... What in blazes...?!
The Inspector barely kept from dropping his prize, staring at the inside of the little silver bowl. It couldn't be... No mistaking what that sparkling golden dust was meant to be, but surely... surely it couldn't be real... could it?!
"I must be out of my mind," Lestrade murmured weakly. Well, if he was, then there'd be no harm in wasting it! And if he wasn't... Out of options as the door began to splinter in earnest, he scrambled back behind the bed next to Holmes, stuck his little finger inside the thimble and brushed the glittering dust coating it all over his jacket. "Come on, come on..." Why hadn't he paid more attention to that part of Watson's story? He rose into a crouch and gave a small experimental jump. "Come on, work, dammit!"
Nothing happened. Well, of course nothing had happened! He'd finally gone off his rocker, and his colleagues were going to find his battered corpse in some alley, covered in lovely golden spangles... He sagged to his knees, a grim smile crossing his face at the ridiculous mental picture...
"Bloody hell!" Lestrade flailed as he felt himself rising, grabbing reflexively at the nearest solid object: Holmes's shoulder. The chain slid out of his grasp and the thimble bounced off the detective's face, fairy dust trickling down and leaving a gold stripe from Holmes's cheek to his neck. It must have really tickled, because Holmes's lips twitched... and before the astounded Inspector could react, Holmes had also begun to float off the floor!
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph..." Lestrade gasped, twisting in midair as they continued to ascend above the level of the mattress, and finally managing to catch hold of the bed post. "Right... so we're flying – marvellous! How are you supposed to steer?" At least the bed had provided some cover!
Crrrash! The centre of the door gave way to the axe, and Lestrade had a brief glimpse through the hole of somebody's lumpen features, staring at the scene open-mouthed. Without thinking, Lestrade let go of the bed post, drew his revolver and fired two-handed towards the gap, missing by a mile.
"Aaahhh!" Next instant, Lestrade was whizzing backwards through the air, and crashed into the wall. Struggling for breath, his hand brushed something soft... Thank God, the curtain, he'd been flung next to the window! Ribs still protesting, he twisted around again, straining for the catch.
Thud! Sssssssss...
Oh, hell... Now Lestrade knew why the thugs weren't shooting! They had to be under strict instructions not to kill or injure Holmes, at least – hence the hissing canister in the middle of the floor. He had no idea what was in those dense clouds of vapour spilling out of the thing, nor did he have any intention of finding out! They probably had about a minute before the gas filled the room completely.
Throwing the window open, Lestrade took a painful gulp of air, then pulled himself up the curtain, hand over hand. Holmes was bobbing gently against the plaster moulding a few feet away, face first, and Lestrade silently blessed the architect as he clawed his way across the ceiling. At least he didn't have to worry about Holmes breathing in any gas, he was already asleep! And with any luck, the rising clouds were concealing their escape...
Returning one-handed was decidedly more awkward, and getting Holmes down past the lintel of the window a hair-raising task that Lestrade would never have attempted in less pressing circumstances. He almost lost hold of his charge completely at the end, but just managed to capture the hem of Holmes's nightshirt with a frantic grab as the man floated limply up towards the gutter, steadying himself on a drainpipe. What he wouldn't give for a second pair of hands... Of course, stupid – the handcuffs! Just as soon as he could find something to wrap his legs around... A chimney pot might work?
Inching himself and a now-snoring detective up the pipe, Lestrade tried hard to concentrate on the nice, boring wall in front of him, rather than the exciting ground so very far below and the mysterious gas now billowing out of the window... No, no, happy thoughts, hadn't Watson said? Yes, that was it. Well... once this case was finished, and Moriarty and his men were all dancing the hempen jig, Lestrade was going to request a transfer! Somewhere way out in the country, a quiet little hamlet that only needed one or two officers to keep the peace, where he would never need to see, hear from, or even think about Sherlock bloody Holmes bloody Peter bloody Darling bloody Pan, ever, ever again! He'd heard Sussex was very nice...