Cold. He was cold. His eyes slowly opened, drowsily, blinking in the dark.
Dark. Why was it dark?
He tried to remember... he'd... what? He couldn't remember. What had he been doing?
Dreams. There had been dreams. Some beautiful, some terrible... He didn't want to remember the dreams. The voices whispering in the dark, whispering of dead things, things best forgotten.
There had been a voice. A loved voice. Whose? He couldn't recall. He had to remember. It was important.
John.
John?
John. Yes.
He raised his hand to his face slowly and it brushed smooth satin that covered something hard. He blinked in the darkness.
Dark. Something hard in front of him. He was lying on his back; there was soft, cushioned silk beneath him, satin covering something hard above him, only a few inches above his face.
Coffin.
I've been buried alive.
He panicked then, screaming desperately as his fingers tore at the smooth fabric above him, twisting from side to side - kicking at the sides, striking them with his arms, hammering at the underside of the coffin lid with his fists, head tossing wildly as he screamed and screamed and screamed in the dark, the close, stifling, choking dark oh let me out, dear God let me out let me OUT LET ME OUT!
He screamed until there were no more words, only raw terror and fear, until he was hoarse. His voice fell silent, hearing nothing but his own terrified breathing, panting harshly with panic. His heart was racing with the surge of fear-fueled adrenaline. He could hear a faint, frantic whimpering sound, and realised with a surge of shame that it was he, himself, who was making that pitiful, weak noise.
This would not do. He was using up what little valuable air there must be left to him. With an effort of will he slowed his breathing, working upon bringing his heart back to a more steady beat. There had to be a way out of this predicament.
"Think, I must think," he ordered himself. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to calmness. I must not surrender to emotion. I must remain calm. Rational. Logical. Drawing a deep breath, he lifted his hands again, but this time instead of tearing at the shredded remains of silk that brushed against his face he searched the wooden surface carefully with his hands. He felt up as far as he could and all around the edges but could find no gap or catch to release himself from within.
Then he began to carefully tap the coffin lid, listening carefully to the hollow sound. Hollow, not a dull thud. Not buried underground then. A tomb. Vault?
This was beginning to look hopeful; without six feet of soil above him, there was a very good possibility he may yet get out of this alive.
He wiggled around a bit in the coffin, rolling over upon his side and managing with some difficulty to draw his long legs up until his knees pressed painfully hard upon his chest. Then with some wrenching, effort and sheer brute force he managed to twist himself round until he lay on his back once more and his shins were braced against the lid.
He drew a slow, tremulous breath, the sweat rolling from his face and drenching his shirt. He lay there in that cramped position for perhaps a minute or two, and then he threw his full strength into a mighty upwards thrust against the lid, his muscles straining against the resisting object. He threw his head backwards, putting everything he had into one last, superhuman effort.
With a protesting creak then a series of snaps and cracks,the coffin lid gave way a little. Only a little -but it was enough to spur him on. Rolling over with difficulty, he levered his arms and legs beneath him and pressed his back against the hard wood. He marshalled his strength for another try.
He braced himself, then thrust backwards, forcing his back against the wood. His arms and legs shook with the strain and he screamed out his frustration and desperation as he threw every last scrap of energy into this desperate attempt for freedom. With a sharp crack, the lid suddenly gave way, and he reeled backwards as the resistance against his back was suddenly gone. He sprawled backwards, his shoulders striking the bottom of the coffin as he thrust the freed lid to the side and away from him.
He lay there for some moments, chest heaving as he gratefully gasped in lungfuls of refreshing, cool air. With shaking hands he felt for the collar at his throat; it was uncomfortably tight. He ripped it loose, and the cravat too, then thankfully drew in deep breaths. He'd made it. He was out. The simple act of breathing had never felt so good; he even laughed a little in relief. Then he opened his eyes again and took a good look round.
He was in a small crypt, with four other coffins here beside his own. Two were laid upon the floor, as his had been, whilst one smaller coffin lay athwart the others on the floor and the fourth was stood up on end, leaning against the far wall. The chamber was lit by faint light through a small window in the wooden door. The floor was thick with dust which had been disturbed recently; the marks of several pairs of feet, and scuff marks where the coffin against the far wall had been moved to make way for his own. From the looks of the light filtering in wanly, it was dusk, the sun setting slowly.
He levered himself up out of the coffin, and made his way over to the door. No handle upon this side - why would one be needed, after all? - but his questing fingers soon found a small keyhole. He became aware of a throbbing pain in his fingers, and held them up to the scant golden light; his fingers were torn and bloody, fingernails broken and ripped from his earlier frantic scrabbling against the coffin lid. He shrugged; he'd had worse in the past. Though granted nothing that had ever led him to such straits as these, admittedly.
He felt carefully in his pockets; nothing. Not even a fluff of lint. He stared at the door, pondering. How best to effect his escape? He needed a tool; something to pick the lock with. Glancing around the chamber, his eyes lit upon the coffins. He walked over to them, and kicked thoughtfully at the nearest one. The wood was dry and friable. A possibility...
He methodically began kicking at the head of the coffin until the wood gave way, and then steeling himself he thrust his hand in to rip out handfuls of silk lining until his fingers touched something. Dry old leather over a smooth curved surface, strands of rotting hair falling away at his touch. A skull. Shuddering slightly, he drew his fingers back before steeling himself and reaching in once more.
Nothing. This one must have been a man. He turned to the next coffin.
This one was of more recent manufacture, the wood a little firmer. It took longer, more effort to shatter the end with his kicks, and the light was fading fast. He had to hurry; he could not bear the thought of remaining here with the dead for a full night, and had little hopes any screams for help would be heard or headed. The wood finally gave way, and with hands that shook only a little, he felt around for the head of the occupant.
Ah, good - this one had been a woman. In the remains of her silken tresses he found what he sought - a small handful of hairpins.
"Do excuse me, madam, but I believe I have more need of these than you," he apologised dryly.
As the light died, he set to work picking the lock of the door.
It was colder now. He had no money for a hansom, and Baker Street seemed so very far away. He wasn't sure how long he'd been walking; he had no pocket watch. The wind blew chill through his thin frock-coat; he'd been dressed for the grave, not a long walk through wintry November streets. He thrust his bloodied hands deep into his pockets, bowed his head against the wind, and carried on walking. One foot in front of the other, each step carrying him closer to home.
He paused briefly by the entrance to Sloane Square station, haunting the shuttered gate for a little while to warm himself from the cold. A discarded newspaper rustled by his feet; he glanced down at it, and then suddenly stooped to snatch it up, smoothing it out between his hands so he could properly read the headline. "Sherlock Holmes found dead." His hands beginning to tremble, he sank down to the cold hard pavement, back against the trellis gate as he began to read. Found dead... death confirmed by his friend Dr John Watson MD... funeral at Holy Trinity. Laid to rest in the family crypt... eulogy read by former colleagues at Scotland Yard... tributes paid to London's greatest consulting detective... He snorted. "London's only consulting detective!" Survived by his brother Mycroft Holmes... concerns for Dr Watson who collapsed at the funeral... "Watson..."
He balled up the paper and threw it away from him. Dead. They all thought he was dead.
After a while, he rose to his feet, flipped up the collar of his jacket against the cold, then turned to go but paused. He looked back at the crumpled ball of newspaper, then picked it up again. Carefully smoothing it out with his fingers, he folded it neatly and tucked it into his pocket before resuming the slow, steady walk back to Baker Street and home.
