He curls into a ball and presses himself against the stone wall, back from the stairs. The footsteps come closer, and then stop. Whoever is there is standing next to the bottom step, no more than twenty feet away. Holmes can hear that person breathing. It is labored, like someone winded merely from walking. More than a minute passes; the heavy breathing continues, and its author remains still. Sherlock can’t stand it. He needs to know if it is Crew. He raises his head slightly, until he can see through the little openings in the balustrade that serves as a stone railing for the stairs. Crew is peering back at him! Can he see me? Then something diverts the thug’s attention, as if he were jolted by an unseen force. Even from where he is, Sherlock can tell that the source of the disturbance is the sack that the villain carries over his shoulder. And Holmes can now see that that sack is enormous. “Settle, my pretty,” whimpers Crew in his high-pitched whine, “settle.” He drops the sack down and pets and kisses it.
