Ingenium (✓) | Sherlock Holmes

🎓 21*favour

I slowly dragged my feet to one of the shelves and traced my thumb on the dead-cold surface of the ingots. Focus, Sherlock, focus! I whispered to myself, touching the gold as if it possessed some degree of guidance.

After a minute or two – I surely hope it has been just one, for the Queen's arrival was due those couple of minutes – the cliché light bulb of ideas flickered.

Of bloody course, how could I not foresee it?

It was just like the mathematical number inclusion. Rationals include integers, which include naturals. In translation for mundane people, rows include shelves, which include ingots. With that thought bearing in mind, I fled to the interpreted area and pinpointed the row. Sadly – or more likely, teasingly – Rhea had not mentioned whether to count the shelves from the door to the back of the Vault or vice versa. Similarly, she had failed to mention whether the ingot should be counted from the external hem of the shelf or the internal one.

I would have called Rhea in that instant if not for the signal-hindering system that was found inside the Vault. I would have called and asked her why on bloody Earth she would want me suffering so ungallantly. Wasn't her incessant imprint on my skull atrocious enough?

"You'd better get your genius arse over here, Mr. Holmes!" I abruptly heard the manager's squeaky voice complain.

Stupid chap. Once you close the door, you can only re-open it after five minutes. So unless you bring the whole MI6 Christmas-pack to escort me out, I am having a pretty comfortable stay here.

I let the manager's words blur in the background and focused solely on the ingots beforehand. I would have visualized them thoroughly before advancing the analysis of the shelf, but time did not permit me such luxury. Accordingly, I flipped the metaphorical coin, chose the door-to-back count and literally touched every ingot to feel its weight. I would have been ashamed to leave the situation in the palms of hazard, but shame found no space between those twelve-meter caliber walls.

The second I envisioned the ingot with the lightest weight, I picked it up and proceeded with the opening of its carcass. God, however, had other plans.

"Isn't it a lovely weather outside, Sir?"

Oh, no.

Queen Elisabeth owned a very distinctive vocal pitch. It had several grunge tones, topped with more mellow ones, forming a harmonious mixture only a fool would dare criticize. Paying tribute to her voice alone would have sufficed.

She will eventually leave, right? So all I have to do is wait patiently for this fuss to be over.

"It is, indeed, Your Majesty. I have just spoken to Mr. Holmes about the weather and he seemed to share your cheerfulness."

Oh, no.

"Mr. Holmes?" The Queen inquired, her magenta velvet hat tilting slightly.

"Yes, he is a straight-A detective who just happens to be here." The manager spoke fluently, although I could sense a gibberish undertone of mockery.

Oh, no.

"In the Bank, or in the Vault?" The fair lady continued her inquiry, the modulations of her voice signaling her curiosity.

"In the Vault. I asked him to verify some security circuits. You know how fond we are of maintaining the preservation of your assets. He is harmless, I can assure your Majesty."

Didn't I already mention that the bald mate has a sweet tooth for vengeance?

"Well, then, let's meet him. I will have my guards follow me, just in case."