Ingenium (✓) | Sherlock Holmes

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"Oh, for Pete's sake! You are as useful as tits on a bull!" The manager's pace came to a halt all at once, his heavy-smoker voice crashing against the thick walls of the Vault. "How can you fail to announce me that the bloody, 5000-hatted Queen is coming to check her Gold assets?!"

Mycroft and I froze. Unless Rhea had cured whatever royal offspring of anxiety, we are once again screwed. And since I am a very male-female-fornication chap, you can realize how dreadful it is for me to use such term.

The manager forcefully ended the call and refrained himself from jerking the phone to the opposite side of the Vault. He was literally on the verge of fuming his brains out which, in case I have not mentioned his gauge, meant having a heart-attack right in a jiffy.

"Breathe through your mouth, Sir. It helps with the annoyance." I reassured him, forcing my hands to mimic the up-and-down movements of a ribcage.

"I am not on a bloody therapy session, you twat!" The bulky, throbbing vein that spread all across his forehead almost blasted while speaking. "You..." He pointed towards me with his hefty, inflated fingers. "... and you..." He scolded Mycroft as well, catching a few breaths – which, mind me saying, were more like the shrieks of a pig right before Christmas slaughter – and continued. "... need to get out of here."

Mycroft nodded submissively, but I gave heed to his perky mouth uplift. Why was he smirking? He closed the gap between us, positioned himself in front of me and handed me his phone, purposely eyeing it so as to indicate that I should verify its content. I took it, still not catching the subtlety of his decision, and waited patiently for the manager to steady his heartbeats.

"Let's go!" He barked, a button from his creased shirt popping out as he took one chunky step towards the door.

Mycroft placed his arm around the manager's banger-looking neck and escorted him out, not before he winked at me mischievously.

What did he... Oh, for the love of chocolate fudge! Sherlock, your head has been too stuck up your arse. Get a grip on it, you barmy lad!

I heaved at discontent with my incapacity to comprehend Mycroft's intentions. Were my skills decaying? Alas, that was neither the time nor the place to discuss the possibility of being fitted to a mental asylum.

My steps drifted away from the door and deepened into the dozens of ingot-filled lanes. I had no desire to pursue the adoration of those metal rectangles, which seemed to me as means to justify one's infatuation with a different deity – The God of Money. However, I could not help but appreciate how artistically their golden surface shimmered under the neon lights of the Vault.

I kindly invite you to take a note of how poetic I became. Rhea must have been closely acquainted with Shakespeare himself, if she managed to bestow such literary talents upon my rationality.

Revenons à nos moutons, s'il vous plaît!

Mycroft's phone screen lit up as I slid my fingers across it, careful not to miss any details desired to be sought. I eventually reached a text message from Rhea, which took me off guard, considering that solving riddles while anticipating my collision with the Queen herself was not highly pleasurable.

13-3-20.

Oh, Rhea, when I encounter those bulge-growing curves of yours, I will make sure all of them receive their deserved punishment.

I tapped my index finger against my right temple, closing my eyelids to envision the meaning behind Rhea's text. Since there were twenty-one rows, I could either consider number thirteen as belonging to the designated shelf or number twenty. What shall it be, then?