Written for the LiveJournal community Watsons_Woes for their July Writing Prompts challenge. Prompt #15 was: Almost halfway there! Miles to go before we sleep! - Use however this inspires you. This story also fills my hc_bingo prompt "stranded/survival scenario".

In my mind, this follows "Regrets" but does not refer to that story.

_A Fix_
The morning was bright and much warmer than normal, so a drive through the countryside sounded like a good idea. Had we known how the day would unfold, we never would have left the cottage, but even the world's only (retired) consulting detective cannot foretell the future.

We loaded a picnic lunch and headed out in bright spirits. We talked of how much longer the winter might last and whether the bees would produce a good crop of honey this year and whatever else came to mind that was idle and light-hearted to match our moods.

I do not know for certain how far we roamed over the twisting country roads, hardly a house to be seen, but we decided at lunch to turn around and head back lest we find ourselves lost. We returned to the motorcar only to discover that it would not start.

We tried everything we could think of to make that blasted machine work, but it stubbornly refused to see reason. "I don't suppose you remember where the nearest house is?" he asked.

"Not at all," I admitted ruefully. "We have two ways we can go to find help: follow the coast, or return along the road." We had lunched atop a bluff overlooking the Channel, and as the cottage also stood on a bluff overlooking the Channel, we had only to follow the coastline to find our way back. Over how many miles, however, I was not certain.

We decided we were more likely to encounter someone along the road, so we set out on our long walk home. Neither of us were young anymore, and it showed in our pace and the frequent need to stop for a moment's rest; he would say I was being courteous in allowing him those pauses, but my own joints were aching before long so I needed the rest, too.

We walked steadily for nearly two hours before our pace began to falter. Eventually Watson stopped and leaned heavily on his cane. "I should have stayed behind with the car."

"Nonsense. Come, old fellow, we're at least halfway there."

He snorted. "Liar. You have no idea how much farther it is." But he straightened and started walking again, so my veracity was inconsequential.

We had miles to go, at least. The sturdy motorcar was not as fast as the newer models, but it was still far faster than two aging gentlemen and we had driven for just over three hours. I made the calculations in my head and weighed them against the quickly sinking sun and knew that we would not be home before dark. The temperature was also plummeting, which may prove more deadly than the approach of night.

Watson remained ignorant of the increasing danger of our situation; perhaps the ignorance was willful, for surely he had noticed it was getting colder faster than the time of day normally allowed. We did not speak of it and merely trudged on.

It was getting dark when Watson spotted a lighted house just ahead. The farmer who lived there was nearly our equal in years and was quick to offer us seats by the fire while his wife put water on for tea. Watson easily drew the man into conversation, only to find out the man's son was a mechanic and due to visit in a few days, so, in his words, "we'll see to yer vehicle, no problem."

Once we had tea and a bite of supper to warm us, the farmer hitched up his mule and drove us in his cart back to the cottage. I offered him coffee or tea before his journey home, but he wished to return before the wind picked up much more; I was able convince him to take a jar of honey as a partial advance payment for the repair of the motorcar.

True to the old farmer's word, the wind started howling around the corners of the house not long after we'd gotten the fire lit and the kettle put on for another pot of tea. Watson shivered in his armchair and I piled blankets upon him until he protested, but at least that way he no longer shivered.

When we were both settled, tea finished and pipes lit, I said, "I'm sorry I wasn't able to fix it."

"Why would you? It's my motorcar, " he said, not sounding at all perturbed. "You may have to fix the meals and such for a few days, though. It's going to take a bit for my leg to recover from that walk."

"I will do whatever you need me to do," I promised, and I meant it, too.