Dec 13th's prompt was from Spockologist: 221B's roof collapses from snow.
Fitting, as this past Friday was Friday the 13th! A terrible spot of luck for our friends.
Poor Holmes, poor Watson... They'll be dreadfully chilly. Enjoy!
It was a fairly boring afternoon on Baker Street.
A peaceful sort of boring, however; not of the variety that sent my friend reaching for his syringes or seeking out a new target for my revolver. We had just solved a most confounding case, and as such, his mental functions were still satiated.
I was sitting in an armchair near the fire, perusing a new medical publication. It was a critique of various practices, featuring opinions from Doctors practicing in England, Europe, and America. I had just come across a section on bloodletting. I became thoroughly engrossed and paid my surroundings very little mind.
(As for myself, I have found that bloodletting can have its benefits in certain situations, but I shun it as a cure-all. Too many times, I have seen already weakened patients crippled by a removal of so much vital blood, and even healthy ones brought low following the procedure.)
Holmes was tinkering at his desk. The occasional clink of metal or scratch of his pen broke the silence, but all was peaceful.
Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs. "I'm going out! I'll be back in a few hours!"
"Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson," I responded.
Holmes continued his work, quiet.
Briefly, I glanced up from my reading. A faint noise creaked from above. "Do you suppose it's still snowing?" I asked Holmes.
"Possibly," he said, in a vague tone that suggested he'd not actually heard my question.
"Hm." I frowned, turning the page to a section on remedies for consumption.
The creaking noise came again, louder. Uneasy, I set down my book and stood, taking a step toward my friend. "Holmes..."
All at once, the ceiling splintered in.
Snow and wood came crashing down on us, knocking me to the ground. The wind stolen clean out of my lungs, I laid under a heap of snow, gasping for breath.
"Watson!" Holmes's shout was muffled through the debris.
"W-wh-" I panted, my face crushed into a Persian carpet we'd received from a client. As my attention was singularly on it, I noted that it could've used a cleaning. I inhaled sharply, my lungs burning. "I'm here!" I shouted back, hoarse.
"What in blazes happened?" I could hear Holmes pushing through the snow. I braced my hands on the floor and fought to stand, my fingers beginning to go numb.
I emerged. The pile rose past my knees.
"The roof collapsed," I said, dry.
"Yes, I can see that. But why?" Holmes waded amongst the wreckage, searching.
My brow furrowed. "Why, from the snow, of course."
"This roof was repaired and reinforced not two months ago." Holmes brushed a pile of frost away from his experiment, pushing the desk to rest beneath an intact portion of cover. "With this amount of snow on it, there is no reason for it to give in."
I tucked my hands into my pockets, shivering. "I suppose... But it does seem like quite a lot of snow to me."
Holmes dragged an armchair to the centre of the room and beckoned me closer. "Hold this steady, would you?"
I obliged, mourning for the once cozy and dry sofa that would soon by dripping and frozen.
As I held it still, Holmes climbed it, standing on tiptoe and leaping the gap to the remainder of our sitting room roof.
"Careful, Holmes!" I cried.
"I am always careful." The detective disappeared from view. Wind whistled overhead, blowing frigid air and more snow inside. I shivered, waiting.
After a moment, Holmes reappeared. He dropped neatly from the ceiling, landing in a heap of snow, and straightened. "We have been sabotaged."
"Sabotaged? By whom?" I edged nearer to the sputtering fire, willing some warmth back into my legs.
Holmes held up a small axe, his expression both grim and alight with interest. "There are marks from several different blades. I expect that in their haste to abandon the scene they lost this one in the snow."
"Why would someone do such a thing?" I demanded, indignant.
"That is the question, now, isn't it?" Holmes threw the axe over his shoulder, seizing my sleeve and dragging me to the stairs.
"Where are we going?" I asked. He tugged on a coat and scarf as I did the same. (It is a mark of my longstanding partnership with Holmes that, in general, I now comply without requiring much explanation.)
"To investigate, obviously." Holmes secured a hat over his ears and picked up the axe again, stowing it inside his coat. "We have a case to solve."
I wiggled my stiff fingers into a pair of mittens. "Now? Shouldn't we find Mrs. Hudson? Leave her a note?"
Holmes opened the door and bade me to exit, his mouth twisting wryly. "Watson," he said, "I have no doubt that she will notice all on her own."