The cab jerked and jolted its way down the cobbled streets as the driver whipped the horse into frenzy at Watson's insistence, despite the wet, slippery streets. It still seemed to take an age to reach the riverside, where Watson had the cabbie drop him off, before the doctor ducked into a side alley, already following the instructions he had committed to memory, though the note still nestled in his pocket.
The words ran unbidden through his mind as he walked as fast as he could, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he suppressed his coughing and concentrated on the task at hand.
My dear doctor, the note had read; I offer you a simple choice. Your friend Holmes is enjoying my hospitality at my waterside retreat. You may join us, and die by his side, or you may wait, and I will kill you at my leisure. You have until two o'clock this afternoon to join us, or I will kill him and then come for you. Here are the directions…
The directions were clear, and to the point, and the letter was signed; 'Dr. J Buckhannon'.
Watson followed the instructions, walking as quickly as his bad leg and weakened health would allow; it was already coming up for an hour past noon, and he could not afford to get lost. He coughed, and had to pause to catch his breath. The filthy back alleys were virtually deserted, and the few eyes that watched him did so with detached interest. He was an incongruous sight in these parts; a well-dressed gentleman who walked with a cane and a slight limp, yet there was an air of determination and danger that forewarned from any attempt at a casual mugging.
The alleyways eventually led to a small warehouse, set a few hundred yards back from the bank of the river Thames, nestled between several similar structures. However, the peeling blue paint on the door demarked it as the one Watson was looking for. For the first time, he hesitated. He had little idea of how to approach. The direct approach might result in Buckhannon simply shooting him and then Holmes, and getting away with no-one any the wiser.
However, Buckhannon notoriously avoided confrontation – Watson was a crack shot, and Buckhannon, a veritable coward, would avoid placing himself in the line of fire. Even cowards could be dangerous – more so than a brave man, in Watson's experience… tired of thinking in circles, recognising that Buckhannon probably already knew that he was there, Watson took his cane firmly in his left hand, drew his service revolver with the right, and, pushing the door inwards slowly with his shoulder, he stepped into darkness.
~*~