From Spockologist: Watson says a curse word.
*winning smile* This is exactly what you had in mind, isn't it?
Holmes ducked beneath a drape of cobwebs. Watson followed close behind, his sleeve covering his nose. With a choking cough, he said, "Holmes, is this really necessary?"
"Absolutely vital, dear man." Holmes held his candle aloft and took a left turn. The narrow hallways were dark and damp, the smells of mold and dust rising from between the stones. "All evidence pointed here."
Sighing, Watson rounded the corner with him.
All at once, the cramped corridors gave way to a wide, circular room. A few torches rested on stands around a table stacked with small books.
"At last, some light." Watson took his candle and lit one of the torches. He picked it up and held it near the table. "What's all this?"
Holmes sank into a wooden chair and pulled one small, dusty tome toward himself. "McDuggan claims that these tunnels have connections to faeries. These, I presume, would be some of their texts."
"Why such small books on such a large table?" Watson picked up a volume and flipped it open. "If there truly were faeries here at one time, surely they wouldn't have required so much space."
"Perhaps this was a meeting place," Holmes said. "For humans and faeries to exchange information. McDuggan seems to believe so. In any case, I have no interest in the myths of these catacombs. I only wish to find the blueprints."
Nodding absently, Watson traced one finger along the minute text. "It would help us to find the Worthington killer, yes."
Holmes flipped through several books at random. "Ah. This looks promising." He glanced up at Watson. "What are you doing?"
"Trying to decipher this. Hold on, I think I can sound it out." He began to form the word.
"Wait—" Holmes eyes widened, but as the sound left his and Watson's lips at the same time, a flash of blue dust rose from the text.
"Watson!" Holmes jumped to his feet, reaching into the glimmering cloud. His hand found nothing. Heart speeding up, he waved the dust away.
When it cleared, all that was visible was Watson's hat and coat, lying in a heap on the floor. The good doctor was nowhere to be seen.
"My dear fellow… What have you done." His fingers trembling faintly, Holmes reached for the hat's brim and lifted it.
A tiny yap broke the silence. Holmes jumped, startled.
"Great Scott."
Struggling in the confines of Watson's scarf was a terrier pup, white with patches the same color as Watson's mustache.
Holmes got down onto his knees and held out one hand. "John?"
The puppy bit Holmes's finger vengefully.
Drawing backwards, Holmes scowled. "It couldn't be anyone else."
Snatching the book with the blueprints and the one Watson had read from, he gave the puppy a peevish look. "I do wish that you hadn't read that aloud," he said. "It would seem that McDuggan was correct. Come now, you'll catch cold down there."
Growling, the puppy bristled as Holmes scooped up the Doctor's coat and tucked it over his arm.
"I'll thank you not to bite me again." He lifted the pup and tucked him into his jacket. "I don't know how I'm going to explain this to Mrs. Hudson. We'd best sneak upstairs and sort this out before she notices I've brought a stray home."
The puppy whined.
"No, we aren't going to do it here. The whole place is… unsettling." Holmes picked up the candle and started towards the exit. "Besides that, I have no desire to spend the evening as a cat."
They made quick time through the tunnels with the aid of the maps. Holmes breathed easier once London's air filled his lungs again. He slipped out from behind the old church and onto the streets. Falling into pace with the crowd, he paused only to purchase a scone around the corner from Baker Street.
"Mr. Holmes, is that you?" Mrs. Hudson called.
Holmes cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm, ah, feeling a bit ill. I'll be in my study, no need for you to come upstairs."
"Wouldn't you like some tea, then?"
"No, no." Holmes tucked Watson back down beneath his jacket. "No thank you."
Before she could protest, he darted into his study and closed the door.
Watson squirmed from his grasp and landed on the rug, growling again. Then he began sniffing around.
"Careful what you taste," Holmes advised. He sat by the fire and fished out the faerie book. Pulling the scone from its paper wrapping, he took a large bite and pored over the text.
Lured by the smell of fresh bread, Watson edged over to sit behind him. He fixed large brown eyes on the treat in Holmes's hand and whined.
"Very well." Holmes broke off a piece and set it beside the puppy. "Now hold still, and I'll try to set you right."
As he searched the book, Watson amused himself chasing his tail, a beetle, and his shadow by turns. Soon exhausted, he plopped down at Holmes's with a doggish sigh.
"Don't look at me," Holmes said, scratching the puppy's head absently. "You were the one who read the blasted thing."
Watson snorted.
"Well, yes, I took us down there, but really—"
A tiny snore rose. Watson had fallen asleep.
Holmes turned the page and tapped the paper. "That must be it." Gingerly, he turned and cleared his throat, reading the word clumsily.
In a burst of blue dust, the puppy grew into a sleeping Doctor Watson. Gratefully, his clothing had returned along with him. Holmes picked up a blanket and laid it across his friend's shoulders. "Welcome back, dear fellow."
He cast one look at the faerie book, curiosity tingling in his fingertips.
Then, with a sigh, he tossed it into the fire.
Though Watson was, admittedly, a rather fine terrier, Holmes was confident that he himself would be a make for a very crotchety and ill-tempered cat.
