Such Is the Tale

Disclaimer - Don't own any of them – wouldn't want to own that scoundrelly bug-hunter.


A/N: I was going to wait a bit to post - didn't want to spoil you chaps. But so many people are hounding me (no pun intended :) that I decided to be nice and go ahead. Enjoy, people. KCS


Watson

I snapped to attention with a start as that horrid dog let out another long, loud howl, realizing I had apparently dozed off either from sheer exhaustion or from shock. I shivered when I recalled the awful nightmare I had just been a participant in.

But the rude awakening was no worse a situation than that of my dream, I realized, fighting down a growing sense of despair. I could see the sky had begun to faintly grey along the horizon – I must have been unconscious for a few hours at least.

My mind was moving sluggishly, but I was alert enough to know that I was not going to be able to stand three, or even two, days like this without food and some shelter. I was already chilled to the bone, unable to feel my extremities.

And falling asleep like that was the worst thing I could do when that cold and exposed. I struggled to pull myself upright, and the hound across from me, which I could now vaguely see the outline of in the dim light, snarled and lunged at me again.

I caught my breath, but the chain held fast. Breathing a silent prayer of gratefulness, I tried to occupy my mind to prevent my falling asleep again. To pass the time, I began to try and list in order the cases I had been a part of with Holmes, starting with the Study in Scarlet in '81, until the last month, September '87.

I sincerely hoped I could retain enough mental control to survive the rest of the night – surely the daylight would warm things up a bit. I was already starting to develop a nasty cough from being out in the elements for so many hours.

Sir Henry surely should have realized by now that something was wrong. Holmes would receive the news sometime today, and tonight he would be in Dartmoor searching for a solution.

I would survive the next two or three days, or longer if need be. Holmes would come. He always did.


Holmes

I paced nervously up and down the platform of the station – Lestrade had firmly opted to remain inside, out of the biting wind. But my thoughts were dangerously on the verge of running out of control yet again, and I was forced to seek out solitude for a few moments to bring myself back under that calm exterior I always assumed.

I was bitterly cold, but I hardly noticed, so intent was I on keeping my emotions in check.

I had to remain calm, because I could not afford to fail in this trap tonight.

Watson was counting on me, and I could not fail him.

Eight and one-half hours.


Watson

"Which of you is Holmes?"

"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my companion quietly.

"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."

"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.

"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man furiously.

"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my companion imperturbably.

"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

My friend smiled.

"Holmes, the busybody!"

His smile broadened.

"Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"

Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most entertaining," said he. "When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught."

I laughed a little despite my intense pain, remembering Holmes's first encounter with Grimesby Roylott back in '83. I had been much impressed, as always in those early days, with Holmes's coolness in the face of obvious menace.

My amusement faded when my chuckle turned into another hoarse cough, one that seemed to come from deep within my lungs.

Pray God Holmes would keep a cool head and find out about Stapleton and the man's atrocities despite the man's harmless exterior. Roylott had been a ferocious bear – Stapleton was a treacherous weasel.

The sun had finally started to come over the horizon, a fact for which I was devoutly grateful. Though I could not sense any warmth from its pale light, it was still much better to be able to at least view things, especially that wretched beast a few feet from me, in the light of day.

I realized a few moments later that my thinking was beginning to slow, and I was to the point of not caring whether I dropped off to sleep or not. I was freezing cold, and my numbed brain sent a faint alarm through my senses that I was going into shock from exposure.

But I really, honestly, did not care. If I could escape for a few hours in sleep, what harm was there in it? I would go mad if I had to remain awake for three days straight.

Three days. It seemed longer by the minute.


"Mr. Holmes! Will you please come inside and sit down? You are driving me absolutely out of my mind!" a very frustrated Inspector Lestrade nearly shouted out the door of the station-house at the unresponsive detective's thin figure, pacing up and down nervously, head down against the biting wind.

Scowling at the lack of recognition from the infuriating amateur, Lestrade shook his head in resignation. How much longer had Holmes said it would be before they could take action?

Eight hours.


Watson

When I finally, sluggishly, awoke, the sun was directly overhead. I had finally given up the struggle and fallen asleep out of pure exhaustion.

Now, realizing I was becoming increasingly cramped and in a considerable amount of pain, I was glad I had done so, to escape for a few hours at least. I was still chilled to the bone, but the cold, icy glare of the sun gave the illusion at least of some semblance of warmth, though it was struggling to shine through the thick cloud cover.

It must be close to midday. Surely Holmes would have received word by now of my disappearance and would be putting in motion the necessary things that would enable him to leave London and come down to Dartmoor.

Surely he was on his way.

I had to cling to that hope at all costs.

I was rather proud of myself, if the sluggish emotion my frozen mind was conjuring up could be called pride, that I had spent so long in the presence of that hound now lying down across from me and had not yet given in to my fear.

The fiend had its head on its paws, its red eyes wide open, glaring at me, but at least it was no longer snarling or trying to break from its chain, for which I was intensely thankful.

A violent tremor suddenly shook my body, and I gasped as a flash of pain shot through my numbed limbs, the strangled sound turning into another gasping cough.

The pain served to waken my slow brain a little more, and I realized that I was hungry.

Was Stapleton going to keep me here without food or water until he disposed of Sir Henry or until Holmes arrived? Exposure and even lack of food I might be able to survive, but not dehydration. But still, for three days – I believed I could do it. I would do it.

But Sherlock Holmes had better not take much longer than that. Three days.

No, two and a half now - it was noon . Two and a half.


Holmes

I nearly shouted with joy when the sun (what little we could see of the thing) finally started to dip toward the horizon. Not much longer now, and I could actually begin to work, not just wait.

Poor Lestrade had been quite out-of-sorts, seeing that I would not give him much by way of explanations this afternoon. I could not – I was too worried.

I am not a fearful man, nor am I of a nervous nature. But I find myself drawing increasingly closer to a frantic state of mind than I ever have been.

Thank God this wait is drawing to a close. I suppose Lestrade is hungry – we probably should find an inn for the purpose of his dinner. I continue to be without appetite.

Not much longer now, Watson. Five hours, I give you my word. Five hours more.


Watson

"You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

"How on earth did you know that?"

"Never mind," said he with a smile.

I was jolted abruptly out of my only semi-conscious mental ramblings by that horrid creature near which I was imprisoned lunging to its feet and growling fiercely, its snarling fangs snapping loudly scant inches from my feet where its chain ended.

Startled, and not a little frightened, I wondered what had aggravated the beast – evidently I had either fallen asleep or lost consciousness again, for the sun was setting and dusk was now falling.

I fought to quell the sudden rise of panic at the knowledge that darkness was coming again – I was going to spend another twelve hours in the black of the night with this dreadful dog – and the temperature was dropping again as well. I was not sure if I could make it through another night such as the last.

The dog growled once again, and then broke into that mournful howling that, even after I had been listening to it all day, still grated on my nerves and sent a shiver down my spine.

But a moment later, I saw why the hound had been disturbed. And another chill ran over me, totally unrelated to the icy wind.

Stapleton was returning.


To Be Continued - thanks for reading! Reviews are very welcome and much appreciated!