The December 13th prompt, as assigned by KnightFury: "Fog"
Some nights, London is laden with fog. Some nights the atmosphere is thick enough to be cut with the point of a needle. One can hardly see but for the soft light of the gas lamps, the city burdened with quiet and mystery.
On these nights, Mary Watson stands watch at her front door, her faithful hound at her side. She watches and waits, peering into the swirling darkness. Her dressing gown pulled tight, her hair falling over her shoulders, she is the picture of innocence. Her canine friend puts his head in her lap, his ears ever intent and listening.
It is on these nights that she worries. There is much uncertain, much unknown. On those nights where she cannot see, cannot hear, she wonders where he is. She awaits the click of steps on the cobblestones, the tapping of his cane as he walks. She listens for his gait, hoping that he will return to her safe and sound. She knows that she can never be certain of his safety.
She sits in the window, sits and waits. Her vigil is kept by the light of the fire in the hearth, by the dying coals of the stove. As she begins to nod, the sound she awaits comes clear. And her eyes begin to smile as she greets him.