A. N. Today's prompt is from Stutley Constable: Where are all the Irregulars? I feel like I sidestepped the prompt neatly rather than answering it, but I couldn't manage one decent idea for it, sorry. And sorry about being so late too, but I kept postponing in hope I would have had one brilliant idea.
It was December 1895 when the Waltons' case popped up. It was a vicious gang, which specialised in kidnappings, and had murdered more than once its victims if their demands weren't met. Finally, the inspector (Athelney Jones, if anyone is interested) caved in to Necessity and decided wisely to consult Sherlock Holmes.
This isn't the tale of how the true identities and the hideouts of the Waltons were brilliantly discovered, or of how these devious men were adventurously apprehended. That's for doctor Watson to write up should he ever feel inspired to do so.
Our little anecdote starts shortly after Holmes had taken that case. When concentrated on an investigation, normal things will be forgotten by the detective. Hell, he will forget to see to his own basic needs too. But the doctor's usual rhytms were apparently etched deeper into the sleuth's mind than he himself should have expected.
So when the doctor was late, Holmes immediately noticed. When that lateness stretched and stretched, he wondered. Watson had probably just been called for an emergency somewhere, and was now doing his own job like the detective himself should have been doing. But what if the doctor had slipped on a patch of ice and broken a leg? Oh God, what if the Waltons had been informed that he was on their tracks and taken Watson in retaliation? Would they have killed him outright?
For his own peace of mind, there was only one thing to do. Call the Irregulars and send all of them on the traces of the absent doctor. At the very least he'd know that his friend wasn't lying in the gutter somewhere.
Watson was back at 11:30 PM, on his own, perfectly safe and sound. "I met Stamford again, and he's married now, so he literally dragged me to meet his wife. And then the both of them insisted for me to stay at dinner with them. I tried to tell them that we were on a case, and you might have a breakthrough at any moment, and need my help, but they wouldn't hear me out. Sorry," he explained.
"No breakthrough yet," Holmes replied, hiding both his relief and annoyance and leaving rather abruptly, "I need to see Wiggins." Of course he did. He had to call them all back.
"And not a word about this. Especially in doctor Watson's presence," the sleuth pointed out to his young lieutenant.
Wiggins offered him a too wide grin. "Sure Mr. Holmes. Good the doc is fine." What he would have liked to add – what any of the boys would have – if only he hadn't just been forbidden to was, "It's so sweet anyway how you fret about each other."