From Wordwielder: Dashing through the snow
I could foresee a great many things. It was the majority of my job, in fact, to use statistics and deduction to predict the many nuanced sways and movements of people and of politics. One thing I could not predict, however, was the quixotic English weather.
It was February, for God's sake! A snowstorm, in February?! The weather would have been enough to dismay me, for I did so detest anything that interrupted my usual routines. But with the added developments regarding The Friesland, dismay had turned to something bordering on horror.
A benefit of my club, The Diogenes, is that it houses its own telegrapher. Thank God it did, for if not then I would have received Sherlock's request for help far too late. Still, I wondered if I would make it in time. There was little transport running in such horrific weather, and I found myself for most of the journey to the harbour in a one horse open sleigh, sheltering from the elements beneath a large throw.
It was an embarrassing position, I will admit, but I had no wish to repeat that moment from just over 4 years ago, when I had received a telegram informing me of my brother's apparent demise at the hands of Professor Moriarty. So I had called in all my favours, pulled all the strings I could, and even now a brave crew of able seamen assembled to take a ship through this snowstorm and onto The Friesland. Sherlock, and Doctor Watson, would escape this business safely. I would make sure of it.