From W. Y. Traveller: A midnight stroll

I was off on my rounds extraordinarily late, as the birth of one Laurel Elizabeth Whittaker had gone longer than any of us would have wished. Luckily, I had been able to leave the newest Whittaker happy and healthy with her parents by 11:45. While unsure as to whether Holmes would remain out upon this week's investigation, Baker Street was closest. I would head there at once. There was no sense in dawdling at this hour.

I kept an even pace, not too brisk, as I aimed to keep to the edge of the park rather than head straight across. There was light enough from the street lamps and the moon, but I still kept an eye out. There was faint hope for engaging a cab at this hour, on a weeknight, but I kept persistent watch. I could scarcely feel my toes for the slush on the ground. Really, if I saw so much as a horse drawn wagon-

Turning the corner, I saw an old church graveyard to my left. The stones were dark on the brilliant snow, and all was still in the yard. As I have put it to writing before, I am not the superstitious type. Yet I found myself slowing as I passed the iron fence. Perhaps it was with reverence that I eased by the cemetery.

An entirely different sensation overcame me when I looked back up the sidewalk. There was a figure exiting by the cemetery gate dressed to the nines. He wore all black, carried a cane, and crowned his look with an elegant tophat. What captured my attention however was his walk. Despite the swinging ease with which he sauntered down the street, there was an unnatural rhythm to his gait that I could not fathom.

It can be said that my long partnership with Sherlock Holmes had taught me healthy suspicion. What business a gentleman dressed for a ball had in a graveyard… It was his own business. But, since his way home coincided with mine, I made to follow him.

He did not waver from his path and his head seemed to bob in time to some unknown tune. As he passed under a streetlamp, the light reflected off his spotless white gloves. He tapped a finger against the head of his cane and pressed on.

I was too curious now to quit. He showed no signs of chill even without an overcoat. His pace did not slacken regardless of the terrain. I know my talents of observation hardly compare with Holmes', but there was nothing I could deduce beyond the obvious. Even then there was more to this man than I knew, I could feel it.

I turned another corner and was met with a frustrating sight. The man in the tophat had gained some distance, though it didn't appear as if he had changed his pace at all. Forgetting the cold, I hurried after him. I was careful to avoid the larger piles of slush on the sidewalk as I ran. I was catching up. The man looked like he was about to turn the corner when I hurried across the street.

A pair of hands snatched me back by the shoulders of my coat just before a private carriage thundered down the road. I felt the chill snap back into my bones in a rush. The wheels kicked up a slurry of ice where I had been standing an instant before. Out of breath, I turned to thank my rescuer only to find myself staring into the soot-covered face of Sherlock Holmes!

"My dear Watson!" He said, startled, "What possessed you to stay out so late, and perfectly heedless of your surroundings at that?"

My brow furrowed and I pointed down the street. The man in the tophat had disappeared.

"A suspicious gentleman dressed for a much finer evening than this. He stole away from a graveyard as I passed. I was trying to see if he was up to anything."

I could not swear it in the low light, but under the layer of soot my friend's face seemed to pale. "And this gentleman… He wore a black suit and walked with a cane?"

"Ah." His voice seemed shakier somehow. "I am familiar with him, Watson. I can assure you he was up to something, but that he is an adversary neither of us is equipped to face."

Holmes was not very forthcoming as we finished the walk back to Baker Street. He only gave some explanation as to his presence. It involved a mysterious string of deaths along that road that he seemed to think would not continue after tonight.

Regardless, I was glad when we finally arrived at Baker Street. It was a comfort after that harrowing midnight stroll.

A/N: When in doubt: google it. Inspiration can strike from any direction

Based heavily on Midnight Stroll - the Revels