JWP #24:
The Wonder of the Age: For Victorian Holmes Watson it was things like telephones and motorcars; for current Sherlocks and John/Joan it's more likely to be nanotechnology and/or iPhones; 22nd Century Holmes deals with androids and casual Moon travel. (For Sherlock Hound or Basil of Baker Street it's probably flea powder.) Use or allude to such a modern miracle of the age for whatever age you choose.
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The motorcar incident referenced in JWP #20: Old Cases
"See the deer?" Watson pointed to the edge of the road, and the small animal bounded away as they passed.
Watson had suggested exploring the area after Holmes spent the morning complaining of boredom. An afternoon slowly driving side roads had been a pleasant diversion, and they had spent the time taking whatever roads looked interesting, occasionally pointing out wildlife or good views.
"I have seen several of those this year," Holmes commented. "More than last year."
"Didn't you also say it was a long summer?" Holmes nodded. "That is probably why."
Watson turned a corner, and Holmes recognized the area.
"Turn here." He pointed at a narrow lane going into a patch of trees, and Watson slowly fit the motorcar onto the unkept road.
"What is down here?"
Holmes waved off the question, glancing at the sun's position. "It depends on if we time it correctly. We may be too late. Slow down around this corner. The road ends."
The motorcar slowed to a crawl, and the dust of their movement settled as they came around the corner. The ground dropped away, tree covered hills rolling into the distance, and sunlight glinted off multicolored leaves to create a stunning view.
They stopped moving, and Holmes glanced over to see his friend staring, foot firmly on the brake as he looked up and down the valley at the patchwork of colors.
"I thought you might like that," Holmes said with a smug grin, leaning back in the seat and trying to hide his own staring. Watson was not the only one that enjoyed this view, though it had been a rare thing for Holmes to come this far from the cottage without Watson's motorcar. They had driven in nearly a large circle, and the overlook was little more than a few hours' walk from the cottage, for all that they had been driving for most of the afternoon, but that did not mean Holmes would walk that far simply for a stunning view.
"How have you not spent hours here?" Watson asked, still looking at the natural quilt of color.
Holmes shrugged. "I did not have a motorcar. Stackhurst let me borrow a cart for two days shortly after I moved, and I used it to explore the area, but I have only been here a few times since."
Watson finally tore his gaze away from the view and slowly turned the vehicle around, glancing back a few times as he did so. "We shall have to remember this place next spring. The wildflowers will be nearly as colorful as the leaves."
A smile flickered across Holmes' face, but he glanced at the sky again before saying, "We should probably turn back. The sun will be setting soon, and the temperature will drop."
Watson nodded, and he turned toward the main road that would take them back to the cottage. "Shall we—"
"Look out!"
Holmes' warning cut off whatever Watson had been about to ask, and Watson jerked the wheel, swerving to avoid the deer that had bounded directly in front of the motorcar.
They went off the road, bouncing several feet into the field and clipping the deer on their way past. A tree brought them to an abrupt halt, and smoke rose from beneath the hood.
Silence filled the car for a long moment.
"Are you injured?" two voices asked in unison.
Watson chuckled. "I'm fine," he answered. "The 'car, however…"
He trailed off, opening the door and getting out to inspect where the smoke was rising from the engine.
"What is wrong with it?" Holmes asked, getting out to stand near the front wheel.
Watson ignored him, finding the source of the smoke before limping back to the driver's seat. He turned the key off, then back on, and tried to start the engine. Nothing happened, and he tried again with the same results.
"Watson?"
"I don't know, yet, Holmes. Give me a minute."
He limped back in front of the wheels and knelt, looking under the radiator, and Holmes heard a quiet choice word.
"The tree dented the radiator and gave me an oil leak," Watson grunted, nearly laying on the ground next to a forming puddle to look at the damage.
Holmes was silent for a moment. "What does the radiator do?"
A faint chuckle carried from where Watson knelt, and he pulled himself from under the vehicle and used his cane to regain his feet. "It cools the engine. We will have to walk home. I can ask someone in town to get it in the morning."
Holmes frowned, glancing between the Watson's limp and the sun sinking on the horizon. "Is there no chance of fixing it?"
Watson shook his head as he pulled their jackets from the backseat. "Radiators are complicated, and oil is simply messy. I have neither the parts nor the tools to do anything, even at the cottage, and for it not to start means something else is broken as well—probably one of the wires in the starter. Here."
Watson tossed a jacket, and Holmes caught it, scowling at Watson's attempt to hit him in the face. His frown returned after a moment as they walked down the road, however. "Stackhurst is closer than the cottage," he said, matching his pace to Watson's.
"He is out of town today," was the reply.
Holmes' frown deepened, but he made no answer.
"How far is it?" Watson asked a while later, after they had turned onto the main road. The words came out slightly breathless.
"We traveled in a large circle instead of straight out," Holmes answered. "It would have taken about thirty minutes to drive home."
Holmes caught the grimace Watson tried to hide. A thirty-minute drive was several hours' walk at their current pace, and Watson had been limping all day after a front had moved in the previous night.
"I remember seeing another cottage on that last side road where we turned around," Holmes continued.
"It was empty. Several newspapers sat on the front step."
Holmes frowned. He hadn't noticed that, but Watson continued before he could reply. "I'm fine, Holmes. We just have to walk slowly."
"You are limping."
A touch of frustration entered Watson's voice. "There is a storm building, and the temperature is dropping. Of course, I'm limping."
Holmes dropped the topic but took Watson's arm, hoping to prevent a tumble on the uneven dirt and gravel, and darkness fell before either of them spoke again.
"Was there not supposed to be a full moon tonight? It is darker than I expected."
Holmes glanced up, quickly noting the absence of stars. "It is behind the clouds."
He barely heard Watson's huff of irritation. "Of course, it is."
Holmes looked over, studying his friend in the near darkness. Watson's limp had only gotten worse with the walk, and he was holding his shoulder awkwardly against Holmes'. He was also nearly breathless, despite their slow pace, telling Holmes that the doctor's old injuries were spasming.
There was little he could do about it, however, unless they wanted to go back to the motorcar and try again in the morning. They had been walking for well over an hour, and while turning back might have been a viable option twenty years ago, they could hardly do that now.
The breeze strengthened, blowing leaves and dust through the air, and Watson's grip on Holmes' arm tightened briefly.
"Watson?"
"Overbalanced," Watson said shortly, his focus on the ground in front of him. "Sorry."
Holmes scanned the area for lights. The cloud cover made it more difficult to walk, but houses would shine like a beacon in the darkness. With how badly Watson was limping, Holmes knew better than to think they could walk back to the cottage without leaving Watson confined to his bed by morning—no matter how vehemently Watson insisted that he was alright. They needed to find a house.
An engine sounded behind them, and Holmes stopped his scan as they took several steps off the edge of the road to wait for it to pass. The roads were dark, narrow, and lined with trees, and the driver would not be able to see them until nearly on them, otherwise Holmes would have tried to wave the other person down.
As it came around the corner, the motorcar's headlights illuminated a rock just in time for Holmes to avoid tripping on it, and he sidestepped, steadying Watson when the doctor's cane slipped on the grass. They moved back onto the road as the headlights continued away.
The lights halted fifty feet up the road, however, then slowly backed up to where they stood, and they paused, watching the motorcar warily. Few enough people out here had a motorcar, and Holmes knew from driving Watson's motorcar that the vehicles were not easy to reverse during the day, much less after dark.
"Mr. Holmes?" a voice carried as the automobile stopped several feet away.
"Stackhurst?" Watson's exclamation cut off Holmes' greeting, and he leaned over slightly, using Holmes to maintain his balance as he peered into the dark automobile. "When did you get a motorcar?"
The other man grinned at Watson's surprise, and the duo slowly walked closer to the window. "About three hours ago," Stackhurst replied. "I borrowed it for the week from a friend. What are you doing out here?"
"Oil leak and a dented radiator," Holmes answered, sounding as if he had always known what a radiator was, and he saw Watson smother a grin. "We were planning on pushing it to town in the morning."
"Hop in." Stackhurst gestured to the backseat. "I can drop you at your cottage before heading home."
Watson barely hesitated before nodding, and Holmes frowned even as he helped his friend inside. He had expected more of a protest.
"Thank you," Watson voiced a few minutes after they pulled away. "Neither of us were looking forward to such a long walk."
"Especially in this weather!" Stackhurst agreed, running the wipers as the first scattered raindrops hit the windshield. "No problem at all. How did you dent the radiator?"
"I swerved to avoid a deer and hit a tree instead," Watson answered, moving restlessly on the motorcar's hard seat. "It put a dent in the wrong place to drive home, but it should be simple to fix with the right tools. Is there a mechanic in town?"
"Yes," Holmes and Stackhurst answered together. Holmes waved an apology, and Stackhurst continued, "Frank got one of the first motorcars in this area, and he learned how to fix them before anyone else even had one."
Watson nodded. "Good. Tomorrow," he shifted on the seat, "or the next day, do you know anyone who might help me get it to town? Something in the starter broke as well, and it refused to turn over. I would have to put it in high gear and take the spark plugs out, but we should be able to tow it if there is a team of horses available."
Stackhurst made no reply for a moment, searching for the road. "I know someone," he finally answered as the headlights illuminated the cottage. "I can ask him tomorrow."
"Thank you."
The words sounded more like a sigh, and Holmes leaned forward with a frown, trying to study his friend in the dark motorcar.
They came to a stop in front of the cottage before Holmes could do more than lean forward, however. "I will let you know what I find out," Stackhurst told them, silently studying Watson, who had opened the door and was struggling to stand from the low seat.
Holmes hurried around the car, nodding his thanks for the ride as he took Watson's arm.
Stackhurst drove away, and Watson tried to let go of Holmes.
"I'm fine," Watson protested. "I can use my stick."
Holmes merely tightened his grip, forcing Watson to lean on him instead of the cane. "You have a strange definition of 'fine.'"
Watson breathed a laugh, trying not to lean against Holmes' arm. "I learned it from you."
"You did no such thing."
"Really? Then who was it that insisted he was 'perfectly fine' just before passing out from blood loss?"
Holmes hid his expression in the door as he stoically answered, "Lestrade."
That startled a full laugh as Watson limped into the cottage. "That is not how I remember it."
"It is how I remember it."
Watson huffed, leaning against the wall as he took his jacket off. "You remember wrongly, then. Lestrade, at least, never tried to sit a stakeout with a raging fever, something you did more than once."
"I think you have it backwards." Holmes barely managed to cover his smirk.
Watson shook his head, trying and failing to smother the grin twitching the corners of his mouth as he turned toward the fireplace, but any reply he would have made was cut off when he stumbled. Holmes lunged, steadying the doctor before he could fall.
"Sorry," Watson muttered, gripping Holmes' arm to stay upright as they moved toward the hearth. "It's just…" He trailed off, gesturing to the door to indicate both the storm and the long walk.
"I understand," he voiced once Watson was settled into his armchair. He did; his friend had been limping that morning, which was why they had gone for a drive instead of a walk, and they had walked for over an hour before Stackhurst happened by. The storm currently washing Sussex would have aggravated the doctor's old injuries even without the physical activity. "What can I do?"
Watson shook his head. "Nothing. It'll pass."
Holmes frowned. Watson would never accept pain medicine, but Holmes had no idea what else might help. He could not halt the storm, nor could he undo the effects of an hour of walking.
Watson was not interested in a late supper, so Holmes made a pot of tea before picking up his violin. If he could not help, he could at least distract.