Today's Prompt (from In the Fields of Verdun): Stuck: Holmes and Watson are stuck together for a week in a place that isn't their home.
Holmes and Watson strolled down the lane through the center of the small village. The snow continued ceaselessly to fall, swirling to the ground around them. They were the only ones who took a leisurely pace; the few people that they passed hurried by to get out of the cold. Anyone who noticed their presence only drew their coats tighter and continued on even faster than before.
At last, Holmes and Watson came to the bakery; inviting and warm, with puffs of smoke continually billowing out from the chimney. They ducked inside and were greeted by the smell of fresh bread - as delicious as the young baker's fruitcake had not been. Holmes easily occupied himself with the breads on display. If his keen gaze examined M. Renaud, the baker, it was impossible to tell.
"What do you say Watson? A fresh loaf of bread? Or a pastry perhaps?" Holmes suggested.
The sweet smell was intoxicating, but Watson's attention was not so easily diverted, as he glanced between the breads and M. Renaud standing behind the counter, watching them, apparently none too pleased to see them.
"M. Holmes, the detective?" M. Renaud said in nervous greeting.
Holmes acknowledged the title.
"Is there anything you require?"
"A loaf of bread if you please," Holmes said. To Watson, he added, "A charming respite from London, is it not?"
"Certainly," Watson said, a little startled by the question.
"Is it difficult to keep everything in repair so far from the city?" Holmes asked M. Renaud.
If Watson seemed surprised, M. Renaud appeared utterly at a loss. He scrambled to find an answer. "A little, I suppose, but we manage well enough. M. Garnier is quite gifted with machinery and Mlle. Fontaine has helped me with fixing little things around the shop."
"Excellent. Thank you, M. Renaud."
M. Renaud handed Holmes the loaf of bread, wrapped to keep it secure even in the snow, and Holmes waved Watson on, handing him their loaf of bread as they departed from the shop. They went but a few paces from the door before Holmes's cheery affect faded.
"Did you glean anything?" Watson asked.
"The bars on the door have not been recently replaced, nor has anything else of clear import which could have been stolen or broken in some struggle. I am afraid the passage of years is worse than even a hoard of Scotland Yarders, coming through to trample all the evidence. M. Renaud plainly knows something, but what?"
Holmes's chin sunk to his chest in deep contemplation, and Watson did not dare disturb him as they returned to the inn.
For the remainder of the afternoon, Holmes sat in a chair by the fire, lost to the world. Watson and M. Dupond were left to work their way through the loaf of bread and wonder where Holmes's methods had taken him on this occasion. That night, Holmes poured over M. Dupond's letters from his aunt and uncle, searching for any shred of evidence they may have held as to the couple's fate. Watson knew better than to call Holmes to bed.
And so the days passed beneath a swirling veil of ever-falling snow. Holmes spent the days in the parlour deep in contemplation, or out in the weather for hours on solitary walks, and his nights were spent curled up by the fire in their room, staring at M. Dupond's letters. Watson fancied he could see Holmes slowly wasting away; his already narrow features becoming sharper still, his bright grey eyes, feverish, as though his intense concentration were the only thing keeping him on his feet.
Holmes only broke from his reveries to exclaim in frustration, "Plainly something has occurred, something is being concealed, but each clue leads to a fresh contradiction! My theory must be wrong, but I have discarded one theory for another ad infinitum, each more unlikely than the last."
"Perhaps rest would help, to enable you to see it with fresh eyes?" Watson dared suggest, but he knew it would be to no avail.
Holmes waved it off out of hand, not even dignifying the suggestion with a response. "If only the snows would cease and the paths would clear! It may be nothing, but in light of all that we now know, I cannot shake the significance of that which so forcefully struck your romantic nature; the castle looming upon the mountainside, where the angels go."
"Holmes, that was just a passing fancy," Watson protested, his own spine already prickling at the mention of it.
Holmes shook his head. "I wonder if it is not more dire than that, but without seeing for myself I cannot say. But until the snows pass, we are stuck."