Prompt from YoughaltheJust – What were the events (or lack thereof) of Holmes and Watson's walk during 'The Adventure of Black Peter'? Context: In the story, Holmes states, "Well. Well. I can do nothing more. Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds and the flowers. We shall meet you here later, Hopkins, and see if we can come to closer quarters with the gentleman who has paid this visit in the night." Watson then continues the story after 11PM that night.
AN: The longest prompt I have yet had.
The Strange Case of the Sussex Wood
"A good Idea, this," said I as we trod the less beaten of the woodland paths.
"I thought you might enjoy a stretch of the legs, Watson, and with all of these flowers, I was sure I could get a better idea of the bee population in the area." Holmes scanned the undergrowth as we walked. "Yes. This is quite to my liking. You know, Sussex is one of the few places I would seriously consider retiring to."
"Retire?" I said. I admit I was surprised to hear my old friend address the subject. He seemed the least likely person to retire, knowing how he would get in the dumps without a crime or some other mystery to stimulate his great mind.
"Of course I shall retire one day, Watson," he said without breaking his stride. "I am not a machine. Even if I were, machines eventually wear out. Hello? What's this?"
Even as the words left his mouth, the sound of a hoof thumping into the soil came to my ears and I looked about, expecting a stray pony or some farmer's draught horse. What met my eyes was anything but.
"Heaven forefend!" I gasped.
"Steady, Watson!" Holmes gripped my arm at the elbow and we came to a full stop.
Up the path, framed by the greenery, stood a black horse like none I had ever seen, and astride its back sat a figure draped in a loose, deeply cowled robe. Only the left hand, sheathed in a blackened iron gauntlet, and the booted feet bearing hideously barbed spurs protruded from the robe. I do not understand even now how I knew it, but it was looking at us with intensity. It felt ages that we three stood upon that path unmoving. Finally, the rider touched its spurs to the horse's flanks and the beast advanced upon us. Holmes and I remained where we were, though I believe I would have fled if I had been able to. The rider drew his mount to a stop not six feet away and its regard was palpable.
"I am looking for Baggins," came a voice more rasp than hiss. It seemed to fill the air around us, though the sound was soft. "Have you seen Baggins?"
"Baggins?" said Holmes. I am convinced that only I who knew him so well could have detected the very slight quaver in my friend's voice.
"I am seeking him," hissed the rider. "Do you know where he is?"
"My friend and I were out on a stroll," said Holmes. "It is a lovely day and the woodland is so cheerful, don't you agree?"
"If you know where Baggins is, I will give you gold," said the stranger and the air around us grew clammy, as if somehow the summer warmth were stolen away.
"We were discussing bee culture," Holmes persisted. "It is a hobby of mine."
"Baggins!" the rider snarled.
I am no coward. In my younger years, I tended the wounded even as jezail bullets snapped and cracked all about me, and I kept my head. I say this, though: Had Holmes not held me in place, I would have run, so dread was the thing confronting us.
"If… If you would care to step down from your mount, we would welcome your company." That is the only time in my memory that I can recall Holmes's voice breaking. "Perhaps… you are familiar with the keeping of bees and would have some advice for…"
With a snarl of outrage, the rider clapped back his heels, digging the long barbed rowels of his spurs into the flanks of his coal black mount. The beast screamed in unearthly pain and leapt! Holmes dragged me down just in time! Had he not, the animal's hooves would have caved in my skull.
"Are you all right, Watson?" Holmes asked, staring after the rider, cheeks pale and bloodless.
"What was that, Holmes?"
"I do not know, Watson," said he, rising unsteadily to his feet. "I pray we never find out."
"Indeed."
With shaking fingers I took out my flask of brandy and sipped, then offered it to Holmes. When the flask was empty and our nerves were once more steady, we set out to find a different route back to Black Peter's cabin. Holmes has an excellent sense of direction, surpassing mine, which is better than most, but we must have gone somewhat astray, for neither of us recognized the territory in which we found ourselves. Spying some distance ahead, a horse and a brown-cloaked figure beside it, we advanced with considerable trepidation.
"Hello there," Holmes called when we drew near enough for normal speech.
"What's that?" the brown-cloaked figure said, lifting his head to reveal a long, unkempt grey beard and bushy eyebrows. To my amazement, he held a bird in each hand. In the left was a robin and in the right, a sparrow. "Oh. Oh! Hello."
"I say, are those birds injured?" asked Holmes.
"What? Oh. These little fellows? You can go now. Thank you for trying." The old man said this last to the birds and they promptly flew off. "Not injured. They do have strange accents and were mournfully unhelpful, though."
"You aren't seeking Baggins, are you?" I asked. My instinct told me he was not, but I felt it best to be sure.
"Baggins? What's that?" the old man asked.
"Never mind," said Holmes. "You see, we are actually a little off our path and were hoping you might direct us back to the home of Peter Carey, also called Black Peter."
"Out of your path, eh?" the old man said with an ironic expression of disgust. "I know just how you feel. Worse, I cannot find help to remedy the situation. I'm seeking the Shire. Don't happen to know where that is, do you?"
"Which shire?" my friend said.
"Which? THE Shire." The old man shook his grey head and wrung his hands. "Blast it. I knew I would go wrong. Easier dealing with animals than people. Blast it! I know I will be late."
"Well, sir, you are in England and here there are many shires."
"Many?" The old man stopped his manic fidgeting and frowned. "I only need one. See here. The shire I want is populated with a rustic folk. They are supposed to be quite short and like their food and ale."
"Sounds like the Welsh," I said.
"Does it?" The old man brightened. "In which direction are they?"
Bemused, Holmes and I pointed vaguely to the west. With greater agility than I would have credited him with, the old man sprang upon his mare and was off at a gallop.
"Holmes," said I.
"Yes, Watson?"
"We should get out of here. I'm not sure I could stand another strange encounter."
"This way, Watson. It sounds like a stream down there and I see a rather large old willow. Perhaps we can have a rest in its shade."
With no little apprehension, I followed Holmes down a gentle slope towards what did indeed sound like a stream. As we neared, over the burbling of the water I could make out what sounded like singing. The song had a melody, but the words were all nonsense. From around a curve in the path emerged a man of a sort I had never before encountered. He was short with a tall, broad-brimmed hat and tall yellow boots. In his hand, he carried several lilies. It was he who sang.
"Ho there, my grim fellows!" cried he upon seeing us. "Where do you be a going with your faces so long? Not down there! Not to Old Willow Man."
Perplexed, Holmes and I exchanged uncertain looks.
"Holmes," I said in a whisper, "is there an asylum nearby?"
"No, Watson, but I begin to think there should be."
"Far out of your way, you've come. I can see it," said the stranger in his singsong voice.
"Are you Baggins, per chance?" I asked, not knowing what else to say at that moment.
"Baggins?" laughed the man. "No! I'm not Baggins. I am Tom Bombadil! That's who I am. Tom Bombadilo! But who are you and where are you bound?"
"My name is John Watson and this is my friend, Sherlock Holmes."
"A pleasure to meet you, sir, and we are off our track. As you keenly observed," said Holmes, taking half a step forward. "We have come from and are attempting to return to the home of Peter Carey."
"You are off your track, and make no mistake!" cried Mr. Bombadil. "Best if you follow me. Old Tom will set you straight! I'll take you down secret ways and put you on a safe path. No Black Riders will trouble you. Follow me but make haste! Goldberry is waiting and Tom is bringing her lilies."
Mr. Bombadil resumed his nonsense song and tromped off into the underbrush.
"We should run now, Holmes," said I, fully intent on leaving these madmen behind. I would have run all the way back to London at that moment if Holmes had given me the nod.
"No, Watson," said he, grasping my arm. "Mad or not, I feel this Bombadil fellow is our best bet. Let us follow quickly before he gets too far."
So, we followed. At first, we had only Bombadil's voice to guide us and it was many a briar I stumbled into before we came out on an actual path. Ahead we saw Bombadil's strange hat and rushed to catch him up. Time seemed to stream by far too quickly for it was nearing dark before we reached the edge of the woodland. And, it was there that Mr. Bombadil came to a halt.
"Here you are, my hearty fellows," said he when we came abreast of him. "Here I must leave you, for you've work to do and my Goldberry is waiting supper for me. And, her lilies are wanting water. Follow the path south along the edge of the wood and soon you'll find your place. Just keep the sun on your right and all will be well."
"Thank you Mr. Bombadil," I said, relieved our strange excursion was nearly at an end.
"Indeed, Mr. Bombadil, you have our gratitude!" said Holmes, clearly as eager as I to be quit of the wood.
"Remember what I said and don't stray from the path. Fare you well!"
And with those final words, he was off, tramping and singing his way through the woods.
It took Holmes and me another hour down the path Bombadil had indicated before we came in sight of Black Peter's so called cabin, but we made it safe and sound, if a little worn and tired. As Bombail had said, though, we had work to do and there was little time to rest.