A/N: Merry Christmas Eve, guys! Sincere apologies for my absence … a lot has been happening this month, so I had to put my submissions on hold. Things are slowing down now for the Christmas break, so prepare to be bombarded with angsty–*cough*–sorry, I mean happy reviews and responses as I catch up on reading. Can't wait to see what you've been writing!
Prompt 10: From YoughaltheJust – Holmes and Watson are caught in a flood.
Deep Waters
Watson watched the downpour with dismay, his gaze where he suspected the stepping stones to be. He sighed, asked, "How long?"
Holmes tilted his head skyward. Droplets slipped off the brim of his hat, tracing his cheek and following the curve of his jaw before disappearing beneath his collar.
"Perhaps two to three hours," he replied, "however the calculation is solely dependent on whether the rain continues to ease."
Watson gave him a sidelong look. "It's easing?"
"Yes." Holmes met his gaze with an amused smile. "You cannot tell?"
Watson declined to answer. He tested the ground with the toe of his boot before cautiously walking alongside the river, keeping a reasonable distance from the bank. His cane had been sacrificed to the murky depths below, and he had no intention of attempting to retrieve it, nor did he wish to walk the four-mile route back through the fields.
Holmes fell into step beside him. "Take heart, Watson. Once the crossing is clear we can rendezvous with Lestrade. If he followed my instructions to the letter, Allsop will now be in his custody."
"I sincerely hope so."
They stopped when they reached the cluster of trees at the narrowest point of the river. Here would provide a slight reprieve from the rain, at least.
Watson pressed his back close to one of the trees, buried his hands deep into his coat pockets, and looked across the water.
Two days ago, the river had been as clear as glass, the polished stones beneath the surface glinting in the low sun. Now, the darkening sky and bleak smudges of grey made it difficult to tell whether it was morning or afternoon. Beyond the span of the river, the hills of the Peak District could be seen through the gloom. It reminded Watson of St. Paul's, the dome of the cathedral always trying to penetrate the smog.
It was in this exact spot that they had found Gary Penville, the son of the local innkeeper, his throat and body savagely cut by the man thought to be his closest friend.
Holmes had solved the case within six hours, yet Watson did not need his friend's deductive skills to know that Penville had suffered greatly before he died. The price paid for his supposed friendship had cost him dearly, and he had not been granted a merciful end. Against the stunning backdrop of the valley, dark tendrils of crime had reached Penville, and his blood had flowed as swiftly as the flood waters surrounding them.
End