The plan
When I came to, the sun was setting. My head ached slightly, and I wasn't quite sure why. I tried to stand up, but fell back, whining with pain. Apparently one of my legs was hurt. It was then that it sunk into me. I'd just fallen down a cliff after being hit on the head by a murderer, and yet here I was, alive and almost well. I pondered it for a moment. I must have fallen onto a ledge, I thought, otherwise I'd be dead. Suddenly, I remembered something else. Holmes was almost upon me and the murderer. He must have seen me fall. Why aren't I with him, being patched up? Have they left me for dead? Did he try to get to me, but couldn't manage it? Will he come back in the morning? Or.
My reasoning kicked in just then. Or, could it be that I've bounced off one ledge and landed on another, and the ledge obscured Holmes' vision? I looked up to see rock. Yes, I decided, that's exactly what happened. Holmes has not left me for dead, he saw me fall and thinks I've been dashed to pieces. I groaned softly. I need to get out of here, I thought. I tried to stand up again, and failed. I turned and look at my left back leg. It was swollen, which told me that my ankle was twisted. It didn't seem to be bleeding. Good, I thought, No bleeding means I won't die of blood loss. But I'd best get off this rock. So I stood up slowly and carefully, trying not to put weight on my hurt leg. I looked down, and saw to my relief that there were other, smaller ledges below me. I slid off and landed on the first ledge. I performed this exercise several times before I finally touched the ground.
I limped slowly away from the cliff, wincing every time my injured leg hit the ground. I decided that I needed something to drink. As luck would have it, a small stream was nearby. I managed to limp to it, and then I put my face in the water and swallowed water until I thought I would be sick. Then I gently put my injured leg into the water. The coolness of the liquid soothed me, and I actually dozed off. But I awoke with a start when a gust of wind sprang up. Night had fallen. I quickly pulled my leg out of the stream and limped as fast as I could, following the stream north. Maybe I can find my way to Cardiff, and to a station, I thought. Then I'll try to sneak on a train to London. I'm sure Holmes would go back there, now that he thinks me dead and now that he's got his man.
But it wasn't quite as easy as I'd hoped. It wound up taking me three days to reach Cardiff, with frequent stops along the way to dip my leg in the stream. When I got there, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the stream, and realized just how bad I looked. My golden fur was mussed and dirty, my eyes were clouded and dull, and my leg was puffy and very ugly (My head, fortunately, had no mark from where the man had hit it). I was horrified. When I do get back to London, Holmes might not even recognize me, I thought. I found a station, and determined, by looking at a map, that London was to the north. But when I tried to get onto a train, I was thrown out almost immediately by the conductor.
"Out, you mutt!" He yelled at me, "This isn't a house!"
I wanted to bite him, but that probably would have meant more trouble. So I ran off and hid in the shadows, pondering. If I can't get onto a train, there's only one other thing I can think to do. I knew my plan would cause a lot of pain, but I knew it would get me there. As the train pulled out of the station, I got off the platform and followed the tracks north. For the first time since my fall, I felt happy. I was heading home. London was calling me towards it.
When I came to, the sun was setting. My head ached slightly, and I wasn't quite sure why. I tried to stand up, but fell back, whining with pain. Apparently one of my legs was hurt. It was then that it sunk into me. I'd just fallen down a cliff after being hit on the head by a murderer, and yet here I was, alive and almost well. I pondered it for a moment. I must have fallen onto a ledge, I thought, otherwise I'd be dead. Suddenly, I remembered something else. Holmes was almost upon me and the murderer. He must have seen me fall. Why aren't I with him, being patched up? Have they left me for dead? Did he try to get to me, but couldn't manage it? Will he come back in the morning? Or.
My reasoning kicked in just then. Or, could it be that I've bounced off one ledge and landed on another, and the ledge obscured Holmes' vision? I looked up to see rock. Yes, I decided, that's exactly what happened. Holmes has not left me for dead, he saw me fall and thinks I've been dashed to pieces. I groaned softly. I need to get out of here, I thought. I tried to stand up again, and failed. I turned and look at my left back leg. It was swollen, which told me that my ankle was twisted. It didn't seem to be bleeding. Good, I thought, No bleeding means I won't die of blood loss. But I'd best get off this rock. So I stood up slowly and carefully, trying not to put weight on my hurt leg. I looked down, and saw to my relief that there were other, smaller ledges below me. I slid off and landed on the first ledge. I performed this exercise several times before I finally touched the ground.
I limped slowly away from the cliff, wincing every time my injured leg hit the ground. I decided that I needed something to drink. As luck would have it, a small stream was nearby. I managed to limp to it, and then I put my face in the water and swallowed water until I thought I would be sick. Then I gently put my injured leg into the water. The coolness of the liquid soothed me, and I actually dozed off. But I awoke with a start when a gust of wind sprang up. Night had fallen. I quickly pulled my leg out of the stream and limped as fast as I could, following the stream north. Maybe I can find my way to Cardiff, and to a station, I thought. Then I'll try to sneak on a train to London. I'm sure Holmes would go back there, now that he thinks me dead and now that he's got his man.
But it wasn't quite as easy as I'd hoped. It wound up taking me three days to reach Cardiff, with frequent stops along the way to dip my leg in the stream. When I got there, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the stream, and realized just how bad I looked. My golden fur was mussed and dirty, my eyes were clouded and dull, and my leg was puffy and very ugly (My head, fortunately, had no mark from where the man had hit it). I was horrified. When I do get back to London, Holmes might not even recognize me, I thought. I found a station, and determined, by looking at a map, that London was to the north. But when I tried to get onto a train, I was thrown out almost immediately by the conductor.
"Out, you mutt!" He yelled at me, "This isn't a house!"
I wanted to bite him, but that probably would have meant more trouble. So I ran off and hid in the shadows, pondering. If I can't get onto a train, there's only one other thing I can think to do. I knew my plan would cause a lot of pain, but I knew it would get me there. As the train pulled out of the station, I got off the platform and followed the tracks north. For the first time since my fall, I felt happy. I was heading home. London was calling me towards it.