From W.Y. Traveller: Candlelight


"Watson. Watson!"

I groaned and opened my eyes. The room was very dark; it was either very late at night or very early in the morning. "Holmes? What time is it?"

"About half past three." There was the striking of a match and my friend's face flickered into view. By the light of the candle he held, I could see his eyes gleaming with excitement, and the half smile on his face boded very ill for any criminal that had so captured his attention. "Get dressed, Watson. Events are unfolding in the Johnson case; we must act on them at once. There is a cab waiting. Two minutes!"

Then he was gone, rattling through our shared living space and down the stairs. "And bring your revolver!"

I groaned again and pulled the pillow over my head.


Two years later.

"Watson. Watson!"

I groaned and opened my eyes. It was very dark. My head and back ached horribly, and I could not stop another groan as I tried to move. "Holmes? How long was I out?

"Only a few minutes. Lie still, Watson. I will try to provide some light." There was the striking of a match and my friend's pale face flickered into view. The candle he held was very low; no doubt he had found it in some corner of the old abandoned house. By its light, Holmes searched my face with gleaming, almost feverish eyes. Blood trickled down his face.

"Holmes, you're hurt!"

He managed a strained smile. "Do not concern yourself, dear fellow. I fear we cannot afford to linger here, as much as I wish to let you rest. Can you walk with aid? Edwards and his fellows will be returning shortly."

I steeled myself. "I believe so. Help me up." After all, I could hardly continue lying here while my friend was in such danger. Holmes moved instantly to do as I asked.

Groaning, I allowed him to help me to my feet.