Prompt at the end. I hope today's meager helping of angst is satisfactory!
It was not uncommon for Holmes to be absent from Baker Street for hours or even days at time, but when hours and days turned into a full week, Watson began to feel the worry building like a heavy knot in his stomach, tightening throughout his abdomen, snaking upward to occasionally constrict his throat, and causing his heart to pound.
Mrs. Hudson knew no more than he did, and neither did the Irregulars Watson stopped in the street that morning.
"Well, Doctor, I am at my wits end!" exclaimed Mrs. Hudson when Watson told her that the street urchins had no news. "Going undercover for a case is one thing, but leaving word with no one and vanishing for a week is quite another."
"I know it," Watson replied, then sighed heavily. "But what can we do? He might be injured or dead, but he also might be bringing down a smuggling ring from the inside. Who knows where or who in the city he could be!"
"We ought to go to Scotland Yard," said Mrs. Hudson.
"I would hate to have a bunch of undertrained constables spoil a complex Holmes plan," Watson replied.
"But if he is in trouble, what choice do we have? He hasn't left word with anyone!"
Watson rubbed his temples, the knot in his stomach tightening. His friend's safety was more important than any case that could be keeping him so engaged.
So it was that Watson found himself in a cab bound for the Yard, rain beating down on the carriage roof and dampening his legs. He stared out the window, the grey city sliding by. His friend could be in one of the buildings he passed or a thousand miles away for all he knew.
It was Lestrade's office in which Watson found himself.
"An entire week? And no word at all from him?"
Watson shook his head. Lestrade's brows knit in concern, mirroring the doctor's. Watson told him every detail he could recall from the last time he saw Holmes: what he spoke of, his mood, what books and newspapers he had left on the sitting room floor, et cetera, et cetera...
Lestrade would send out his best men, and himself also, to go in search of Holmes.
Watson could only hope it would be enough.
December 9: "Holmes disappears and Watson asks The Yard for assistance" (from W. Y. Traveller)