From goodpenmanship: red herring

This is a companion piece to an as-yet unnamed story to be published about a month and a half after the new year. I'll update this note with the title once I know it, lol.

Lint on a brick. A broken twig. That scrap had fallen from Watson's pocket.

There. A cane's imprint dented the dirt next to a familiar shoe, both of which pointed at a convenient bolthole. Light steps darted across the street, and he made no effort to kill a smile as a practiced movement retrieved the key. Despite Watson's several-hour head start, less than thirty minutes' effort would see this round to him.

"Boltholes are growing rather predictable, Watson."

The smug words escaped as he slipped through the door. He expected a mumbled insult, followed by a low question of how Holmes had found him so quickly, but silence answered. The click of the door's latch echoed in an empty room.

An unused room. Despite the footprint outside, no one had used this bolthole in nearly a week. Purposely grating pride became a grumbling sigh. Watson had laid a false trail. Again.

No matter. He would find the true one soon enough. The key landed back its hole before ever-widening circles resumed searching for Watson's trail. He would always prefer a tracking game over silence.

Especially worrying silence. Holmes' morning had been far too quiet. Concern had first sparked after Watson's long-awaited letter had produced private celebration, but worse than trying to hide his delight, Watson had flatly refused to reveal its source. Pawky replies to Holmes' questions had become short replies which had eventually condensed to no reply, followed by Watson retreating upstairs. Hours had passed as Holmes waited for Watson to return, wondering all the while if he had crossed some unknown line.

A fear only intensified by the utter stillness in Watson's room. Writing in the sitting room could pass an entire day without significant disturbance, but writing upstairs always generated small noises at regular intervals. The low light made the story come slower, leading to increased muttering and more frequent breaks. Silence meant something was wrong, that Holmes' questions had sparked some problem Holmes could not define. When midday loomed without sign of his friend, Holmes had finally picked Watson's lock.

Only to find an empty bedroom, a scrawled note, and a fair amount of relief. Just as silence indicated a problem, so mischief implied the opposite. Watson never played pranks when something truly bothered him.

He could when irritated, though, and that alone announced he would not make this easy. Another footprint led to another empty bolthole. Where next?

Regent's, apparently. That footprint had nearly disappeared into the many others that had formed since Watson came this way, but the faint circular cane indent brought him in sight of Burton's booth. He pushed through the crowd. If Watson had come through here, Burton would have seen him, and the vendor had proven himself observant enough to answer Holmes' questions.

But only if he chose. While Burton had undoubtedly spoken with Watson today, a hint of laughter in his tone joined nonsensical replies to prove Watson had reached him first. Several minutes discovered nothing of use.

"Sorry I caint help ya, Mr. Holmes. Last I saw, he headed north to fall down a rabbit hole."

A rabbit hole. As if Watson would go live with the woodland creatures London distinctly lacked. His friend had undoubtedly provided that line, and Holmes rolled his eyes at Burton's smirk and hurried away. He would do better simply following the trail.

What little trail he could find. A minute backtracked to stand beside the last half visible footprint, heedless of the press as he scanned his surroundings. Did he see any other clues?

Not from here. Slow steps carried him steadily up one sidewalk, then down another, careful gaze looking for footprints, cane outlines, lint, anything that could indicate Watson's next move. A half circle could be Watson's cane or a child's toy. London traffic had smudged that footprint too badly. A blank scrap of paper could belong to anyone.

But only Watson's cane could create the scuff mark on the park gate.

Or, rather, Watson's cane was the mostly likely cause. Holmes knelt out of the footpath to get a better look. Fresh in the last few hours. At the right height. The cane's soft tip had scuffed first, then the wood above had delivered a shallow scratch. Either someone else had come this way with a stick identical to Watson's—possible, but unlikely—or Watson had knocked his cane against the metal as he passed the gate.

"…to fall down a rabbit hole."

And Burton had given him a hint after all. Watson would have chosen some hidden corner furthest from the passing crowds. Holmes simply had to find the right one—and hope Watson had not laid another false trail.

He may not have enough time to win this round after all.

So do you think Holmes will find Watson in time? Or is this yet another false trail?

Thank you very much to those who have reviewed! :)

Corynutz: The AU where Mary and Mycroft are helping an unresponsive Watson when Holmes returns sounds like Court of Minds. The AU where the Watsons have a child when Holmes returns is Unexpected Arrivals. And never hesitate to drop long reviews! Long, short, one word, two paragraphs, I love them all! :D