Prompt: a cold knife (goodpenmanship)
The next day dawned grey and cold. I regret that it was on my account that Watson began to stir, peaceful repose giving way to tired groans. Even as his eyes fluttered open and his muscles stretched with renewed purpose, I was tempted to remain in bed with him; he was still warm from sleep, his cheek rough with the night's shadow.
Instead, I encouraged him into awareness with a brief press of my lips and offered for his troubles, "What do you say to embarking upon a deeper investigation, as Inspector Lestrade was so kind as to extend us an invitation to accompany him?"
Watson sat upright with a yawn, his nightshirt hanging half-open over his chest to a most flattering effect. "You can hardly refuse such an invitation."
"I am certain Inspector Lestrade would find his way to the truth eventually with his dogged perseverance, but if you are so inclined as to accompany me, we might be able to spare him some chasing down the wrong track." I extended my hand to Watson in an invitation.
I did not miss the instant of hesitation before Watson took it and replied, "Certainly!" But his solid, warm grip and sincere enthusiasm, no less than my own, were enough to allay my doubts for a time.
We dressed quickly and went to meet the inspector. His investigation had led him from London to a small, ordinary house on the outskirts of town. The exterior was weathered and overgrown, in sore disrepair.
"What do you make of it, Watson?" I asked with an encouraging nudge of my shoulder against his. "Perhaps it would benefit from your fanciful eye."
His answering glance was reproachful, but he said, "It must be long abandoned, and I confess it is difficult to imagine it was ever a welcoming home; it is so cold and spare."
"Excellent! But what's this?" I bent over to examine a faint impression in the wild grass. "It appears we are not the only visitors to this cold, lonesome abode."
Watson pressed in close to peer over my shoulder. "But why should they come here, of all places?"
"We'll find out why soon as we've caught him, what matters now is that we're on his tail," Inspector Lestrade said, leading the way to the door.
I righted myself and with a nod of assent from Watson, we followed the inspector inside.
The interior of the house was little more remarkable than the exterior, only dark and close with plumes of dust rising after our every step. We entered through a narrow passageway; Lestrade hurried through with hardly a glance to explore the rooms beyond, but I forestalled Watson with a hand upon his shoulder.
"We are not the first to come this way. Let us see where our predecessor leads," I said.
We followed the faint impressions in the dust to a door off of the hall which bore evidence of having been recently opened. The handle was cold to the touch, and when I pulled it open with some force, chill, dank air came rushing out. Beyond was a staircase leading down into the cellar. Watson and I exchanged another glance and began our descent.
Just as we stepped inside and I took the lantern by the top stair to illuminate our way into the dark, the door slammed shut behind us.
"The handle won't budge," Watson said, his voice still close at hand.
I felt for a match in my pocket and used it to light the lantern.
"Shall we?" I said, motioning deeper into the cellar. "If Lestrade has not freed us by the time we have completed our investigation, then we can test our strength against the cellar door."
"Of course," Watson said. "I wonder what someone was doing down here."
"That's the question, my dear Watson."
We descended the narrow, damp, stone stairs, and with each step a deeper chill filled the air, until we could see our breath like smoke by the lamplight. We both drew our overcoats tighter around us and huddled nearer against the cold.
The house upstairs was empty and largely unfurnished, but the thin beam of lamplight illuminated stone shelves built into the cellar walls scattered with old, dusty jars and bottles which remained as evidence of tenants long since departed. In the middle of the room was a table, bare except for a narrow triangle which reflected back the light with a sharp glare. It was a knife, its tip stained a rusty brown.
"Holmes," Watson whispered, "is that blood?"