Prompt: It's a ruff life. Include a pet. Any pet. (trustingHim17)
"Ready… and… Now!" Holmes proclaimed.
Together we threw our combined weight at the cellar door. It strained and groaned, but did not give.
"Again!"
Again the door gave a perilous creak, but remained firm against our efforts.
At last we withdrew and stopped to catch our breath. I pulled at my shoulder, which ached from the repeated impact and the creeping chill, and my joints fared no better. Meanwhile, Holmes raised the lantern to the door to again examine the cracks along the frame.
He stepped away with a shake of his head, his forehead creased in thought. The only indication he gave was a warm hand upon my shoulder as he passed me on the stair, back into the depths of the cellar. I followed hastily after him.
He put the lantern on the table in the centre of the room and stood beside it, his chin sunk to his chest as he stared down at the untouched knife, as though it might betray some evidence under his incisive scrutiny.
"I have some qualms about having led you here," Holmes confessed, his voice just above a whisper, but it echoed around the hard, silent cellar.
I came to stand beside him, a hand upon his arm.
"This is hardly the life of leisure befitting a true gentleman; wasting away in an icebox all for a bloodied knife." His gaze flitted to me, the mischievous spark in his eyes dulled by the weight of concern.
I shook my head. "A life of leisure was never a possibility for me. And we have emerged unscathed from much greater dangers."
He did not argue, but nor did he look away. His eyes narrowed as to examine me, as though he might deduce the answer to our troubles—and it was easy to imagine that he could.
The still, icy silence was suddenly broken by a plaintive, mrow.