Prompt: a trip to Edinburgh (mrspencil)
What little I know about Edinburgh was gleaned from Wikipedia.
The rolling English countryside faded into the distance behind us, giving way to higher, rocky crests. At last, eight hours after our departure from London, the city of Edinburgh rose up around us, and the train pulled into Waverly station, rousing Watson and I from our restless slumber. A fleeting caress coaxed me into full awareness, and I joined Watson in shuffling out of our cabin and off the train with the rest of our fellow passengers, dazed from the long journey.
What cobwebs lingered, clinging to the corners of my mind were quickly brushed away as I reflexively began to catalogue the men and women around us, picking up their luggage and ambling off to their destinations, paying each other little heed except as unexpected obstacles.
Inspector Lestrade found us in the throng, already bearing a telegram from the stationmaster. "The suspect, Mr. Marcus, won't be leaving port for another day. Meanwhile, we've located whereabouts he's staying."
"Excellent, Inspector!" I declared. "It appears you will hardly be needing our assistance after all, but perhaps Watson and I will go and see his purported hideout in any case to see if we may find any further evidence which your men overlooked."
I glanced at Watson and he gave an eager nod of assent, his eyes clear and bright despite the long, tiresome journey; what rest he had managed appeared to have served him well.
Lestrade gave us the address. We sent the porter on to the hotel with our luggage, and then Watson and I stepped out onto the streets of Edinburgh.
The sun had long since set on that December evening. The gas lamps flickering in the gloom were little different from our native London, illuminating the winding streets for the workmen and travellers still about despite the chill in the night air. Like them, we did not dally overlong, and as we went further from the station, into Old Town, the city grew quieter. Tall tenements lined the narrow, winding streets, nearly blocking the dark silhouettes of the hills from view. More recent edifices butted against mediaeval stone.
"Is that it?" Watson whispered, drawing even closer to me, his eyes flickering between mine and the tenement on the opposite side of the street.
"Yes," I said into his ear, "that is the alleged spot. What do you make of it?"
"It has seen better days, but surely little can be gleaned of the inhabitants from out here?" His eyes again flitted up to mine with an incisive curiosity which has always had a remarkable effect upon my faculties, challenging me to reach a greater clarity of reason, if only that I might see his appreciative astonishment.
"The architects have been kind enough to leave us a few windows into the goings on within," I remarked.
That earned me a reproachful look, but Watson's curiosity easily won out, and he peered up at the tenement once more. "Do you know which window is his? Lestrade said he was on the second story."
"By the number, I would guess the rightmost."
Watson gave a gratifying gasp of astonishment. "The light is on, do you think he's in there now? It's a shame the curtains are drawn."
"Worry not, my dear Watson." I gave his arm a sympathetic pat. "We may be able to draw some inferences yet."