Prompt: card game (goodpenmanship)
"You're right, Holmes, I believe I can make out some silhouettes against the blinds," I whispered, pressing close to him against the cold, but still my voice cut through the quiet night. "What do you believe they're doing?"
"Nothing of interest, I'm afraid," Holmes replied, bent toward me so that his breath tickled against the nape of my neck. "It appears to be a game of cards."
"How can you tell they're playing cards?" I asked in astonishment. "A few individuals seated around a table, I can see, but how do you know they're not eating?"
"As it is nearing midnight, it is an unlikely hour for dinner, so they must be occupying themselves in another way. The cards are mere conjecture, but given their station and positions, I expect I am right."
"Marvellous," I said and I could see his pleasure at the compliment, though he pressed his thin lips together in a reflexive attempt to stifle his smile.
"To the contrary, Watson, I fear their game of cards will provide us with little insight. If you would not object to staying out a few more hours, I believe we have a better chance of finding our answers with Lestrade and his men on the docks."
I could but assent, and his eager, alert expression, like the hound put on the scent, was all the gratification I needed. My heartbeat accelerated in kind with the anticipation of what was to come and I had some impulse to press my lips to his, though that would hardly do on a public street, no matter how late or quiet.
He urged me on, still arm in arm, leading us down the winding streets, between flickering pools of orange gaslight, which threw stark shadows across the old stone and brick facades, like cobbled canyon walls. As we went, it became less stone and more brick as the mediaeval city gave way to a more modern one, and the dark shadows of ancient peaks, which we glimpsed between the rowhouses, faded into the distance.
Now, ahead, I could see the flickering watchlights of the industrial port, the billowing smoke stacks pouring out orange-lit smoke into the sky even at the latest hour. But even there, the echo of machinery and the endless grunt of labour only filtered out onto the hazy streets; what traffic there was passed quickly and then was gone.
At last we came to the docks which jutted out into the North Sea. I breathed deeply of the fresh, salty air.
"There," Holmes whispered suddenly, drawing my eye to a handful of seafaring men, loitering on the dock, waiting for dawn. "If I am not mistaken, those are Lestrade's men—and that is our dear Inspector Lestrade."
We sauntered over to them like fellow idlers merely biding the time. The inspector tipped his hat to us and returned his attention to the officers' game of cards. There was little else to do but wait.