Sorry about the delay. Prolonged illness and my participation in the December contest has kept me from updating. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews!
The pub was of the type that commonly dot the countryside—a small, stone building with only a few wooden chairs and tables apart from the stools by the bar. Behind the bar a large man with a handlebar moustache eyed me with the distrust that generally accompanies an unfamiliar face in a country town. I smiled at him before taking off my hat and coat and hanging them one of the coat racks. I saw that Holmes had already seated himself at a table by a small window and was gazing out of it with a concerned air.
"I'm afraid I've forgotten my revolver, Holmes," said I as I sat down opposite him.
"Hmm? Revolver?" said he, only half aware of my words.
"Yes, I left it at Baker Street. I'm afraid I didn't expect any danger…"
"Danger?" exclaimed he, seeming quite surprised. "Whatever do you mean?"
"The man in the overcoat," I explained. "I saw him, Holmes. He is clearly trying to find you."
At this, Holmes gave a little sigh and what sounded like half a chuckle. "My dear Watson," said he. "That man that you saw across the street scarcely needs to be fended off with a revolver. In fact, I doubt he shall even follow us."
"You know him then?" said I, now more curious than ever.
Holmes nodded and took another drag from his cigarette.
I could get no more from him, but I need scarcely have gone to the trouble. No sooner had my roast beef and mash been served when the man himself appeared. He hung up his overcoat and hat, revealing a very thin figure who looked like if you so much as breathed on him he might break in half and a thin patch of whitening hair encircling his head.
Indeed, now that he was closer and rid of his overcoat, I could see that the man whom I had so feared could scarcely be under seventy years old. He had a little of a tremble to his hands that signaled to me the onset of palsy and the labored breathing of a man who was accustomed to having strength he now lacked. He smiled at the bartender who gave him a polite nod in return before tending to a customer's bitter. Having paid his respects to the management, his gaze at once became fixed on Holmes. He approached us with a curious expression on his face and a light in his watery grey-green eyes.
"Why, if it isn't old Bloodhound!" he said, giving us a big grin. I could just barely see Holmes suppress a grimace.
"Watson," said he, turning himself away from the little old man. "May I introduce you to Officer Wilson. Officer Wilson, this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.
The man paid little heed to me though, so enthralled was he by Holmes. "By God, you aren't a pup anymore, are you?" he exclaimed. "Grown into your feet and your nose."
"It is good to see you as well, Officer Wilson," Holmes replied coldly. I could see from his gently closed eyes and the slight tap of his forefinger upon the table that he was deep in thought, most likely focusing on how best to make an escape from this harmless figure.
The old man scarcely seemed to notice my friend's demeanor. "I haven't seen you sniffing around these parts since '71!" he exclaimed, clapping Holmes on the shoulder—which immediately shook him from his reverie. "What have you been up to, my lad? Don't tell me you've caught a whiff of some blood in these parts!"
"I do have family here, Officer Wilson," Holmes replied, easing himself from out of the policeman's grip. "And on occasion I find time to visit them. However, as you no doubt noticed, we were just about to depart."
I furrowed my brow at that, only to see that Holmes, without my notice, had placed the fee for both our meals on the table. My friend now slipped past the policeman, shrugged into his coat, and gave a quick glance to me. I followed, somewhat more hesitantly, and gave the old fellow an apologetic glance as I put on my hat. He didn't seem to be a bad sort, after all, and I could not see why Holmes was so intent on being rid of him.
We left the tavern and began to make our way to the station. However, the old man was not to be put off so easily.
"Bloodhound!" he cried as he ran after us, one arm of his coat flapping behind him. For a man who looked so fragile, he had an amazingly fast gait. He had caught up with us despite Holmes efforts and was standing in front of my companion with a disapproving look on his face. For all the world he looked like a schoolmaster confronting a tardy pupil. "Taking a train? At this hour of the night?" said he. He gave me a look as if judging me for my part in this affair before adding, "Say now, you aren't tryin' to run away again, Bloodhound, are you? I'd hate to have to tell your father…"
"I'd appreciate it, Mr. Wilson, if you kept yourself out of my private affairs," Holmes growled.
Officer Wilson frowned and looked Holmes up and down. "Easy, lad. I didn't mean anything by it," the old officer said. "I just hate to see your old man broken up is all."
"I scarcely see how my father should concern you," he growled. "Has he broken the law recently?"
The police officer recoiled from my friend. "No, sir," said he in a worried tone. "He's a true and kind gent that don't do no harm to anyone, which is why I keep an eye out for him. Some folks want to hurt people what's true and kind. Blast me if I know why."
I heard the blast of a whistle outside and I hastily checked my watch. It was 8:43. "Holmes," said I, but he waved me aside.
"Mr. Wilson," he said in that hushed and strained tone which indicated to me that he was in the vilest of tempers. "I would take care, if I were you, not to presume upon evidence of which you have not all the facts and that is scarcely any of your concern. If I choose to leave my father's house at half past ten in the evening, it is upon my own discretion that I do so, and I shall not have a blundering policeman who cannot even call me by my proper name hindering me."
The old man gaped at him for a moment, his jaw slack and his brows knit tight. Indeed, if one had just come across the situation, one would almost think that Holmes had slapped the poor fellow, so surprised and hurt did he look. "Alright, Mr. Holmes," he replied, regaining some of his composure. "I'll leave you to your affairs. You choosin' to hurt your father so is none of my business, but I'll be damned if it isn't a wicked act, and one that I wouldn't take you for."
With that the old man turned on his heels and disappeared into the gloom of night.
Oh, Holmes... you could have been a bit nicer, don't you think? He was just looking out for you and your family.
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