The morning light was grey and dismal, and there were still frequent snow flurries. Heavy, grey clouds hung low over the moor, which was deeply blanketed in snow. Perkins had been out on horseback to check the roads, and deemed them impassable by cart, carriage or trap; Dr Mortimer requested, however, that his horse be saddled to allow him to ride home to his wife and medical practice, as he was certain that there were patients who would need his ministrations. Holmes, Sir Henry and Dr Mortimer shared a light breakfast of eggs, toast and porridge, though none of them did much more than pick at their food.

"I wonder what is keeping Dr Watson?" Sir Henry, who still appeared somewhat pale, "I seem to recall that he was greatly impressed with Mrs Barrymore's cooking… I cannot imagine that he would want to skip breakfast."

"Indeed," Holmes said, lightly, "gentlemen… if you will excuse me for a moment, I will see what is keeping the good doctor."

Holmes left the table, and went out into the hall. He hoped that Watson, tired from the journey and the late night sojourn around the grounds, had simply overslept. However… he did not go in for intuition or suspicions, but… he increased his pace, taking the stairs two at a time, quickening his long stride until he reached Watson's room, whereupon he knocked brusquely on the door. When there was no movement or sound from within, he tried again, before trying the door handle. The door swung open easily, and Holmes stepped fully into the room.

"Watson, I…" Holmes broke off, as his heart skipped a beat at the sight that met him; "Watson!"

Three paces carried him swiftly across the room as he dropped to his knees beside the unconscious form of his friend, even as his eyes swept to room quickly, absorbing everything in a second. He noted the still-damp dressing gown hanging on the door, the fire burned out in the grate and the empty glass on the floor not far from Watson's limp hand. The window was wide open, and a great deal of snow had drifted inside. Holmes turned towards the door, hoping that his voice would carry.

"Dr Mortimer!" he bellowed, "Your assistance, if you please!"

He reached out and snatched up the glass, taking a sniff – brandy, but with an odd undercurrent of sweetness unfamiliar to the usual whiff of the alcohol. So; Watson had re-entered the room late last night, exchanged his damp dressing gown for his spare one, gone to the window, and, obviously chilled or shaken, he had poured himself a drink. Holmes deduced all this even as he was checking for a pulse. There were footsteps in the corridor outside, and Sir Henry appeared, his face slightly flushed, with Dr Mortimer directly behind him.

"Mr Holmes!" Sir Henry exclaimed.

"My God, what happened?" Mortimer pushed passed the stunned lord, and dropped besides Watson, as Holmes recounted his deduction.

"…I would say that the drink has been… drugged," Holmes finished, "Dr Mortimer, I believe Watson brought his medical bag with him… ah, yes, here it is."

He retrieved the bag; Mortimer hesitated only briefly at the professional courtesy of not rifling through another's equipment, before opening the bag carefully with his right hand, even as he took a pulse with his left.

"He is alive, yet completely unresponsive," Holmes reported, quickly, "I would hope that it is merely a sedative…"

"His pulse is weak, but fairly regular," Mortimer reported, "let's get him onto the bed."

Holmes had already noticed that the bed had not been slept in, even as Dr Mortimer was pulling back the covers. Holmes carefully rolled Watson onto his back, lifted him carefully, and carried him over to the bed, laying him down. Mortimer reached for the other doctor's hand, taking it within his own for a moment, and then reaching out to check his temperature.

"He is cold, but not feverish or hypothermic, thankfully," Mortimer commented, "Sir Henry; I should be grateful if you would summon the maid to make up a fire; this room is particularly cold."

Sir Henry nodded quickly, and ducked out of the room, shouting for Barrymore and the maid. Holmes moved carefully around the room, observing everything, as Dr Mortimer kept his attentions on his patient. The room was exceptionally cold; the fire had gone out, yet the coals had not burnt up. The carpet around the window was damp, yet there was no smell of alcohol. The snow on the window-ledge outside had been disturbed, enough that the snowfall in the night had not been enough to cover it up. Holmes frowned, and allowed his great mind to put everything neatly into place.

"We returned from outside; it was cold and wet. Watson entered the room and automatically changed from his damp dressing gown into a clean and dry one. He placed the revolver on the table, so that he could pour himself a drink; he did not detect the presence of a strong sedative in the brandy glass. I doubt it was he who opened the window."

"How can you be sure it was in the glass?" Mortimer murmured, as he searched through Watson's medical bag.

"The glass has an unusually sweet aroma," Holmes replied, absently, "that aroma is lacking from the decanter."

Holmes returned to the bed, and frowned down at Watson's recumbent form, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Mortimer had a stethoscope out, listening carefully. He eventually slipped it off, and turned to Holmes.

"Doe he usually carry chloroform with him?" Mortimer asked, curiously.

"I believe so," Holmes nodded, "along with ether, morphine, and various other chemicals. Unfortunately, Watson's experience as a surgeon is frequently called upon in our line of work."

"There is an empty compartment in the doctor's bag, where one might expect to find such a bottle," Mortimer pointed out, "It is a fluid ounce bottle – Mr Holmes, anything over a point-three-five fluid ounce – a tiny amount! …Usually proves fatal."

"Then – there was someone within the house, directly involved in the campaign against Sir Henry," Holmes extrapolated, "we, in responding to Sir Henry's cry, forced that person into hiding. They then entered Watson's room, presumably to hide; while we exited the house and went around the back, this person – fearful of being observed by you, Sir Henry or another member of staff – concealed themselves in this room. They noticed Watson's bag, and – for whatever reason – saw fit to avail themselves of a particularly powerful anaesthetic. However, we returned somewhat sooner than they had expected; this person had no time to escape. They therefore drugged Watson's drink, and concealed themselves until he was asleep, before escaping…"

Holmes crossed to the window, and flung it open, allowing a blast of arctic air to sweep the room, despite Mortimer's yelp of protest. Holmes leaned out, swept some of the snow from the ledge, snorted in annoyance, and closed the window.

"Scratches on the stone ledge indicate that our person was equipped for a climb, with a rope and grappling hook," Holmes reported, brushing melting snow from his hands, "unfortunately, the overnight snow has obscured their footprints."

"Then you are correct; there is a mortal force behind the apparent supernatural apparition," Mortimer commented, as Sir Henry appeared with his new, recalcitrant maid.

"Get a fire started in here," Sir Henry ordered, "Is he… alright?"

Holmes nodded, again crossing to Watson's side; "I have no doubt that whoever drugged him may have some medical knowledge, and had hoped that in giving him such a small amount they would ensure that Watson merely slept through the escape and would be none-the-wiser come morning… unfortunately for that person, whether Watson had awoken on time or not, I have no doubt that the good doctor would have been aware that he had been drugged; he has had cause to be anaesthetised in the past, and he has frequently complained afterwards of the resultant headache and confusion that accompanies the drug."

"He is extremely lucky; it is too easy to overdose on liquid chloroform; one would normally rely on the effects of the vapours," Mortimer responded.

Holmes shook his head; "No. Whoever is behind this, their wish is to maintain the façade of a phantom, despite their very physical presence. If they had attacked Watson directly, he would have immediately reported a human assailant. Similarly had they… ah… killed him, we would instantly have known of a mortal presence…"

He was interrupted by a low moan, and he was immediately leaning over the bed, a slight frown of concern on his otherwise expressionless features.

"Watson?"

Another low groan; Holmes glanced across at Mortimer, who nodded encouragingly; "He's coming around."

"Is there any kind of stimulant that you can give him?" Holmes asked, quietly, "I find that I will be… in need of his assistance this morning."

"Not without putting undue strain on his heart," Mortimer replied, "Although… Sir Henry; may I suggest that a pot of strong coffee be made up? We may yet get him up on his feet within an hour or two."

"Right away," Sir Henry nodded, "Sally, see to it please."

The maid stood up, abandoning her efforts with the fire, and walked out. Sir Henry sighed in frustration, eyeing the cold fireplace. He was saved from apology moments later, when Barrymore appeared.

"Is everything alright, sir?" he enquired, raising one eyebrow as Watson groaned again, stirring slightly on the bed.

"Dr Watson was deliberately drugged by an intruder, we believe," Sir Henry said, shortly, "Barrymore – can you get a fire going in the grate? Our new maid seems unable to accomplish that feat."

Barrymore eyed the fireplace distastefully, but acquiesced. Holmes returned his attention to Watson; colour was beginning to return to his face, and he stirred slightly. Dr Mortimer leaned forward, murmuring encouragements, until Watson finally opened his eyes. Holmes smiled in relief at the confused look the doctor gave him. Watson mumbled something, winced, and raised an unsteady hand to his head.

"C… Chloroform?" he muttered.

"An accurate diagnosis, doctor," Holmes said, dryly, but smiling faintly, "good to see you back with us."

Groggily, Watson tried to sit up, but Mortimer pushed him back down; "Rest a short while more, doctor. Sally has gone to fetch us some coffee; if you can drink some, it might help."

"Fire's lit, sir," Barrymore reported, straightening up, "should warm up in here in no time."

"Thank you, Barrymore," Sir Henry nodded, as he sank into the nearby armchair, "much appreciated…"

Holmes glanced across at the young lord, and the vaguely worried look that Barrymore was giving him. Such concern was impossible to fake, and he was reassured that the loyal serving couple were not to blame for their predicament. Eventually, Sally reappeared with the coffee, dumped the tray on the table, and walked out. Barrymore had the good grace to look embarrassed, as he stepped forward.

"Allow me, sir," he bowed.

~*~