Holmes:
The cabbie was remarkable and his horse entirely too good for cab-work. We reached the address in Chiswick in half the time I had stipulated. I tossed him two full sovereigns as I leapt out, the first coins that came to hand. Watson and Lestrade would follow in their own time, and until I needed them or they got in my way, I would ignore them. They were not the ones in imminent danger.
"This is it, Mister Holmes!" Simpson announced, dashing past me up to the door of the establishment. My attention, however, was elsewhere. Specifically on the mud outside the door.
"Watson, pay the boy!" I demanded, taking off after footprints that were barely visible under the comings and goings of others and the rapidly fading sunlight. I was not assessing the information on a reasonable level. I could not afford that luxury now, only to act on it as though on instinct, trusting and hoping that it would lead me right as it had before. In the same breath I hoped that I was wrong.
There. The signs faltered, passed into an alley, became muddled. I knelt to examine them closely. Signs of a scuffle, our killer's large round-toed boots and another, smaller pair, with a narrow square toe. With a cry, I shot back to my feet, despairing that, as always, I had been right. Those were Stanley's footprints if I had ever seen them, and they ended here. I took off again, sprinting this time, heedless of the concerned questions from my friend and the inspector. There was no time for answers. There was no time for mistakes.
Judging from the time he'd set out and the freshness of the signs I was following, I could say with confidence that he'd been taken less than an hour ago. From the account of the single survivor in San Fransisco, I knew that the killer did not begin until his victims were awake. Depending on the dosage of the chloroform, that time could be anywhere from half an hour to three, though it would be somewhat shortened by the introduction of ephedrine.
Though I am loath to use such romantic turns of phrase, I felt as if the blood in my veins really had turned to ice-water. On an inside calculation, I was too late. I would arrive in time to find him still living, but such damage to the spine was irreparable. The other living victim had been paraplegic after his ordeal. Stanley could not live with that any more than I could.
I redoubled my pace, silently praying to a god that I had long neglected. Please, I begged, just keep him asleep. Just a little longer.
As per usual, Sherlock Holmes and company do not belong to me.
This installment also unbeta'd, but seeing the enthusiastic reaction to the last one, I thought I'd better hurry on.
I see you shiver, with antici... PATION! -cackles, coughs- Yes, I know, I'm terrible. Take heart in that this nonsense comes to a climax in the next installment and you won't have to worry about more cliffhangers. In this arc, at least.