Prompt: I'm getting too old for this. Have age factor into your work today.
"Are you going to tell me where we're going?"
He made no reply, apparently not even hearing the question as we wound through the trees. I had lost sight of the manor well over ten minutes ago, but Holmes continued following the narrow trail as if something important lay at its end.
"Holmes?"
"Watch your step."
Gnarled tree roots lifted part of the path. Hesitating only long enough to ensure I did not fall, he yet again ignored my question to keep walking. He knew as well as I did that I would not let him go alone, wherever we were going.
Though I did wish he would tell me why we stumbled down an overgrown trail a quarter mile from the manor.
"This way."
The path split around a tree, and he took the left fork. A short hill found a large clearing holding a brackish, debris-filled lake. With algae, leaves, and various trash floating on the surface, only the two small canoes beside a narrow dock announced this lake anything but abandoned.
"You think he dumped the weapon here?"
"And a few other things." A twitched grin praised the indirect deduction. "What do you see?"
See? A long moment scanned the dock, the canoes, the lake, and finally the forest itself, searching for whatever I had missed. The dock looked rather run down. I doubted the canoes were safe. Closer inspection found the lake's edge choked with plants both dead and alive. Thick trees tried to block fleeting sunlight from reaching the shore. What did he want me to see?
What did not belong?
"The buoy," I finally answered, pointing to the water's center. "Someone built the dock and everything else years ago, but that buoy has been here less than a season."
"And that is what will provide our proof." Well done.
The surprise lighting his eyes suggested he had not expected me to spot it so quickly, and he did not need to voice the praise for me to hear it. Some of my disgruntlement faded on our slow way toward the docks.
Only to return on sight of those dilapidated boats. "Holmes? Please say you have another method of reaching the middle."
"Richardson assured me he used these canoes just last week without a problem." The tarpaulin keeping rain out of the closest one landed with the rustle of old canvas, then Holmes nimbly stepped to the unsteady bench. That wood did not look safe.
"Do you even know how to row a canoe?" We should not trust that boat.
He still ignored me. "Nonsense. Of course I know how to row a canoe. Are you coming?"
Yes. I much preferred to stay safely on the shore, but he would need help both in steering and in getting whatever hung from that buoy out of the water. I would not make him do it alone.
Though I did not try to hide my hesitation in reaching the bench's exact middle. Caution left my cane on the dock before I claimed one of the oars to use as a rudder, and his steady rowing slowly pulled us away from the safety of land. I kept a close eye on the canoe's old, wooden boards.
"We will be fine, Watson." Holmes repeatedly glanced toward that buoy though his words announced him well aware of my unease. Slightly slower strokes tried to calm my nerves. "A little to the left."
I turned the rudder but made no true reply. Holmes knew how little I liked water. My shoulder injury had taken my ability to swim, and I highly doubted the brackish lake remained shallow enough to stand. Not this far from the edge.
A floating tree branch scraped the side of the boat. My oar nudged us away from the thicker log behind it, then around the matted branches and leaves anchored to the debris. Holmes prevented the motion from turning us around.
"Can you push us a little closer?"
I frowned but complied, and we left a trail through the algae all the way to where a small, white buoy tried to blend with the sky's reflection. Holmes needed only a minute for an oilskin-wrapped package to start wetting his inner jacket pocket. I made no effort to hide my relief as he carefully pointed us back at the dock.
Of course, that was when one of the larger sticks decided to catch a rough spot on the hull.
"Holmes?"
"I see it," he promised. Both oars clattered to the canoe's belly, and I provided a counterbalance when he leaned over the edge. Sharp, wiggling tugs joined low grumbling bemoaning "irritating luck" and a "confounded inability to take care of his property." Long seconds passed as he tugged us this way and that, trying and failing to either break the stick or untangle whatever had caught. My wariness spiked when a wet spot bloomed in the wood.
"Holmes."
"Almost there," he promised, eyes still on a point just below the water's edge. "Just—"
"Holmes, we're taking on water."
Rapid movements abruptly stilled, but a moment's thought acknowledged what little we could do about the small hole when we were stuck in the middle of the lake. While he did not pull quite as hard, he still continued tugging on that branch.
And every pull increased the flow.
"Holmes, try—"
A resounding crack abruptly freed the debris, but a wide fracture raced away from the hole before relief could bloom. Stretching the entire length of the hull, the next moment split the canoe and dumped us both into the lake.
Pain!
I gasped, then coughed when my mouth filled with water. Lancing pain shot from my shoulder through the rest of my neck and back, and bright spots in my vision suggested a head injury as well. One arm hung limply as I fought to right myself, to reach the surface, to stay on the surface. I could not breathe underwater.
"Watson!"
Nor could I check on Holmes. The frantic urgency in that scream suggested a problem, a cry for help. I needed to reach him. Needed to be sure he could escape the lake.
I needed to address my own injury first. A sharp branch prodded just the right spot to prompt yet another jolt of pain, and my next stroke sparked burning agony that became an overwhelming spasm. Only when water splashed my face did I realize I had gone limp.
"Watson!"
Not that I could do anything about it. I fought hard enough to stay awake, barely managing to hold my breath when I slipped below the surface. Perhaps the pain would let me move again before I passed out from lack of air.
Or not. I simply hoped Holmes could get himself to shore. Richardson might never find his son if we both drowned.
Rending agony slowly faded, but I could not yet move even my good arm when the water pushed me one way, then the other, then a familiar hand firmly gripped my upper arm and pulled. A warm breeze brushed my face as the next moment adjusted me to lie against Holmes, face toward the sky and his arm wrapped tightly around my chest.
"Watson?"
Here. I was still here, but sharp needles of pain prevented me from responding. I focused on slowing the gasping, coughing breaths trying to both eliminate water and take in air at the same time. Every ragged cough only renewed the pain in my shoulder.
"Watson, answer me."
He stopped swimming, then his grip changed angles to drag me up the bank. Gentle movements propped me against a tree before something blocked the sunlight. Two fingers pressed against my wrist as the pain in my shoulder finally decreased from "screaming" to "present," and my eyes grudgingly obeyed my commands to open.
Bleary vision blinked obvious relief into focus. Holmes knelt between me and the water, completely ignoring the blood oozing down his arm as stark worry searched for anything he could find.
"Watson?"
"Hol—" A cough cut the word in half. "Bleeding," I murmured once my breathing steadied.
"Just scrapes. Where are you injured?"
Where, indeed. The pain in my shoulder had probably come from the canoe landing on me. Now that I did not fight to swim, the discomfort would ease soon enough. Did anything else hurt?
My head, somewhat. Not enough to suggest a concussion, though, and smaller aches hinted bruises and perhaps a few scrapes of my own. A long moment found nothing worth admitting.
"Fine." He opened his mouth to protest. "Just shoulder," I added. "Bruised. D'ju—" No. He already failed to hide his worry at my near drowning. I did not need to strengthen it by slurring my words, and a pause gained control of my tongue. "Did…you…lose the package?"
"No. Can you walk?"
Yes. In a minute. First, though, he helped me makeshift a sling for my arm and retrieve my cane from the dock. Gentle movements draped my other arm over his shoulders a few minutes later to start the slow trek back to the manor.
Maybe he would listen the next time I warned him about a boat too old to use.
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