Prompt: Lost. Someone or something is lost. Use this as your inspiration today.
Directly follows Wind 20: Timekeeping
The flinch caught his attention first. He looked up as pain unexpectedly bloomed, magnified, and changed Watson's posture. After this morning's case, Watson should be relaxed, not guilty. Holmes made no efforts to conceal a frown.
"Watson?"
No response. Watson flinched, then a deep breath fought faltering balance as he pulled himself upright. Holmes set his pipe aside to follow.
"Alright, Watson?"
No, but Watson avoided eye contact rather than say as much, grabbing his cane on his way to the stairs. Something had made him decide to abandon the fire on a cold day.
And building dread suspected what that "something" was.
"Watson, where are you going?"
No reply. Watson did not even look at him, focused instead on the slow, uneven steps taking him down the stairs and out the front door. A smooth movement more instinct than conscious choice grabbed his coat as he passed.
"Can you hear me?"
Yes, but only in that an attempt to confine him to the flat would result in a fight. Something had distracted his friend so thoroughly as to send him recoiling from the present.
And based on the surprise and heavy grief that had bloomed upstairs, that "something" was Holmes' plans for today backfiring spectacularly. He shoved a second set of gloves, hat, and scarf into his own pockets and rushed to catch up to his friend.
Watson limped down the sidewalk, eyes on his feet though he clearly chose a direction rather than simply wandering. Occasional flinches betrayed swirling thoughts, and a tight grip on his cane announced pain caused by the blowing cold. He did not look up even when a passerby brushed against his bad shoulder. Two streets took no notice of either crowds or cabs, then he swung an abrupt right into a narrow alley. Holmes followed just in time to catch the closing door of a florist.
"Evening," the clerk nearly drawled at the sound of the door. A glance away from the ledger on the counter made polite curiosity alternate between them, as if unsure which he counted as customer. Something Holmes did not catch made him sit up slightly. "How can I help you?"
Watson ignored the niceties, purposely reaching high on the nearest shelf to pluck two sprigs of bright greenery and a small bloom Holmes did not recognize, which he laid on the counter without a word. Sympathy appeared on the clerk's face.
"That'll be a farthing," he said instead of voicing his thoughts.
A sharp nod exchanged the flowers for a coin, and Watson headed for the door. Holmes had only a moment to catch the shopkeeper's eye—and receive a nod—before he hurried after his friend. If he had known Watson would react like this, their day would have unfolded much differently.
Not that he could do anything about it now. He might have messed up, Watson might not wish to speak to him for a while, but he refused to leave his friend alone. Not like this. Not when every flicker of grief, every flinch, every ignored question announced the overwhelming wrongness of Watson's actions. Holmes could only conclude that the plan of "keep Watson busy today" had succeeded too well and sent his friend into a spiral of self-remonstration. He should have planned for that possible outcome.
Something to remember for next time. For the moment, he could only match Watson's uneven pace northward. Empty cabs rattled past without notice. Hawkers cried their wares, moving on when Watson did not even flinch at their volume. The sea of Londoners flowed around them, each simultaneously studying them and ignoring their presence. Well over an hour passed before they finally reached a quiet cemetery.
And still Watson did not speak. Ginger movements knelt by a low headstone, brushing dust and a couple of leaves away and leaving the greenery in their place. One hand absently tossed a couple of twigs to one side as light fingers gently traced the words once. Then twice. The third time stilled halfway through the name, then Watson's already distant gaze completely lost focus. A new worry flared.
"Watson?"
Nothing. Prodding one shoulder gave no reaction, nor did gripping his hand. Even pulling a winter cap over Watson's head did not drag him back to the present. A moment's thought finally settled next to his friend.
Watson's faint smile announced this a pleasant regression, and he well remembered the cruelty of the present when grieving so strongly. If he could not ease his friend's pain, he could at least keep watch. Watson would not leave this spot, nor would anyone bother him.
He would resume trying to elicit a verbal response in a few minutes.
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