Time to kick off this final round of Watson's Woes JWP. Thanks to methylviolet10b for organizing this!

Prompt: What's going on here?. Use this image to inspire your work today. prnt. sc/RXEU1DIKJcCZ

Note: I'm relatively certain the picture is of a city's river sewer. However, it reminded me so much of a sluicing mine that I ran with that inspiration and ended up with the opal mines west of Brisbane.

"Did your uncle tell you where he would meet us?"

"No." The ship rolled to make me stumble, and I hid a wince at the resulting pain in my leg. Still rough from yesterday's storm, white capped waves bounced the ship here and there on our steady run toward the dock. My old injury did not appreciate the extra effort required to remain upright. "Only that he would greet our ship," I added. "He probably harassed the dockmaster for a schedule before parking himself within sight of our berth."

Amusement at my word choice escaped in a faint huff, but he returned to his own packing rather than comment. Hamish's telegram had reached Baker Street slightly over a month ago, sparking a series of correspondence in which he had outlined an ongoing theft and smuggling operation centered around the opals the "rich noodlers" brought from the mining towns. With the thefts increasingly devolving into violence and the local officials unable to do anything, Holmes had decided to assist—to my unvoiced pleasure. I had not seen my uncle since I was a child.

"Did the captain announce when we could disembark?"

"As soon as they secure the ropes." A glance out the window checked our progress. "Probably about twenty minutes."

Good. I needed less than ten to finish packing, and Holmes needed little more. A quarter of an hour later found us both watching the bustle of land from the main deck.

The crowded bustle of land. After more than a month on a small ship in the middle of the ocean, the hectic busyness of port seemed an oddly mirrored version of home. The press, the noise, the horses and wagons and even a few cabbies, all clashed with the strange accent and summer heat to distract me at every turn. Children dodged adults in a screaming game of tag. Laborers and employers alike wound between crates and buildings. The wind kicked the dust into a small dirt devil. Harry and I had spent hours exploring just west of here every time Hamish needed something from town.

Years ago felt like yesterday, and my smile widened the longer we watched. I had not realized just how much I had missed my uncle's home.

"Easy."

Though I should have known better than to let nostalgia distract me. A nod from the first mate declared it safe to leave the ship, but I paid more attention to the scenery than where I put my feet. Only Holmes' quick reaction saved me from stumbling where the gangplank met the dock.

"Alright?"

"Fine." I carefully braced my stick on a loose cobblestone, trying to ignore the increasing pain in my leg. "Thank you."

That keen gaze undoubtedly noted how much I favored my bad leg, but he did not call me on it. We had known in London that the constant movement of a ship's deck would not prove easy to navigate. I had been limping since the first night.

"Is that him by the vendor?" he asked instead. A gesture drew my eye to where a short man lingered near a food cart, clearly watching for someone.

"No. Hamish is taller, his hair shorter and closer in color to my own. He is more likely to choose a place against a building."

Where he would see us first, but I did not voice that. Discomfort slowed my pace slightly as I scanned the crowd. He did not wait near the crates stacked in the middle of the dock, nor did I see him amongst the crowd gathered to greet the passenger ship. Was that him near the next berth?

"John!"

No, but footsteps hurried closer before I could continue searching. I turned to find my uncle shoving through the crowd, a wide grin nearly splitting his face.

"There you are!" He nearly skidded to a stop in front of us, and the farewell embrace of so many years ago became a firm hand on my uninjured shoulder in addition to the expected handshake. "My is it good to see you!"

"Hello, Hamish." I made no effort to stifle my own grin as I shook the offered hand. "Thank you for hosting us. You recognize my friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes?"

His searching gaze noted both my posture and my cane, but, unlike Holmes would have, Hamish allowed the pleasantries. "Of course. A pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Holmes."

"Likewise. Were you able to contact the local officials?"

"I was." The half smile directed at me acknowledged my accuracy. Several letters had warned Hamish about Holmes' tendency to focus on the case to the exclusion of all else. "By the time we reached their office today, the case lead would have gone home, so they are expecting you first thing tomorrow. Nathan promised to have supper finished by the time we returned."

"That would be much appreciated. Is that your wagon?" He referenced a small wagon left at one end of the dock, continuing when Hamish nodded, "I need to check one thing before leaving. I will meet you there in a few minutes."

"Holmes—"

He turned on one heel and disappeared into the crowd without a glance at me. I could only shake my head—both at Holmes' actions and Hamish's reaction.

"You're right, John. He's a strange one."

Wry amusement became a huffed laugh. "I told him he did not need to do that." Hamish still glanced between me and where Holmes had been a moment before. "That was his way of giving us time to catch up," I informed him. "He'll be back as soon as he sees us at the wagon."

Confusion slowly morphed into understanding, then he chuckled as well. "Still a strange one. But you!" All the tact Hamish had employed in Holmes' presence vanished when the undeniable pleasure of company met a dark scowl at the cane in my hand. "I believe you left something out of your letters."

"No. I simply did not correct your erroneous conclusion." My smirk widened with his scowl. "I told you I was injured at Maiwand."

"But not that you walked with a cane!"

"Because I don't. Every day," I added before he could protest. "The ship aggravated it, and the storm last night didn't help. It'll pass. Now." A firm gesture indicated the wagon several minutes' slow walk away. "Quit griping about something we can't change and let's make the most of our time. How are you? Nathan? Your vineyards? I want to know everything."

The remonstration hit home even as continued glares announced the topic not yet dropped, but he did match my slow pace through the crowd. Conversation soon progressed from him, to me, then back again, and by the time Holmes met us as the wagon, we discussed winemaking more than personal matters.

Irritation still renewed when he noted my awkward shoulder. He would probably corner me later, but I could not honestly bring myself to mind. Not when I had found exactly what I had hoped.

Australia might have summer weather to ease my injuries and a case to keep Holmes busy, but each of those would only last so long. Australia's true value came in something rather more permanent.

England held several friends of varying degrees, but here, I had family for the first time in years. I would enjoy these next few weeks.

For those new to my stories, you can find Hamish in Smoke 21, Smoke 31, Doubting Discomfort, Rainy 3, and Rainy 8.

Reviews are always very much appreciated :)

And thank you to the guest who reviewed Mountain of Missteps :D