"Sherlock Holmes!"
Sheer fury echoed through the flat loud enough for every neighbor to hear, and he narrowly avoided dropping his beaker when the sitting room door slammed into the wall. Angry strides marched across the room without ever noticing the fresh hole in her plaster.
"What the blazes is wrong with you?!"
What was…wrong? With him? The frustrating experiment held most of his attention even as the back of his mind pondered her obvious irritation. He doubted the ennui of weeks without a case would bother her sufficiently to cause this reaction.
"Mr. Holmes, if you intend to ignore me, you can join the doctor in the approaching snowstorm."
"I heard you," he quickly replied, carefully not spilling this solution even as he debated what could have caused the barely restrained anger. Had he broken something?
He did not believe so. Boredom had kept him repeating chemistry experiments for hours now. He would remember if one had exploded. What else could—
Wait a minute. Join the doctor? Why would Watson be in the approaching snowstorm?
"When did you last dose yourself?"
The rest of the threat registered simultaneous to the dangerously low growl, and he finally looked up to find Mrs. Hudson alternating between glaring at him and contemplating the chemistry set. If he did not resolve this quickly, his experiment would become so many glass shards on the sidewalk below. He slowly pushed away from the table.
"Mrs. Hudson?"
"When did you last dose yourself?" she growled again. "That is the only reason you could possibly have for destroying a year's work in two weeks of petulant boredom!"
"What—"
"Look around you." The snapped interruption pointedly referenced several locations around the room. He frowned but obeyed. What did—
The silent question died beneath blooming horror. Watson's book no longer occupied the settee's end table. His desk drawers lay open—probably missing the money he stored there. His revolver had vanished from the desktop. A small valise no longer occupied the shadowed corner.
And the amulet of protection no longer rested above the hearth. Watson was not in the flat.
Something small and metallic thumped the wood next to his hand to change horror into lancing fear.
"He left it on the entry table—right after you told him to go away and leave you alone."
No. No, he would never say that. Watson knew he would never say that. Would never want his friend to leave.
Except the clear fury in Mrs. Hudson's face announced he had. And Watson had taken it as a permanent eviction rather than the mindless ennui it was. He remembered only reactions and catalysts, equations and boredom. Not…
"Did he—"
"Tell me a destination?" she finished, voice still dangerously low despite the fear strangling his question. "No. I doubt he knows one. Best hurry. That thundersnow will hit within the hour."
Thundersnow. He had paid less attention to the weather than the sitting room, but lightning lit the horizon to confirm her observation. From freezing temperatures to higher-than-normal winds, anyone without shelter would face exposure in minutes.
And Watson had left with only his coat. Because of Holmes. The water pitcher neutralized his experiment in a moment, and he took only long enough to pour the diluted solution down the drain before rushing down the stairs and out the door. Where could Watson have gone?
Left, by the footprint. And slowly. Recently. Mrs. Hudson must have stormed upstairs minutes after Watson reached the street. Holmes hurried down the sidewalk, eyes trying to scan everywhere at once as he fought speed with diligence. Watson's trail wandered up one street and down the next, detoured through the park, then turned back into the heart of the city.
Yet for all that Holmes should be moving much faster than Watson could match just before a snowstorm, he never quite caught up. Undue haste even made him double back twice when he lost the trail. Worry grew with every minute he failed to find his friend.
Surely he would go to Lestrade? Or Hopkins? One of the other Yarders? One of the friends with whom he had spent so much time over the years prior to his marriage?
But the trail simply continued its aimless, wandering path, going nowhere in particular though Holmes somehow never closed the distance between them. Why did he linger out of doors instead of seeking shelter? Even an inn would be better than wandering circles through Regent's.
Could Watson be debating whether to stay in London?
He thought not, and he hoped not, but every minute only magnified the already overwhelming fear. He needed to find his friend quickly.
"I thought I might be seein' ye sooner 'n later."
The low voice came out of the bush to his right, and he froze, one hand still tracing the broken branch he had identified as part of Watson's trail. Two steps back spotted the red-haired nisse studying him from the shadows.
"Ye're the detective."
"I am." A year's lessons avoided the surprise he might otherwise have displayed. Most magical creatures still hid from him unless Watson was around. "Have you seen a human come through here recently? Shorter than me, probably limping. Walks with a cane. He carries a dense concentration of magic in his pocket."
The nisse nodded before he finished speaking. "I saw the doctor," he confirmed, quickly adding, "but you'll not catch up to him as you are."
The warning cut off Holmes' next question, though he forced a silent frown to be his only sign of confusion.
"The amulet in 'is pocket," the nisse answered. "The big man layered several protective magics, and tha doctor's using 'em subconsciously. For as long as he don't want ta be found, you and any other human'll never find him. Trail's been leadin' ye in circles, hadn't it?"
Never find him. He nodded even as a hard swallow refused to release the deepening fear those words spawned. If he was magically unable to catch up, then Watson essentially traveled alone. The last time Watson had thought himself alone, only Mr. Kringle's intervention had prevented utter failure. Did he need to contact the Pole?
Possibly, but he had no idea how.
"Can you help me?" he asked instead. "You can see through the protections, right? I need to find him before the storm hits."
"Slim chance o' that." Dark eyes noted the footprints, the surrounding trees, then something about the sky. A tilt of his head battled a frown with relief. "The Polar Line just left. His nisse's with him."
Torsten. Relief tried to thread through his own worry. "His nisse" could only be Torsten. Torsten had claimed Watson as "his" human. Torsten had promised to protect his friend.
Though knowing a protector guarded his friend did not help Holmes catch up. "Do you know which station he wants?"
No, that gesture said. "Tha big man knows 'e boarded too. First thing he woulda checked is whether ye're lookin'. Rabbit'll prob'ly catch up to ye in a station or two. Stay aboard unless it tells ye to scoot. 'E prob'ly heads for Thurso. Most humans take the normal trains fer the shorter runs."
Unless they wanted to arrive quickly, but he decided not to voice the thought. The rabbit Mr. Kringle had sent as guide last time would follow Watson no matter his destination. Holmes simply had to make himself easier to find. Rapid thanks acknowledged the help as he directed his steps for the station, and relief found just enough money in his pocket for a ticket. How often did the Polar Line run?
Often enough. A stop at the counter gained access to the final first-class car, and a stubborn refusal to pace picked a settee where he could watch the other passengers. He would find his friend soon enough.
Unless Watson did not let him.
No. He would succeed. Either Watson would drop his guard, or Mr. Kringle would send a guide, or something else would happen to let him find his friend. To let him apologize to his friend. To let him bring his friend home. London was not home without Watson. Holmes would follow until he caught up, and then he would convince his friend to return.
To believe otherwise would drive him mad. The miles passed slowly as plans battled fear.
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