Surprise! :) This is the first of hopefully several responses to Hades Lord of the Dead's December Advent. I doubt I will manage every day like previous years, or even most days, but after so long with writer's block, it feels really good to participate again.
This is Holmes' POV of Rainy #17: Nature's Theater.
Prompt at the end. Hope you enjoy!
"Really, you could have just waited a moment and climbed in with me."
The gentle ribbing halted him nearly mid-step, and Holmes glanced over his shoulder to find Stackhurst behind him, a slight grin escaping for having crept up without notice. Holmes' silent question received an eyeroll in response.
"You might not mind the wet, but the doctor'd have my hide for letting you walk home in a storm, easing or not. Either head back to the store to wait for the rain to stop or climb in. Little water won't hurt the horse, and I'm headed that way anyway."
He could not smother the quiet amusement, but his many bags piled onto the floorboards as he claimed the other side of the bench. He had not looked forward to the wet walk home, though he preferred that over waiting in town any longer than necessary. Every other beekeeper in this area had evidently stayed home today. Only running into Stackhurst at the tailor's had prevented the trip from being a complete bore.
And sharing the wagon let them resume the conversation abandoned when Stackhurst decided to retrieve his wagon. Minutes passed in pleasant discussion as the horse picked a path around deep ruts and through shallow puddles. Broken leaves clumped here and there, evidently left behind when the worst of the rain slowed. Twigs and small branches littered the road. Melting piles of hail lingered in the shadows. Water dripped from the trees in random patterns far more likely to go down Holmes' collar than create the music Watson claimed to enjoy. Stackhurst had just started describing the post boy's mischief last week when bright white cast the trees ahead in sharp silhouette. The following boom rattled the wagon and sparked pure terror in Holmes. Whether lightning or something closer to the melee that had raged on the other side of the channel this morning, that had originated near the cottage.
Where Watson remained alone.
Stackhurst flicked the reins before Holmes could force the words past the lump in his throat, and their careful path through the mud became a race. One foot prevented Holmes' purchases from falling to the road even as the majority of his attention monitored their progress. Any second now…
There. Whole from the rear, a clear line of smoke rose between the cottage and the cliff, and only their rapid pace kept Holmes from leaping from the bench before they reached the walk. It would do nothing for him to jump early. He could not outrun the horse, and every second might count. If Watson was—
No. Focus on the moment. This moment, he needed to reach that cottage.
Holmes still leaped clear almost before the wagon lurched to a halt, using the extra momentum to arrive that much sooner. Flitting glances noted both the shattered glass and what remained of their shade tree even as long strides sought the quickest route closer.
"Watson!"
"In the washroom!" Faint words immediately drifted down the hall, each far more welcome than Holmes would ever admit. "Just a minute!"
Fear drained in a sigh. While barely audible, the few words carried no undercurrent of tension. Watson must not have been in the sitting room when the lightning struck, and a wave sent Stackhurst back to town for assistance. Holmes knew better than to deal with the tree on his own, not when Watson would simply grumble and join him despite the decades-old injuries protesting his every movement.
Their shade tree had taken a bolt of lightning directly to its trunk, eliminating nearly half its height and scorching the remaining bark except for a two-foot-tall ring at the base. The burnt husk had fallen to hit the front step, then tipped to go through the window. Smoke still rose from the shortened stump, but when he found no real heat, he focused on the cottage.
The tree had obviously shattered the front window, dropping rain and debris in the sitting room, and impacted the wall near the corner—exactly where Watson would have stood if he decided to watch the storm. Firm concentration shoved the what-if away. His friend would return in a minute, probably with some quip for missing the excitement.
But only if he was as uninjured as he implied. Lead landed in his chest when an attempt to use the quilt to bypass the jagged window spotted a clear patch of floor—one clearly Watson-shaped amidst a sea of shrapnel stretching some ten feet into the room. The bloody handprint now visible beside the branch impaled in the wall suggested a more concerning problem, as did the numerous drops, prints, and smears scattered around the sitting room. He abandoned his attempts to assess the structural damage in favor of reaching his bedroom window, where the unlocked frame granted him access in seconds. Urgency nearly skidded to a halt outside the cottage's sole washroom.
Where Watson falteringly bandaged his hands, whole but for the many glass shards in age-thinned skin. Only a lifetime of practice prevented relief from showing.
In expression, at least. Watson's evident confusion proved it threaded his words, but Holmes merely claimed the tweezers from his friend's awkward grip and set to work.
Clean-up could wait. Holmes saw no reason to face the storm damage without his friend at his side.
From goodpenmanship - bloody handprint
Reviews are always very much appreciated :D