December 10: A Long Wait
(Continuation of a mulit-story arc. I received a considerable list of challenge prompts from HLotD. I decided to take a few of the prompts I received out of the order defined, as it fits very well into the natural flow of things for this arc – as you will see. My apologies. I will cover all prompts eventually.)
From trustingHim17 - Wind
Wednesday morning. 1:15 AM (more or less).
All the fervent prayers for good weather at the textile factory stakeout had gone unanswered. Unfortunately, the capricious gods that watched over constables, inspectors, and detectives, were being particularly unkind this morning. The Tuesday evening start of their stakeout had seen them hiding in the shadows around the factory in the midst of a bitter cold, and a heavy snowfall. The snow gradually tapered off just after midnight, but that did not make things any easier; if anything, it was the opposite. The temperature dropped still further, and the wind had picked up. While the snowfall had been heavy, it was the light and powdery variety, - prone to blowing in large clouds of stinging particles, driven sideways by every gust of wind. To make matters worse, the lack of additional snowfall meant that any and all footprints created by the stakeout team would not be covered by fresh snow. Tracks of snow around the perimeter of the factory, near doors and windows, or leading into shadowy corners nearby, could likely give away their positions, warning the wily thieves that some form of reception committee was awaiting their arrival.
Therefore, every man had to stand still, doing the bare minimum of shuffling or pacing about to keep themselves warm, and to keep their feet from freezing. Everyone was suffering and in pain. Watson particularly so.
"This is absolute agony. My leg will seize up entirely – my shoulder too. When the signal comes, I just hope I'll be able to move."
Under other circumstances, the blowing snow might even have been pleasant. If a certain doctor and consulting detective was on the other side of a pane of glass in a certain flat in Baker St, a roaring fire behind them, and a glass of good single malt in hand, the snow would look quite lovely as gusts of wind moved clouds of microscopic flakes in and out of the range of the nearby street lamps. Countless millions of snow fairy nymphs, dancing in an infinitely complex ballet – all for their grateful appreciation.
Holmes might even launch into a whimsical treatise on the many ways shifting weather patterns altered crime scenes, making the job of a consulting detective that much more challenging…
Window panes and roaring fires were glorious – when you were on the right side of them.
But not tonight, this morning, whatever the hell the time was.
"Arrive already, won't you? I want to go home!"
As Watson stood in his private agony, in his own personal shadowy corner, he couldn't help but feel sorry for some of the others. Knowing the weather, and the likely length of the wait, the team had opted to kindly allow Watson his choice of the most sheltered corner to stand his vigil. Lestrade and Holmes in particular, in a mutually understood act of senior leadership, had opted for the least sheltered hiding places. The lamplight wouldn't reach them, but the blowing wind and snow most certainly would.
"I've got it good here…"
The thought was sarcastic, bitter, and yet grudgingly admitted to be true. For all of his pain and suffering, Watson would have to thank his frozen colleagues later.
"We've got to live through this first. What happens if they don't arrive, or we have to do this at some other location tomorrow night?"
The thought alone was ghastly. Meanwhile, the gods of wind and snow were being perverse. Because each man was hiding in deep shadows, the lamplight in the area around the factory was plainly visible. Each gust of wind, with its own customized delivery of driven snow, could be seen approaching, wildly moving in the light, coming ever closer. Watson suspected that every man could see the snow blast that was coming for their exposed skin a second or two before it arrived. You could duck or turn away, but the wind gusts could not be avoided.
"Why do I continue to do this?"
Watson considered the many stakeouts and long vigils he had stood with Holmes over the years. This one was going to rank among the worst. There was the night of heavy rain in February outside of McCallen's a few years previously, as the only reasonable contender for 'worst stakeout.' Who knew what the rest of this night would hold? Best not to think about it. Just endure.
It was odd what you thought of to pass the time. Watson knew that Holmes had no interest in accolades, awards, and honors from the Crown. Truth be told, Watson didn't particularly share in Holmes' indifference. As a military man, and a doctor, Watson had an instinctive understanding of the value and purpose of rank, seniority, and systems of recognition. They were right and appropriate enough in their way, and served a purpose – for the recipient, and for society as a whole. 'Here is one worthy of respect, one who has done deeds worthy of recognition, whose deeds should be emulated by others.' Awards showed a society's values, and demonstrated those virtues the collective whole held most dear. As long as the right people, the truly deserving, got the recognition, such awards should be celebrated… and not turned down.
"Lord, I deserve a freaking knighthood for this!"
Watson winced and turned his head as he saw another cloud of stinging snow heading his way…
(To Be Continued.)
Author's note: The story continues in the next chapter using more out of order prompts. Thanks for all the reviews from so many of you!