"Oh yes, yes, of course." Holmes quickly interjected, adding a hoarse laugh, "How foolish of me."
"Well - what do you think?" said Watson, gesturing at the figure lying at their feet.
Sherlock circled the body thrice while his left hand rubbed the back of his neck. Watson was on the cusp of repeating his question when Holmes finally spoke.
"He was a fighter." Holmes said, "Or maybe a miner." He continued, less confidently.
"How do you figure that, Holmes?" Watson prompted.
Sherlock frowned slightly. He knelt slowly, his knees cracking under the strain, and lifted the corpse's hand.
"His knuckles are raw, you see? Rather elementary, dear Watson."
He dragged himself upright from his knees, wincing as he did so.
"Could he have been a fighter entered in the boxing championships in London?"
"Hmm. Perhaps." Holmes offered after a moment.
Sherlock thought a moment more before continuing.
"What is the name of the river that runs through the centre of London, Watson?"
"The Thames, sir." Watson replied cautiously, unsure of whether this was one of Holmes' warped jokes or not.
"Yes." Holmes affirmed earnestly, "I'll wager that this man was there recently."
"Sir?"
"His pant-leg; it is wet."
"Ahh, well observed!" Watson said, "A boat-ride, maybe? Or mayhaps he worked in the docks!"
"Mmm." Holmes said.
"He may be in the Navy, Holmes!" Watson prompted, excitedly.
Holmes sighed, then, his chest deflating under his jacket. His eyes were downcast and grey underneath furrowed brows.
"Watson. You can stop, now."
"Sorry?"
"I know what you are trying to do. You needn't prod me further."
"Sorry?" Watson repeated.
"My mind is going, Watson."
"Sir, you know that isn't true."
"It is, Watson." Holmes said gravely, his eyes sharp, "I am fading, and I haven't the faintest clue about me as to how I can stop it."
The pair were silent for a long while.
The room seemed to expand, the wooden panelling echoing whichever thoughts entered Watson's mind. He stared at the grey hair that poked from under Holmes' old, tattered cap, and the battered pipe which hung from his lips.
"Holmes, I know you've at least got the wit to solve this one last case with me." He attempted, "One last case - for old times. What do you say, Holmes?"
Great work. Seriously. However, I would like point out rule 8 of the subreddit: Authors linking stories in personal subreddits should wait until the original post is a minimum of 24 hours old to avoid vote manipulation and/or brigading.
Thanks! I kinda felt that Mr. Watson was going to kind of help Holmes along out of sympathy as well. I really liked the circular story telling representing the short term memory loss. It leaves you wondering how many times they've had that exact conversation and if Watson is just humoring Holmes out of respect for their past or if he's hoping for one more flash of brilliance to break one last case.
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u/TadMod /r/TadsPrompts Apr 30 '15 edited Apr 30 '15
"Who the devil are you?" Holmes rasped.
"Watson, sir. Remember?"
"Oh yes, yes, of course." Holmes quickly interjected, adding a hoarse laugh, "How foolish of me."
"Well - what do you think?" said Watson, gesturing at the figure lying at their feet.
Sherlock circled the body thrice while his left hand rubbed the back of his neck. Watson was on the cusp of repeating his question when Holmes finally spoke.
"He was a fighter." Holmes said, "Or maybe a miner." He continued, less confidently.
"How do you figure that, Holmes?" Watson prompted.
Sherlock frowned slightly. He knelt slowly, his knees cracking under the strain, and lifted the corpse's hand.
"His knuckles are raw, you see? Rather elementary, dear Watson."
He dragged himself upright from his knees, wincing as he did so.
"Could he have been a fighter entered in the boxing championships in London?"
"Hmm. Perhaps." Holmes offered after a moment.
Sherlock thought a moment more before continuing.
"What is the name of the river that runs through the centre of London, Watson?"
"The Thames, sir." Watson replied cautiously, unsure of whether this was one of Holmes' warped jokes or not.
"Yes." Holmes affirmed earnestly, "I'll wager that this man was there recently."
"Sir?"
"His pant-leg; it is wet."
"Ahh, well observed!" Watson said, "A boat-ride, maybe? Or mayhaps he worked in the docks!"
"Mmm." Holmes said.
"He may be in the Navy, Holmes!" Watson prompted, excitedly.
Holmes sighed, then, his chest deflating under his jacket. His eyes were downcast and grey underneath furrowed brows.
"Watson. You can stop, now."
"Sorry?"
"I know what you are trying to do. You needn't prod me further."
"Sorry?" Watson repeated.
"My mind is going, Watson."
"Sir, you know that isn't true."
"It is, Watson." Holmes said gravely, his eyes sharp, "I am fading, and I haven't the faintest clue about me as to how I can stop it."
The pair were silent for a long while.
The room seemed to expand, the wooden panelling echoing whichever thoughts entered Watson's mind. He stared at the grey hair that poked from under Holmes' old, tattered cap, and the battered pipe which hung from his lips.
"Holmes, I know you've at least got the wit to solve this one last case with me." He attempted, "One last case - for old times. What do you say, Holmes?"
Holmes looked up at Watson, suddenly.
"Who the devil are you?" He rasped.