Race to the Fords
Title: Race to the Fords
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Characters: S. Holmes, J. Watson
Table: Five
Prompt: #87. Ride
Word Count: 431 words
Rating: PG
Summary: "Failure was not an option, he would not be too late."
Author's Notes: None.
He urged the horse on, wishing it would go faster, ignoring the searing bolts of pain that shot through his body as a result.
The pain was not important. Getting to the Fords before it was too late was. If he failed, if he was too late...He shook his head to clear the morbid thoughts from his mind. Failure was not an option, he would not be too late.
He could feel every labored movement of his mount's muscles beneath him, as he had not taken the time to saddle up. The horse's sides were slick with sweat, but it was still galloping, not slowing down in the slightest.
But he knew that it wouldn't be able to keep up the pace he'd set for much longer.
He didn't see the ditch until it was too late.
The horse easily cleared the ditch, but it found itself rider-less by the time all four of its hooves were firmly planted on the other side. Confused, the horse looked around until it found the still form of its rider.
Gunfire rang through the air, startling the horse into a gallop back towards the stables.
After five minutes or so, a man with a limp and an arm strapped to his chest with a navy blue sling came along the path from the Fords, a revolver in his free hand.
The man frowned at the sight of the still figure in the ditch.
"Watson?" the man called out, hoping for an answer. He didn't get one--or so he thought.
"Dear Lord, Watson, please!" he cried, fearing the worst, as he knelt beside his still friend. "Please still be alive!"
"Are...you...deaf?" a weak voice rasped, so faint that the detective had to strain his ears to hear it.
"Can you move?" Holmes asked. What if the doctor was paralyzed?
"I think so..." Watson hesitantly replied.
Holmes frowned as he demanded to know whether or not his friend had a concussion.
"Definitely...but that's...not why...I'm...not...sure 'bout...whether...I can...move."
"Why then?" He needed to keep him talking, keep him awake until he could figure out a way to get help without leaving his friend's side.
"Might...have...injured my...back...can feel my....legs though."
Holmes made a choice.
"Unless you've got a better idea, I'm going to head back to the manor for help," he informed Watson.
"Hopkins and...Lestrade...are somewhere...behind me."
"Think we can wait that long to get you proper medical care?" the detective asked.
"Don't have...much...of a...choice."
"Good point."
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Characters: S. Holmes, J. Watson
Table: Five
Prompt: #87. Ride
Word Count: 431 words
Rating: PG
Summary: "Failure was not an option, he would not be too late."
Author's Notes: None.
He urged the horse on, wishing it would go faster, ignoring the searing bolts of pain that shot through his body as a result.
The pain was not important. Getting to the Fords before it was too late was. If he failed, if he was too late...He shook his head to clear the morbid thoughts from his mind. Failure was not an option, he would not be too late.
He could feel every labored movement of his mount's muscles beneath him, as he had not taken the time to saddle up. The horse's sides were slick with sweat, but it was still galloping, not slowing down in the slightest.
But he knew that it wouldn't be able to keep up the pace he'd set for much longer.
He didn't see the ditch until it was too late.
The horse easily cleared the ditch, but it found itself rider-less by the time all four of its hooves were firmly planted on the other side. Confused, the horse looked around until it found the still form of its rider.
Gunfire rang through the air, startling the horse into a gallop back towards the stables.
After five minutes or so, a man with a limp and an arm strapped to his chest with a navy blue sling came along the path from the Fords, a revolver in his free hand.
The man frowned at the sight of the still figure in the ditch.
"Watson?" the man called out, hoping for an answer. He didn't get one--or so he thought.
"Dear Lord, Watson, please!" he cried, fearing the worst, as he knelt beside his still friend. "Please still be alive!"
"Are...you...deaf?" a weak voice rasped, so faint that the detective had to strain his ears to hear it.
"Can you move?" Holmes asked. What if the doctor was paralyzed?
"I think so..." Watson hesitantly replied.
Holmes frowned as he demanded to know whether or not his friend had a concussion.
"Definitely...but that's...not why...I'm...not...sure 'bout...whether...I can...move."
"Why then?" He needed to keep him talking, keep him awake until he could figure out a way to get help without leaving his friend's side.
"Might...have...injured my...back...can feel my....legs though."
Holmes made a choice.
"Unless you've got a better idea, I'm going to head back to the manor for help," he informed Watson.
"Hopkins and...Lestrade...are somewhere...behind me."
"Think we can wait that long to get you proper medical care?" the detective asked.
"Don't have...much...of a...choice."
"Good point."