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Watson was horribly, possibly irrevocably, lost. He had followed Holmes into dark tunnels, intent on helping him stop a ritual. It was the same sort of thing that they’d been doing for over a year.
Only this time, something had gone worse than usual. Either he’d taken a wrong turn, or perhaps slipped out of this plane of existence into some other realm.
He was surrounded by darkness, impenetrable darkness. His lantern wouldn’t light. Neither would a simple match. And without light, he couldn’t find his way out. He was trapped, and alone.
So very alone, totally alone. Like he’d been in Afghanistan, after he ran and left the rest of his comrades to die. Then, at least he’d been lost in the desert, able to see the rest of the world. Here…
There was a strange, rhythmic sound in the darkness now. At first, Watson thought it was the beat of far-off drums. But the noise was getting closer, echoing against the stone.
It wasn’t footsteps, either. But gradually, the rhythm registered in his mind, out of place here yet so familiar.
“Hoofbeats,” Watson breathed, tears stinging his eyes. “Here, horse. Come here. Please come here.”
Cold breath tickled his face, and something soft but wet snuffled across his cheek. The horse must have found a natural spring or underground lake or something.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” Watson said fervently, sliding his fingers into a thick mane. “Well, not see, exactly. But to not be alone. I was so afraid that… that I’d…”
That he’d be lost here forever. He lost control over a sob, and buried his face in the horse’s mane. That was damp too, but solid and real and reassuring.
The horse nickered softly and tried to raid his pockets for treats. With a soft, pained laugh, Watson pulled back and pushed the horse’s nose away. “I’m sorry, I don’t have anything for you. Just a soapstone artifact, and that’s not a good snack for horses.”
Despite Watson’s words, the horse did seem to think that soapstone artifacts were good snacks for horses. Gently, he pushed the nose away again, smiling as the horse tried to nibble on his fingers instead.
“By Jove, you’re persistent.” A few more tears slipped down Watson’s cheeks as he looked around. He still couldn’t see anything at all, the whole tunnel pitch black. “I wasn’t expecting to run into a horse here. Perhaps you’ve escaped from the cult. I don’t suppose you know the way out of here, do you? I can’t find my way back.”
His throat tightened, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He had to get out of here, to find Holmes. What if something even worse had happened to Holmes than simply being caught up in some ritual? What if he was dead, like those soldiers in Afghanistan that Watson had abandoned?
“I didn’t abandon Holmes,” Watson said to himself, and to the horse. “I just lost him. Not that it makes me feel much better.”
The horse snorted. Then, at an almost unsettlingly calm pace, it walked forward.
Watson tangled his fingers in the horse’s mane again, holding on tight and desperate not to fall behind this time despite the pain in his leg. If he lost the horse too, he would never find his way out of these tunnels. He would only be able to crumple on the ground, huddle into a ball, and cry.
The horse didn’t try to leave him behind, though, just proceeding at a stately, almost regal walk. Watson limped along beside it, his hands still shaking and breath coming in gasps. He had to get out of this darkness before he lost his mind.
Finally, light gleamed up ahead, and Watson gave a sob of relief. It was all he could do not to run for that light, but he didn’t want to lose the horse. If Holmes had been hurt, they might need it to ride to safety.
When at last they stepped into the sunlight, Holmes was already outside, swiftly pacing up and down on the path outside the tunnels. He looked up, then turned and sprinted over. “John! I couldn’t find you, and was considering how I might mount a more effective search. Are you all right?”
“I-I admit, I’m a little shaken,” Watson managed, tearing up again. “Very glad to see you, Sherlock. I didn’t know what horrible things might have—”
Holmes stopped dead in his tracks, pointing. “Watson, what is that?”
Confused, Watson patted the horse’s neck. “Why, it’s a horse.”
“It is clearly not a horse,” Holmes said. “Where did you find it?”
“It found me. I guess it escaped from the cult or something. And what do you mean, clearly not a horse?” Still more baffled, Watson turned to look at it.
It was clearly not a horse.
Watson understood how he had thought it was a horse. It was certainly horse-shaped. Even now, as it snuffled at his pocket again in search of treats, it felt like a horse. But it was undeniably not a horse.
It was black, but not the sort of black that took on a reddish hue or a silver sheen in the sunlight. It was black, as deep as the blackness inside the tunnels. Inside the tunnel, its eyes had given off no light, but here they glowed a sinister green, the sort of color that could not be mistaken for any earthly hue.
“Interesting,” Holmes said thoughtfully, crossing his arms as he studied the not-horse. “Judging by the lingering dampness and somewhat unusual smell, I think it not unlikely that it rose from the underground lake that I briefly glimpsed during my own explorations. Or rather, from that lake in a different plane of existence.”
“Holmes.” Watson gestured vaguely at the creature, which was again trying to eat his pocket. “This… this isn’t a horse!”
“Well spotted, Watson.” That keen, searching gaze turned to land on Watson, and a smile tugged at Holmes’ lips. “A creature shaped very much like a horse yet with cold breath and a damp, metallic odor locates you in unnaturally dark tunnels adjacent to an eldritch ritual, and your first guess is that it’s a perfectly ordinary horse?”
“Oh, bollocks.” Watson’s legs wobbled underneath him, but he wasn’t about to sit down with that thing staring at him like it thought his mind—or perhaps all of him—would be as delectable as any apple. “I confess that I am very stupid. But I was just… I was so… alone.”
He teared up again, and wiped his eyes with a shaking hand. Holmes’ expression softened, and he pulled Watson into an embrace. “Forgive me. Of course you were hardly in your right mind, and thus merely clung to the only lifeline you could find.”
“I would have preferred to have you,” Watson mumbled into Holmes’ shoulder, pressing close. “I just couldn’t find you. You weren’t answering me.”
“As you were not answering me. I fear one of us briefly became lost in another realm.” Holmes hugged him a little awkwardly, but kindly, patting his back. “Given that this not-horse has escorted you back to daylight, we may take it as a working hypothesis that you were the one who ventured out of this world. I myself never became lost.”
“What about the ritual?” Watson asked, drawing back as he felt the not-horse nuzzling his pocket again. The sinister green eyes were still fixed on him hungrily.
“There were indications that an attempt at a ritual had taken place, but no sign of any remaining people. Perhaps this not-horse objected at the intrusion into its realm, and stopped the cultists before we arrived.”
Watson eyed the not-horse nervously. “It probably ate them.”
“Calm yourself, Doctor.” Holmes patted it on the ink-black forehead. “Horses are not meat eaters.”
“It’s not a horse.”
“True.” Sifting his fingers through the damp mane, Holmes turned towards Watson. “It has been intent on pickpocketing you. Might I ask why?”
“I really have no idea. All I have in my pocket is this.” Still unsteady, Watson pulled the soapstone artifact from his pocket. It was fairly straightforward as far as artifacts went, simply a rectangular piece of green stone lightly carved with fish. “I picked it up inside the tunnels, before I got lost. But soapstone artifacts aren’t exactly a good snack for horses.”
No sooner had he finished saying it that the not-horse snatched the artifact off his palm with nimble lips. The not-horse crunched the soapstone up, jaw moving as easily as if it was eating a piece of apple. It swallowed, then blinked slowly at them.
“Ah. Interesting.” Holmes patted the not-horse again. “It seems that soapstone artifacts are good snacks for eldritch horses from the darkest depths.”
“I suppose so. Um.” Still a bit baffled, Watson patted the not-horse’s shadowy neck. “Thank you for escorting me. I’m safe now.”
“Yes, well done. Thank you for bringing Watson back.”
The not-horse snorted in acknowledgment, then turned and sauntered back into the tunnels. It disappeared into the darkness almost at once, vanishing from view.
Letting out a shaky breath, Watson took Holmes’ hand and held it tight. “Well,” he said, blinking away tears. “I suppose we can go catch our train now.”
“Yes, quite. We ought to go home, as that horse-like creature has just done.” Holmes gently squeezed Watson’s hand, giving him a worried look. “Are you all right, Watson? Is there anything I can do?”
“Just keep holding my hand for a bit.” Watson cast one more glance back at the tunnels and shuddered. “I’m afraid I’m still a little shaken up.”
Shaken up, yes, but no longer terrified. As he and Holmes set off down the path hand in hand, the pressure on Watson’s chest finally eased, and he could breathe again. Thanks to the not-horse, he was no longer alone in the darkness, but could walk freely in the sunshine.