Work Text:
The clock chimed the hour. Then another. Multiple trains came and went, but none of them carried my friend. When the next rolled into the station, I debated ignoring it. I half-expected to win this game, anyway.
I hardly wanted him to sneak up on me, however. Leaning to the left let me see the train without myself being easily seen, and I scanned the disembarking passengers. Had Holmes found me yet?
Perhaps. A familiar shape stepped onto the platform to make me slip my book into its pocket, but I leaned back slightly instead of announcing myself. He could not claim to win unless he found me, not the station I had chosen, and the Walton & Hersham Station on the South Western Railway had multiple hidden corners he would need to check individually.
Which he may not have enough time to do. Amusement bloomed when he started checking the arriving platform first. Systematically moving from one end of the platform to the other, even the barest glance required seconds for each spot, and he quickly ran out of time. I made no effort to hide my wide grin when the “all aboard” sent him sprinting from the furthest point on the platform. He had not even glanced at the London-bound platform.
And I doubted he would have time to return before the game ended, though that depended on how far he took the train before turning around. The ten shillings I had charged him would have taken me as far as Woking, but he should know better than to think I would choose the last station in a range. Easier to hide two or three from the end, and this platform had several nooks for waiting passengers to avoid the crowds. As soon as his train disappeared from sight, I returned to my novel.
The clock chimed five. Then six. Multiple trains came and went without any sign of Holmes, and I put my book away to watch the crowds at twenty-five minutes past the hour. At this point, if Holmes won, he would do so on a technicality—a finish nearly as bad as losing, to his mind. The minutes slowly ticked by, bringing one final train into the station, one headed toward London’s Waterloo Station, but the clock struck the half hour well before the train came to a stop. I gathered my things and boarded once the crowd cleared a bit. If nothing else, the content of Holmes’ whining would change after this. No matter how difficult I made the game, he hated losing. He would grumble all night.
Especially when I told him which station I had chosen. Hearty laughter made no attempt to hide when another train pulled into the neighboring platform, this one eventually bound for Paddington Station via Clapham Junction. Holmes sat in a compartment five cars ahead of me, already headed into a pout worthy of the youngest Irregulars. A glance at the schedules confirmed that even changing trains would reach Paddington before Holmes, and, when he never looked up, I carefully avoided the window until well away from the station. This could be fun.
Multiple checks confirmed the train remained on schedule, but the stations still passed incredibly slowly. Each stop spent ages simply waiting for everyone else to change places. I dug through my bag and skimmed through my edited manuscript to make the time pass faster, but even trying to read my book could not finish a single paragraph. I finally occupied myself in watching the miles pass.
The countryside sprouted buildings, which grew closer and closer together until we rode through London proper. Changing trains at Clapham Junction kept me ahead of Holmes, and a few minutes after seven finally stopped in Paddington Station. A nearby schedule announced which platform Holmes’ train would choose, and I stopped walking six cars from the rear just as the incoming train screeched to a halt.
Though Holmes had already stood. Turning right out of the compartment headed toward the front of the train, so I followed his progress until he stepped onto the platform. Head down in grumpy irritation, he dodged the press on his way toward the exit without ever checking his surroundings. I simply matched his pace.
For about three steps. Utter shock nearly made him stumble when he found me beside him, and I made no effort to keep a straight face when he completely ignored the crowd around us to blurt his irritation.
“Where the blazes were you?”
I could not answer, not when all his normal stoicism had failed beneath the strongest mix of frustration, shock, and confusion I had seen in years. His scowl only grew as I fought to speak around my laughter.
“Walton & Hersham Station,” I managed after a moment, adding, “London-bound side,” when he opened his mouth to protest. “Your train stopped at the platform just before mine left.”
A quiet “harrumph” announced his thoughts clearer than any number of words, but he resumed walking toward the exit. Occasional grumbles confirmed him still just as irritated but hiding it better, and the scowl he directed when he caught me grinning would have made me second-guess his mood any other time. Even Mrs. Hudson easily gathered that I had won this round in a way sure to frustrate “her resident detective,” though she limited most of her comments to when Holmes appeared out of range.
Holmes growled and grumbled all through supper and most of the evening, but I did get one reward for winning. Despite temperatures soaring even higher the next day, Holmes did not complain once.
I thoroughly enjoyed the silence.