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"Well," I said, "my dear fellow, long have I known that you possess hidden depths - but I truly had no conception that you could do this."
Watson sent me and my warm tone a distinctly unimpressed, reproachful look, and turned his back. In the privacy this allowed me, I breathed one whole, huge lungful of relief - and then, as ever, put it it away.
It is unforgivable, I know. For all that I had been concerned; that I had worried for his safety, and confessed myself keen to see him once more ensconced in Baker Street with me; for all that, I had never really thought what I might do if he were to be harmed. Watson is an indefatigable sort of fellow: riddle him with bullets, lay him out with fever, give him ever so little to carry on with, and yet every day he stands and staggers onward. I see potentials, of course - with a mind like mine it is impossible to do otherwise - but I had never supposed them very likely. If London could not slow him, I did not imagine that Devon might.
And so I found myself in the uneviable position of knowing Watson mysteriously missing from Baskerville Hall - all his possessions and clothes in situ, his bed slept in but his razor untouched, by all accounts vanished without trace in the night - and myself on the spot and ready to investigate, all a good seven hours before I was supposed to be. I was supposed to be in London; even the most devoted friend would not have been able to reach Devon before the telegram had left the office in the village.
Consequently, I had a choice: reveal my movements, but allow myself to find Watson all the sooner; wait an ungodly seven hours to even begin my search, but maintain the illusion; or somehow contrive to learn all I could from a concealed distance.
I longed for the former to become possible. That Watson was missing, somehow, perhaps hurt, grated upon me like pins in my flesh, claws in my stomach, hot glass under my fingernails. It was not to be borne. But if I played my hand too early, yet worse might occur. It did not seem unreasonable to suppose that it was the investigation that had led to Watson's fate, and even if it were not, the risk to Sir Henry would remain. Exposure was dangerous; waiting was impossible; whatever remained would have to suffice.
I considered this as I walked across the moor. I had sent my errand boy to linger in useful places and bring word to me of anything that was said - any detail, any information, any glace into his room that I was presently so infuriatingly denied - and it was possible that he would bring me something of use, though it seemed unlikely. Meanwhile, I had encircled the Hall at a distance to seek traces of where Watson might have gone, with whom, and in what condition. The traces should have been good: the ground was wet, the earth receptive, and the site was sufficiently isolated as to avoid much irrelevant traffic. And yet I could find no traces of a man - alone, accompanied, well, injured, tall, short, like Watson or as unlike as could be - anywhere around the Hall. It would be as though he had been plucked from the face of the earth by his shirtcollar, were it not for the only footprints I did find, and which I was now - for want of better - following.
They were, to my great irritation, the footprints of a gigantic hound.
I had set little store by the legends I had been told. Naturally. It seemed far more likely that grubby, earthly motives were behind these mysterious movements: money, greed, jealousy and its ilk. But here there was a hound, or at the least the prints of one, and my Watson spirited into the aether, and set against that my certainty that Watson would not have left his post without word for anything but the best reasons. If St Peter himself had descended and invited him away, I truly believe Watson would have lingered long enough at least to leave me a note telling me so. Supernatural forces became more plausible as I walked, solidifying from mist into tangible fears.
My second concern - rather more immediate and real - was that the trail I was so diligently following was leading me entirely back on myself, and that upon turning the next corner I would be standing in front of the little shelter in which I had, of late, been living. Consequently, it was unlikely I was following a trail to Watson, who had vanished whilst I myself had been in the shelter and where I should certainly have noticed him being carried away by a vast, sepulchral hound. There was also, of course, the risk that I should suffer in some way from this dog if I disturbed it in a contained space; by the appearance of these tracks, this hound limped very slightly on two paws, but was also at least six foot in length and even a fairly insignificant dog bite might slow my investigation unforgivably.
I pulled the revolver from my pocket and crept forward. The prints entered my shelter, but did not leave it. Cautiously, I cleared the entryway and lingered in the doorway while my eyes adjusted to the sudden gloom within. The scene which manifested before me was peculiar in its incongruous peacefulness: all my possessions were undisturbed, save for a box of snuff which I carry for disguises and which had been spread over a small stretch of the floor. In its dust had been inexpertly drawn three letters and an arrow; beside it was the silver cigarette case I had once left by a waterfall in Switzerland; and sitting at the arrow's apex, patient and calm and with a distinctly unimpressed air, was an enormous grey wolf.
"Really, Watson, I think I might be forgiven for not knowing you were able to transform into a wolf," I protested gently. "You know my methods; they do not allow for misapplication of the title impossible."
Watson sniffed dismissively, but otherwise went on ignoring me, nosing through the possessions I had already, in the course of only a few days, contrived to spread around the entirety of my little rooms. We had established early on, alongside Watson's identity, that the mind inside this form was the same one I knew and loved; consequently, I ought to take his affected uninterest rather personally. He was cross with me, and the onus was upon me to establish the reason and effect my forgiveness.
Having examined all the evidence of my habitation here, Watson tilted his head at me thoughtfully and trotted over to the desk where his letters were neatly - in truth, almost reverentially - piled. However, as Watson took the stack up in his jaws and began to carry them towards my little fire, I saw that my unexpected neatness, far from conveying respect for their content and their author, made them instead look unread.
"No!" I yelped, launching myself forwards and catching the other end of the letters. Watson looked at me expectantly, such that in my mind's eye I could easily see his raised brow, as though we were home once more and he were only waiting for me to explain why some old shoe or teacup growing mould should not be disturbed from its place. Mere inches from my skin were teeth almost as long as my little finger, a jaw built for breaking bones and rending flesh, and yet he held the letters so delicately that they were hardly dented by the sharp points of his fangs. He would not hurt me. I knew him as no other; I loved none better; I had been too afraid to ask if this was a shape he was likely to hold forever, but I knew that if it should be so I would stay by his side and we would live as well as we might. I could never be afraid of him; I would never wish to hurt him.
"My dear fellow," I said, "those are the most well-thumbed documents in my possession. I have never valued a letter more, I assure you. My presence reflects only upon the severity of the situation; you have done exactly as I could have wished in all things." I wished he would forgive me; more, though, I wished he would let the letters go. I had meant it: I had treasured his letters, alone on the moor and missing his voice. I missed it still, in truth; I needed the letters in case I did not hear it again.
He allowed me to linger with it a moment more, and then took pity. I secured them safely inside my jacket, impulsively passing a hand over my lapel so as to feel them against my side, and when I looked up, Watson was watching me inscrutably with his deep, dark eyes. I felt the back of my neck redden, but I kept my back straight.
Watson flicked his tail, which I was learning was something akin to a smile in this shape, and then, ostentatiously, he looked himself over in his new shape and tilted his head questioningly at me. I reviewed my last words to him and grinned flash-bright and fast. "Well, let us say, almost exactly," I allowed, thinking of the terror I had felt upon discovering his disppearance and which I could happily have been spared. "But perhaps you will be yet more useful in this shape, my boy. You would strike fear into any murderous heart, and you've already proven yourself well able to track a trail across the moor. I dare say it will be a relief to all who love you to know that, should your estimable literary career suffer any blows, you shall yet remain solvent in your new role as a sniffer dog," I declared reassuringly.
Watson, eyes bright and tail wagging, growled at me.
"Truly, dear fellow, I should certainly rather have you than Toby, and so I shall defend you from Mrs Hudson if you shed too much."
Watson lowered his head and set it firmly against my hip, shoving so that I went stumbling backwards with a burst of laughter. Tongue lolling, he bowed and then pounced forwards to lick my hand; I reached out and he put his skull under my palm. I stroked behind his ears, his fur thicker and softer than any I had felt before. My practical knowledge of animals is limited, and restricted in the main to working with dogs such as Toby, but Watson tilted his head patiently to show me how best to please him, and leaned companionably against my leg to reward me for my efforts. His tail wagged even at my inexpert fumbling, and I felt he would forgive me anything.
"My dear fellow," I murmured, rather to myself, "I would defend you from all things in the world."
Watson flicked his ears, leaned his massive jaw against my side, and slowly closed his eyes. My heart clenched uncomfortably, but by his very presence the whole seemed to be lightened and made bearable. That, in defense of my knowledge, I had always known he was able to do.