#prompt: Wilson the canary trainer

[v-thinks-on]

All eyes followed every huddled figure which crossed the darkened dock, but it was not until the early hours before dawn that our weary watch was at last stirred into action.

“Is that…?” Inspector Lestrade whispered, peering at the man bundled beneath a heavy overcoat, hastening past. “Yes, he’s going to the Regulus!”

I glanced at Watson and he at me. His gloved hand closed briefly around mine and I did not need my powers of deduction to know that he would follow me anywhere I went.

“Now!” Lestrade hissed, and all his men leaped into action, and Watson and I with them.

With a hand on Watson’s wrist, I kept us back as the officers rapidly tightened their net around their man, instead we circled around. As the officers drew in, the suspect turned and fled and that was when I sprung. With my long legs, I was inevitably the faster of us two and I reached the man first, my cane out, and he barreled into it, knocking me aside, but Watson was on him in an instant and they crashed to the ground, the officers close behind, turning it all to utter chaos.

“Watson!” I cried. “Out of the way!” My high voice cut through the night, and I was grateful for it.

All fighting ceased and the officers parted to let me though. There I found Watson on the ground, still holding fast to the suspect’s ankle. One of the officers grabbed their man as I knelt down beside Watson, a hand upon him as though that alone might reveal to me how badly he was injured.

“Watson, old fellow, are you unhurt?” I whispered, silently cursing the clumsy officers and wishing we were away from their prying eyes.

He gave a groan and took my hand so that I might help him upright. “After a fashion,” he said with a breathy chuckle, “just winded is all. It is no worse than when I played rugby.”

“You are not so young as you once were,” I cautioned, but his glare silenced me.

I gingerly helped him to his feet, his arm across my shoulders and mine cradled around his waist.

I only distantly heard Inspector Lestrade questioning the suspect, “You claim you’re not the admiral’s son, James Marcus? Then who are you?”

Watson’s legs steadied as he regained his footing, though his hand remained upon my arm.

The suspect answered, “Wilson, the canary trainer.”