Chapter Text
Sherlock and John walked steadily towards the inn near Juror's Hollow. They had just been hired by Sir Henry Knight to investigate a massive hound. According to Henry, this apparent hound had killed his father when Henry was a boy. And the other day, when he went down to the moor, he had seen "the footprints of a gigantic hound."
Sherlock sat himself down at one of the empty tables and closed his eyes, steepling his fingers against his lips in that telltale sign that he was entering his mind palace. John heaved a sigh and continued towards the counter to pay.
Sherlock's mind was racing like a freight train, recalling exact details from Henry's story. He was attempting to work out the part he had found most puzzling.
"Henry," Sherlock said. "What do you remember about this hound?"
"Not much," Henry admitted. "I was young and it was quite dark. But," he shuddered, "I do remember it's snarls. It's howls that pierced the air and made my blood run cold. I could not soon forget that."
"But the hound itself. Can you describe it?" Sherlock pressed him.
Henry's expression grew uncomfortable. " I can't."
Sherlock was incredulous. "You can remember the beast's snarls and howls, but you have not even the vaguest memory of what it looked like?"
"Sherlock," John interrupted, frowning pointedly at his flatmate.
"No, he's right," Henry sighed. "I should remember. I close my eyes and I can still see him being ripped apart. There was so much blood..."
"But...?" Sherlock prompted.
"It must have been because I was young...yes, I was young and afraid."
Sherlock's patience was wearing thin. "Get on with it."
"Mister Holmes, though I heard the dog and I saw its damage, I couldn't see it. I swear to you, on my life, that the hound was invisible."
'Invisible,' Sherlock mouthed to himself. He furrowed his brow and this time spoke it aloud. "Invisible."
Sherlock listened as, up at the desk, John was trying to book a room.
"Sorry, we can't do a double room for you boys," the man apologized.
"That's fine. We're not-" he started. The man continued to smile.
"Yes, right, that'll be fine," John relented.
Unhelpful, Sherlock thought to himself, attempting to block out the voices invading his mind palace along with the general murmur of groups at other tables. Sherlock grunted in frustration and opened his eyes, watching as John walked over to the table Sherlock was seated at, flopping tiredly down into a chair next to the detective.
"Invisible," Sherlock said again, now for John's benefit. "Henry said the dog was invisible."
"Maybe just forgot what it looked like," John shrugged. "Or didn't see it properly."
Sherlock wanted to berate his flatmate. Surely, if John just looked at the information, at the facts, he would realize just how important the tidbit of information had been. Not the ramblings of a hallucinating man delirious with grief, but what Henry, at least, believed to be the truth.
"No. If he didn't remember, he would have continued to be adamant about that," Sherlock stated. "And he saw the blood, he saw his father, logically, he would have seen the hound, if it could have been seen."
"Are you suggesting that we have an invisible killer dog on our hands?" John asked him with raised eyebrows.
"I'm suggesting that there is more to this story than what we heard. We're missing something. We have to be." Sherlock folded his hands in front of his face and stared into the distance. John sighed and took a sip of his coffee. No sugar, John never takes sugar, Sherlock's mind supplied uselessly.
"You're the second ones today."
John looked back over his shoulder at the man behind the counter. From his angle, Sherlock didn't have to. The man was facing two very tall men clad in jeans and plaid shirts, one wearing a leather jacket over top.
"The second...?" the taller of the two prompted slowly. Sherlock's brows furrowed and his mind began throwing pointless deductions at him. The taller one was the younger brother, the way the shorter stood in front of him in a subconsciously protective manner. Brothers, obvious. 6'4" and 6'1", Sherlock estimated. American. The older brother, the shorter one, was bowlegged. Sherlock swept away the deductions in agitation and focused on the conversation.
"Well we only have two-bed rooms, sorry," the man behind the counter told them.
The taller one of them looked down for a moment. "Great. Perfect. We'll take one of those."
The man smiled at them and gave them a key.
"Thanks," the shorter one, wearing the leather jacket, nodded, smiling, before turning around. The smile was immediately gone from his face. "Hey, Sam? Why does everyone think we're gay?"
"I don't know," Sam sighed in response. "Let's just find this hound and get the hell back to America."
"Agreed."
The two of them walked out of the inn, right passed John and Sherlock.
"Sherlock." John tapped Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock turned his head towards him. "Yes?"
"Those two men. The ones who just walked out of the door. They're looking for the hound too."
"It's a tourist trap, John. Everyone who comes here is looking for it," Sherlock said pointedly, having caught the information himself but wanting to see if John had observed and listened rather than seen and heard.
"Well, they certainly didn't seem to want to be here. At all. And they're American."
Sherlock gave a pleased little grin and was up and out the door before John could even move. Upon spotting them, seated at the furthest table, Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Finally. Someone interesting."
"What do you mean?" John asked.
"Sit. We look obvious just standing here." Sherlock positioned himself in a chair at the closet table and John sat next to him.
"What do you mean 'interesting'?" John repeated.
"Well, clearly they are American brothers who are here to look for the hound, but they're hiding something."
"Oh, yeah, clearly," John grumbled. "What is it they're hiding?"
"I don't know," Sherlock admitted reluctantly. "But I'm going to find out."
Sherlock leaped to his feet and walked briskly over to the brothers.
"Hello!" Sherlock said in that faked, overly cheerful tone he often used to get information out of unknowing people. The pair of brothers stopped their conversation to turn and look at him. "Yes, hi," Sherlock continued, plastering on a convincing smile. "I'm Sherlock, this is John. It's our first time here, and I was wondering if you had any ideas on where we should go?"
"How about Florida?" the shorter one muttered. "It's great this time of year. Oh wait." He turned to glare at his brother. "We're in England."
Sam pursed his lips and shook his head slightly before turning to smile apologetically at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes deduced rapidly at the closer proximity. Calloused hands, handle weapons often, experienced with wielding guns, likely knives, as well. Knicks and old scars on palms, wrists, and forearms. Hunters, then.
"Sorry about him. I'm Sam and this is Dean. It's our first time here, too."
"Yeah, and probably our last."
"Dean."
"Sam, I had to leave my baby in a parking lot."
"Your baby is in a parking lot in America?" John asked in surprise. Sherlock wanted to snort at the sheer stupidity of the question. John was different than the rest, surely, but he still had his moments.
"No, he means his-"
"His car, John," Sherlock muttered.
"Oh. Oh, of course."
"So what brings you to England, then?" Sherlock asked, once more in that cheery tone, turning back to Sam and Dean. "You after the 'hound of hell' like from the telly?"
"'Telly'? 'Telly '?"
"Dean!"
"I hate this country. Yes, we're looking for the 'hound of hell'," Dean said, suddenly smirking for some reason. "They say it started attacking again?"
"First time in 10 years," Sherlock informed.
Dean nodded, as if those were the words he was expecting to hear. Sherlock squinted slightly. Strange.
"Is it true that it's invisible?" Sam asked eagerly.
Sherlock's perfected smile faltered. He officially catalogued these two into his 'variables'. "What makes you ask that?" he asked cautiously.
"Oh, just word on the street." Obvious lie.
"Well, it was Henry that told us," John said.
"'Henry'?" Dean asked.
"Son of the victim," Sherlock said, biting back the urge to add, "obviously" to the end of the statement.
Sam and Dean exchanged looks, eyes locking in a silent conversation. Close brothers, then. But why investigate this hound? They're hunters; to hunt it, perhaps? Pathetic shot for fame?
"Sam, I think we have someone to talk to," Dean said.
"Agreed," Sam nodded. He focused back on Sherlock and John. "Thank you for your help," he said, not unkindly. The two of the two hunters got up and walked back to the inn, not a word shared between them.
"...What just happened?" John asked.
Sherlock stared thoughtfully at the two brother's backs. "We've just helped them with something."
"Yeah, alright, but what?"
"I'm not quite sure yet."