Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John moved sluggishly through the living room, blinking sleep from his eyes as he settled in front of his laptop. The morning sun trickled gold through the curtains, beginning to stain the area with orange light. It was one of those quiet mornings that the doctor so liked, where the busy sounds of London seemed distant and muffled. And all to be heard inside the space was his own calm breathing and footsteps.

It only took a quick glance around the cluttered space to notice that Sherlock was out, and had probably been for a while. This was a common occurrence now, the detective liked to tie up loose ends of cases or similar at any ungodly hour he liked. Whenever his brain called for it really. Sherlock wasn’t exactly the kind of man to enjoy a quiet morning in, that was for sure.

He watched as his laptop flickered on, the artificial light making him squint. This morning he planned to add more to his blog, and finish writing about their last case together. The number of people reading his works had increased significantly over the last handful of months, and John couldn’t help but be proud of himself.

If only the detective would agree to read it too, and begin to appreciate why he had so many fun little puzzles to solve. Clients didn’t come to them completely out of the blue, but Sherlock hadn’t quite grown to give at least some credit to the online exposure as John had hoped he would.

He sighed and shook his head, before chuckling slightly. As if Sherlock Holmes would be appreciative. Especially to his writing of all things. What an unnatural thought.

It was an hour or so later when his flatmate returned, and he heard the tell tale sound of Sherlock making his way briskly up the stairs. The same pattern of creaks as usual, the same gait that he had grown oh so accustomed to.

Turning his head, he was about to question the other man’s late arrival, or wish him a good morning, when he froze.

Sherlock entered the room, panting a little, painted from head to toe with rivets of fresh scarlet blood. He stared into space for a moment, but then locked eyes with the ex soldier. Upon noticing John’s presumably paled complexion, he flashed the man a small reassuring smile, before annoyance rapidly took over.

“Well that was tedious.” he spat.

A small glob of coagulated blood dropped from his chin to collar, and John's stomach churned. That was quite gross.

With his worry replaced with exasperation and confusion, the shorter man eventually replied.

“You went on the tube like that?”

It quite obviously wasn’t his blood. John really didn’t want to start running through all the possible scenarios that had put the detective in that situation. Because, quite frankly, he never came close to guessing exactly what Sherlock had spent his morning doing. However, the image of the renowned detective surrounded by people on a train looking like that was undeniably funny.

He wondered if he would be lucky enough for it to end up in the papers. Some desperate journalist scrabbling for a story would surely make John's day. Seeing Sherlock’s reaction to himself in the news was always a great form of entertainment.

“None of the cabs would take me.” he replied absent-mindedly, seemingly not understanding why.

Even if Sherlock was oblivious to that kind of thing, John could understand perfectly why he was turned away. The detective looked like a horror film character for Christ’s sake!

He blinked, confused, still trying to make sense of what was going on. Sherlock strolled past him towards the direction of the bathroom, disappearing after propping the harpoon casually against the wall, like one would do with a walking stick or brolly. Seeing it there was quite surreal.

A penny-sized smudge of crimson marked the faded wallpaper, and the doctor winced inwardly. Mrs Hudson would definitely pick up on that next time she explored up here. And John knew for a fact that bloodstains were particularly hard to get out of the wallpaper without damage. That very issue had been brought up before: Sherlock wasn't exactly careful with some of his samples.

He heard the shower begin to run in the other room, the old pipes rattling in reply, and slowly turned back to his writing, repositioning his hands on the keyboard.

It was probably for the best to ignore it.

Sherlock reappeared a short while later, and John, his writing quickly given up on, had relocated to his armchair. He was attempting to find anything of interest to the other man in the paper, who was pacing back and forth quite vigorously, harpoon nestled back in his hand.

Thankfully, there was no longer a trace of blood on him, but his previously calm and satisfied attitude had been replaced with need and agitation.

“Nothing?” he questioned urgently, watching as John scanned the paper in his hand.

“Military coup in Uganda…”

“Hmmm…”

“Hmm. Another photo of you, in the..."

John grinned, knowing he didn't need to finish his sentence, as Sherlock groaned in frustration. He really hated the hat, the picture of which had spread like wildfire. He was pretty sure Greg had made arrangements for it to be printed onto a Christmas card for the detective.

He turned his attention back to the newspaper.

"Oh, erm, cabinet re-shuffle..."

"Nothing of importance! Oh, god!" Sherlock shouted, ceasing his pacing momentarily to bang the harpoon onto the floorboards.

John raised an eyebrow slightly, but ignored him, knowing where his frustration was leading.

"John I need some. Get me some."

His voice was hard, and wrecked with desperation.

"No."

"Get me some!"

"No! Cold turkey, we agreed. No matter what."

He held up a finger and pointed it in Sherlock's direction, narrowing his eyes to match. The taller man harrumphed and tossed his weapon to the side. It fell with a clatter, taking some stray sheets of paper with it. But he took no notice.

"Besides, you sold everyone off. No one in a two mile radius will sell you any." John added.

"Stupid idea, whose idea was that..."

John cleared his throat.

"Mrs Hudson!"

Snapping out of whatever withdrawal trance he had been in, the detective began to grab items at random, burrowing into the numerous artefacts around him with the energy of a frenzied animal.

John gave him a stern, yet pitiful look, craning his head to watch the act.

"Look, Sherlock, you're doing really well. Don't give up now!" he said loudly, so to be heard over the cacophony of rustling and clattering.

Sherlock whirled upwards and fixed his collegue with an intense stare, straightening his previously hunched back as he did so. Swallowing dryly, the doctor locked eyes with him.

"Tell me where they are. Please. Tell me."

His words fell out of his mouth, rushed and frantic.

"Please."

To think if the public could see this, the man they admired, turned to a pathetic begging mush when deprived of a few cigarettes. John was transfixed for a moment, lost in his pleading gaze, before he hardened his resolve.

"Can't help, sorry."

He turned away, not wanting his flatmate to see just how close he came to giving in. It felt absolutely horrible to torture his friend like this, but it was for his own good. Once he got used to it, both Sherlock's body and mind would thank him. They just had to get through this tough period without John giving in, or the other man somehow finding a way to feed his addiction.

It was already a lot of work, but it was undoubtedly going to be worth it.

Words could not describe how happy John had been when the other man had come seeking his help in quitting smoking. And, because he was such a good friend, he was going to see the process to the end.

The curly haired man gave him a hopeful look.

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers."

John chuckled, immediately dismissing his bribery attempt.

"Oh, it was worth a try."

No, it really wasn’t. But John had the sense to keep those thoughts to himself.

The detective’s voice was laced with bitterness, and his neck snapped to the side, eyes fixed on the fireplace. He scrambled towards it, hands tearing at the various books and papers that lay around it. The doctor pointedly didn't look at him.

"Yoo-hoo!"

Mrs Hudson strolled in cheerily, a smile across her face. A small amount of relief coursed through his stomach, Mrs Hudson was good with this kind of thing.

The woman was wearing a different dress than usual. It was nice, probably new.

"My secret supply, what have you done with my secret supply?!" Sherlock fretted from his position by the fireplace.

"Hey?"

A quizzical look was painted on their landlady’s face, before she chuckled slightly, resting her arm on the back of his chair.

"You know you never let me touch your things...oh, chance would be a fine thing." she said, gesturing to the mess spread around their flat.

"I thought you weren't my house keeper."

Giving up the useless fireplace scour, he began pacing again, grabbing the harpoon again. It must give some sort of comfort he supposed.

"I'm not, but how about a nice cuppa? And perhaps you could put your harpoon down...”

She gave the weapon a disapproving look.

Her keen eyes continued to flit around the room, and sure enough, they quickly landed on the bloodstain.

"And what the hell have you done to my wallpaper!? That better not be blood young man.”

Her eyes grew dark and angry as she regarded her agitated tenant, and the ex soldier felt himself grow glad he was not subject to her gaze. He had not forgotten how scary she was each time a new hole or dent appeared in their space. Sherlock was amazingly immune to it, but John was not.

The landlady found her probing statement ignored, and once realizing Sherlock really didn’t care, she turned to look in his direction.

Gulping slightly, he gave Mrs Hudson what he hoped was an apologetic smile, though he feared it may have come out more like a grimace. However, it must have done the trick, as the older woman graciously decided to cease her reprimands. Thank God.

Drama forgotten, the pair both focused their gaze back on Sherlock, whose brain had only just seemed to have caught up with Mrs Hudson’s previous suggestion.

“Tea? I need something stronger than tea! Perhaps seven percent stronger...”

He jolted the harpoon up, aiming it at Mrs Hudson's face, pulling out a strangled gasp of surprise from the woman. His dark rimmed eyes scanned her appearance, his hands moving the harpoon as a lecturer would point a stick.

John felt anger begin to bubble in his stomach. No matter how bad he felt, he had no right to take it out on Mrs Hudson.

"Sherlock please-"

"You've been seeing Mr. Chatterjee again." Sherlock said loudly, cutting his flatmate off completely.

Of course.

"Pardon?" squeaked Mrs Hudson, fresh worry leaking out of her eyes.

"Sandwich shop, that's a new dress, but there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking."

His words came all out once, falling from his mouth faster than they should.

"Sherlock." John tried again, to the same result.

"Thumbnail, tiny traced of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads don't we?"

The detective paused his rant to take a large, exaggerated sniff, before continuing to analyse.

"Mm, Casbah Nights. Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning wouldn't you agree? I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes, it's all on the website, you should look it up."

Mrs Hudson looked on the verge of tears.

"Please."

"I wouldn't put your hopes on that cruise with Mr. Chatterjee. He's got a wife in Doncaster, that nobody knows about."

"Sherlock!"

"Well, nobody but me."

Finally, his college stopped, and threw his hands up in annoyance, his chest heaving. John looked worriedly in their landlady's direction. She wobbled slightly where she stood, and her voice cracked when she spoke.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't!"

She ran out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her. The taller man flopped onto his chair, miserably wrapping his arms around his knees, his eyes still wide and darting. The doctor slammed down his newspaper angrily.

"What the bloody hell was all that about?"

He sighed.

"You don't understand."

"Go after her, and apologize."

His friend looked up at him, baffled.

"Apologize?"

He spat the word out like it was a particularly nasty insect, horror in his eyes.

"Uh-hu." he hummed coldly in confirmation.

Sherlock shouldn't have talked to the woman like that. And he was determined to get a half decent apology out of him, even if it killed him. And, unfortunately, he felt like it would.

"Oh John...I envy you so much."

"You envy me." the doctor said flatly, unbelieving.

"Your mind. It's so placid, straightforward, barely used."

Was that an insult? It was.

"Mine's like an engine, racing out of control. A rocket tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad. I need a case!" he shouted.

God, this man was a wreck. He pitied him, he really did, but he didn't half know how to drive him mental.

"You've just solved one! By harpooning a dead pig apparently." John yelled in return.

No, he couldn't lose his temper too much. That wasn't going to help anyone. He tried to calm the angry heat that had settled over his cheeks, taking a few deep breaths, convincing himself that it was the addiction talking, not really Sherlock. Except that wasn't really true, and he knew it.

"That was this morning John, when's the next one?"

Similar to a spring, he uncurled himself quickly, and spread his limbs out. Practically shaking with contained energy, he tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair.

"Is there nothing on the website?" John suggested.

Because, to his knowledge, there had been a constant influx in requests flowing into their inbox recently. Surely there had to be something that would interest him there.

Sherlock got up angrily and grabbed the laptop, handing it to him. He took it without question.

"Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes. I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please,please can you help?"

"Bluebell?"

"A rabbit John!" The consultant detective spat venomously.

He had to hide a small smirk with his hand, knowing that it really wouldn't help with the situation. So he had been looking at the website's possible cases.

"Ah, but there's more!"

Woohoo?

"Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous!"

He raised his voice an octave, much to John's amusement.

"Like a fairy!"

Then he continued normally. Well, as normal as Sherlock Holmes could be, which wasn't saying much.

"According to little Kirsty that is. Then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry."

Well, could he really blame kids for reaching out to him with their problems, now that he was bordering famous? To Sherlock or any other adult, that rabbit may seem utterly trivial, but to a child like Kirsty, it could be their whole world. A perfectly reasonable excuse to contact a detective if you asked him. Not that his opinion was needed.

The whole time, Sherlock had been waving his arms around all nilly-willy, to illustrate the story, and his voice had been dripping thickly with fake worry for 'Bluebell' the rabbit. However, as quickly as he had started, the man froze, and an amazed look flashed across his face.

He gasped.

"What am I saying? This is brilliant. Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."

John stared at him.

"You're serious?"

"It's this or Cluedo." he added with an innocent smile.

"Ah, no."

He moved the laptop quickly, and started to stand. Anything else was better than another Cluedo session with the man. Seriously, anything.

"We are never playing that again." he shuddered, and carried the laptop back over to its rightful place on the desk.

Papers were still strewn about everywhere, but he decided not to complain for now. Hell, even his favourite writing pen had been lost to the abyss. Bugger.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, looking uncharacteristically hurt.

John gave him a half-hearted glare.

"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it Sherlock."

"It was the only possible solution..."

The confusion in his words was evident.

"It's not in the rules."

"Well, then the rules are wrong!"

He raised his voice again, some of his previous anger returning in full swing.

It was at that moment the distinctive sound of their doorbell rang loudly, and the two froze.

"Single ring."

"Maximum pressure just under the half second."

They both turned slowly to look at each other, with matching looks of excitement, and spoke simultaneously.

"Client!"

Chapter Text

The client, who was now sat anxiously across from Sherlock, was a haunted looking man, with short hair a similar colour to his own. And haunted was the best word to describe it. John recognised that kind of person, he saw that expression on the faces of all too many clients who had all sat, scared, in the same place. People who had seen and lived with far too much horror, much more than the average person. It was easy to identify them once you got used to hearing their stories. Soon enough, they would all blend together.

The doctor always tried his darnedest to make them feel comforted, and welcome. This was not an easy task, when paired with someone as to-the-point as Sherlock Holmes. But still, he tried.

The man in question had introduced himself as Henry Knight, in a rather shaky voice after being ushered inside some ten minutes prior. He was a soft spoken person, which was a pleasant change from the usual clientele that they were saddled with. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and had strikingly blue eyes.

He seemed quite sweet really, and John rather quickly found himself wanting to help with Henry's issue. Whatever it may be, which he knew was soon to be discovered.

After an awkward exchange of the regular niceties, Henry had presented them with a disc, and insisted they watched it: a documentary on Baskerville. He had said, rather quietly, that it would help to explain. He had tried to give them an overview of why he was seeking help, but it hadn't accomplished all that much. Henry gave off the impression of someone who didn't tend to talk much, if at all.

"Dartmoor. It's always been a place of myth and legend. But is there something else lurking out here? Something...very real?" the narrator's voice warbled out of their speakers, accompanied with various scenic shots of the countryside.

The trio sat in silence watching what seemed to be some sort of conspiracy theory: the type that tourists and the internet these days ate up. But he watched without complaint, wanting to be respectful of Henry, and what was to come. To his side, Sherlock also watched the screen, an unreadable expression strewn across his pale features.

"Because Dartmoor is also home to one of the government's most secretive operations..."

He raised an eyebrow.

"...the Chemical and Biological Weapons Research Centre, which is said to be even more sensitive than Porton Down. Since the end of the second world war, there have been persistent stories about the Baskerville experiments. Genetic mutations, animals grown for the battlefield."

The woman on screen paused to take a breath, and the camera zoomed dramatically towards her face.

"There are many who believe that within this compound, in this heart of ancient wilderness, there are horrors beyond imagining. But the real question is...are all of them still inside?"

The shot cut away from the narrator, and she was instead replaced with Henry's own face, looking down solemnly in a darkened room. He was dressed like one would for a job interview, and John could feel his nervousness radiating through the screen.

He began to speak quietly at the camera, his hands fidgeting uncontrollably.

"I was just a kid. It was on the moor. It was dark, but I know what I saw."

He took a shuddering breath and looked straight into the camera.

"I know what killed my father-"

The screen flashed to black, and John looked curiously at the detective, who was holding the remote.

"What did you see?"

His voice broke the quiet in the room, and Henry stammered slightly.

"Oh, I...I was just about to say-"

He gestured hopelessly to the television, and cast a confused look in their direction. Sherlock tutted before answering.

"Yes, in a TV interview. I prefer to do my own editing."

Henry, as if he had forgotten just who the detective was, let out a baffled noise of agreement. Though it was obvious that he had no clue what he was agreeing to.

Then, he added more firmly: "Sorry, yes, of course."

Sherlock looked more pleased, and folded his hands under his chin as he always did when listening to clients. The ex soldier looked at him with fondness in his eyes for a brief moment, before looking back at the page of notes he was taking for the blog. He loved it when Sherlock did that. Though he would never admit it out loud.

Henry looked miserable where he sat, and fished in his jacket pocket for a tissue.

"Excuse me..."

He blew his nose gently, before carefully shoving the tissue back. John tried to give him a kind look, sensing that this was a difficult subject. One wrong move and they could lose a jumpy client like Henry.

"In your own time-" he started softly, but the consultant detective cut him off.

"But quite quickly."

He flashed a pleasant smile in Henry's direction, which John knew only served to cover up his annoyance at the speed they were proceeding at.

"Do you know Dartmoor Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

Sherlock answered quickly, obviously keen to move on.

"It's an amazing place, it's like nowhere else. It's sort of bleak...but beautiful."

John cringed slightly, he knew Sherlock hated listening to tangents like that. They wasted his time apparently, and made it harder to focus on the information that mattered.

"Hmm. Not interested. Moving on"

That amused him to a small degree: he had called it, as usual. But still, he sent Sherlock a sideways exasperated look, to try and get him to loosen up. Henry was clearly terrified to be here, and they needed to not be too forward.

His warning was dutifully ignored by the taller man, and Henry continued.

"We used to go for walks after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we'd go out onto the moor."

Sherlock cut him off again, and smiled pleasantly.

"Yes, good skipping to the night your dad was violently killed...where did that happen?"

He briefly debated intervening, seeing Henry getting more agitated, but he quickly decided against it. He knew from experience it was best to let Sherlock just get on with it, insensitive or not.

Their guest looked rather shocked, but thankfully swallowed down his disbelief. He was surprisingly resilient, John had to give him that.

"There's a place, a sort of local landmark called...Dewers' Hollow." he stammered.

The way he pronounced the name almost sent chills down the doctor's spine. He seemed so full of fear, it was fresh and alive, leaking, no, flowing through his words like a swelling river. Whatever this place was, they could all be sure it could be no good. Presumably that was where it happened, where a young Henry had to watch his father die. It was pitiful and terrifying at the same time.

Sherlock shrugged, evidently unaffected by the name, unlike himself. Henry looked a bit confused, probably expecting his words to have more effect on the man. He tried again.

"That's an ancient name for the devil."

"So?"

He could sense the tension rippling in the air: Sherlock's growing impatience, and Henry's anger and confusion. John decided to cut in the best he could. Even if Sherlock was making his disbelief clear, the doctor could try and humour him to the best of his ability. Then the guest would feel as though at least someone was on his side. And perhaps he would still stay.

"Did you see the devil that night?"

Turning his attention over to John, Henry locked gaze with him.

"Yes." he whispered, barely audible.

The room stayed silent, the very foundation of the building stilling, urging him to continue, with its unspoken voice. Which he did, emotion sewn deep and raw into his words.

"It was huge. Coal black fur, with red eyes. It got him. Tore at him, tore him apart."

Henry stopped and sniffed, small glinting tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He did not let them fall. And really John couldn't blame him. If what the man said was true, then seeing his father killed by a monster like that would have left an irreversible scar on Henry's life. He knew all too well that mental scars like that, they could never be fully healed.

"I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found."

So as a young child, Henry had spent the whole night out there, with a creature dangerous enough to kill a grown man? And he had survived, without a single memory. If true that was nothing short of heartbreaking. He must have been so scared, not understanding what was going on, not knowing how to get home. Had he found somewhere to hide, or run? But even so, he had just been a child. Could a child remember and comprehend something like that accurately? Hell, what kind of creature could do that anyway?

"Hmm. Red eyes, coal black fur, enormous...some sort of dog? Wolf?" John mused, more to himself than the others around him.

He knew both of those possibilities and more would have already crossed their minds: Sherlock being, well, Sherlock, and Henry having twenty years to torture himself about the subject.

"Or a genetic experiment."

His college turned to him, a small smile playing on his lips. He wasn't believing a word of this.

"Are you laughing at me Mr. Holmes?" the other man said, his anger simmering.

"Why, are you joking?"

Sherlock was having too much fun pushing an already distraught man. It was cruel.

"My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville. About the types of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him."

He paused yet again to take another shaky breath, only this time it was fabricated from anger, not nervousness.

"At least the TV people took me seriously."

John was almost beginning to miss the man's previously somber and anxious attitude.

"I assume that did wonders for the Devon tourism..." Sherlock added, face neutral.

Biting his lip, John resisted the urge to facepalm. Either himself or the dark haired man, he wasn't picky.

"Henry." he started, trying to change the subject.

"Whatever did happen to your father, it was twenty years ago. Why come to us now?"

The man ignored his question, instead regarding the detective again. John couldn't help but feel disappointed, but he chose not to press on the matter.

"I'm not sure you can help me Mr. Holmes, since you find it all so funny." he spat.

Getting up quickly, Henry took several wide places to the door, closing the distance quickly. John felt himself panicking, he had been getting quite into this case. If he left now, it would certainly bug the two of them, even if Sherlock seemed unbothered now. The ex soldier knew from experience that even cases he didn't like stayed on his mind if unsolved. Living with him during such periods sure made John a lot more miserable. He wasn't keen to repeat it again.

"Because of what happened last night." Sherlock stated.

Their guest stopped in his tracks, and turned back to look at him.

"Why, what happened last night?"

Yet again, John was ignored. He wasn't surprised, but definitely annoying.

"How...how did you know?"

The detective rolled his eyes.

"I didn't know, I noticed."

Oh god, here we go.

"Came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day."

He paused his rambling for only a moment, just long enough to take a breath.

"Sit down Mr. Knight. And please do smoke, I'd be delighted."

John was sure of that, and he sighed, feeling awkwardness creep back up his nape. Tentatively, the man made his way back to his seat, looking dazed. He sat down gingerly, as if worried the chair would explode beneath him.

He didn't show it well, his face masked with no emotion, but John could tell his colleague was feeling extremely smug. As usual.

"How on earth did you notice all that?"

"It's really not important-" John said, tried, and failing, to stop what he knew would inevitably come.

"Punched out holes where your tickets been checked-"

"Not now Sherlock."

"Oh, please? I've been cooped up in here for ages."

"You're just showing off." he replied bitterly.

"Of course."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up straighter in his chair.

"I'm a show off. That's what we do."

At least he was aware of it, that was a start. But still, Henry was impressed enough by the initial assessment. He didn't need to know more. But it wasn't like the doctor could stop him. And hey, it was better than smoking or harpooning things. There's an upside to everything the man did if you squinted hard enough.

"Train napkin you used to clean your spilt coffee. Strength of the stain shows you didn't take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it, round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast. Or the nearest things that those trains can manage-probably a sandwich."

Henry looked down at his sleeve with a frown, looking disturbed at the tiny stain, and not quite believing it was there. He slowly fished the napkin out again, and wiped his mouth, looking like he had seen a ghost.

"How did you know it was disappointing?"

"Are there any other types of breakfast on a train?"

Well, that was certainly true. But Sherlock wasn't finished, in fact, he was just getting started.

"The girl, female handwriting, quite distinctive, wrote her number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle that she wrote that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later, she got off I imagine, you used the napkin to mop up the spilt coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You've been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now though, you used the napkin to blow your nose: maybe you're not so keen after all. Then, there's the nicotine stains on your finger nails, and shaking hands. I know the signs. No chance to smoke on the train, no time to roll one before you got a cab here. It's just after 9:15, you're desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at 5:46 am. You got the first one possible, so something important happened last night. Am. I. Wrong?"

Sherlock's speech ended almost as soon as it began, and the living room faded to silence once again. The man in question, who had been analysed within an inch of his life, blinked slowly.

"No. You're...right? Almost one hundred percent correct. That's absolutely incredible-"

"Almost?"

Sherlock cut across Henry's hesitant compliment, sounding uncharacteristically worried.

"What did I get wrong?"

Henry stared.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it does. Now tell me. Quickly."

This kind of thing really rattled the genius. And, since it happened so rarely, the man had a tendency to, er, obsess over small, missed details. Such obsessions could last a while.

"It wasn't a girl."

"Sorry?"

"A girl didn't give me her number- it was a man."

Sherlock looked lost, and unfolded his hands, leaning forward subconsciously in his chair.

"A man?"

"Yes."

"But the handwriting..."

His voice trailed off, and John watched through the corner of his eye as he furrowed his eyebrows. He decided to input, not wanting his friend to beat himself up over something so insignificant while another was watching.

"Sherlock, I guess his handwriting was just in a minority. Nothing you could have predicted."

Sherlock slowly turned to look at him, his blue eyes full of confusion, and frustration.

"Yes...yes. I suppose you're right."

"But other than that, you got everything!" Henry added gleefully.

"No wonder you're famous-"

"You're gay?"

Oh no. This couldn't be happening. John winced and debated hiding his head in his hands, before deciding against it for the sake of maturity.

"Er-"

"It's a yes or no question Henry. You said that I was right other than gender, which means you were initially interested in him. Not many straight men can say that."

Seriously, this couldn't be happening. He knew Sherlock didn't mean badly, but when going into such a socially delicate subject with a personality like his...well, offense could easily be taken.

"I'm not sure how that information would help your investigation, Mr. Holmes." Henry said carefully.

"Mr. Knight. I can assure you every single scrap of information I gather from you is used, and filed away. It helps me analyse and understand your behaviour, why you make the decisions you do, and thus, what was going through your mind when your father died. Every bit of information helps. Every, single, piece. Now answer my question. If you please."

John fidgeted where he sat, trying his best to give Henry an apologetic look. This really wasn't the way he thought this interview would go. Was it just him, or was it getting hot in here?

"Well, if you believe it will help..."

"It will."

"Then I am. Gay, that is."

"Hmm. Boyfriend?"

"No...you said I was interested in the train guy remember? I wouldn't take his number if I had a partner."

"Unfaithfulness is in every type of relationship." Sherlock added quickly.

"I wouldn't do that."

The man looked to be growing more and more uncomfortable as the time ticked on. He reached up a hand and ran it through the hair on the back of his head, before resting it back in his lap.

The doctor opened his mouth to speak- glad for the silence for once

"Sherlock, how about we focus on something else?"

They locked gaze, an unreadable expression dancing in his eyes. John tried his best to convey his thoughts without letting Henry see, practically begging the detective to leave the subject alone. He gave him a small nod, and the matter was closed, for now at least.

"Have a cigarette Mr. Knight, please."

Henry gave him an odd look, before nodding his head and pulling out a cigarette with trembling hands. Sherlock watched intently as the smoke curled into the air, its grimy fingers grasping at the ceiling. He inhaled deeply, trying to catch a whiff of the drug he was craving.

"Henry, your parents both died, and you were what? Seven years old?

"I know but..."

He stopped talking as Sherlock stood and moved closer, trying to breathe in the smoke before it dissipated throughout the room. He then returned to his seat, smiling as if nothing happened.

Henry stared.

"That must be quite a trauma. Have you ever thought that you invited this story, this..."

Sherlock lunged and sniffed again, interrupting John's train of thought.

"...to account for it?"

"That's what doctor Mortimer says."

"Who?"

"My therapist."

"His therapist. Obviously."

The two men talked simultaneously, causing Henry to do a double take in shock, yet again. Sherlock flashed him a grumpy closed mouth smile, bored of showing off, finally.

"Louise Mortimer. She's the reason I came back to Dartmoor. She said I had to...face my demons." Henry confirmed.

But Sherlock wasn't really interested. Of course he wasn't.

"What happened when you returned to Dewers' Hollow last night Henry? You went there on the advice of a therapist, and now you're consulting a detective. What did you see that changed your mind?" he probed.

Sherlock was right, John had to admit. It wouldn't make sense for the disturbed man to be seeking their aid if not for witnessing something the night before. Something that rattled him deeply enough to get the soonest train possible: allowing barely enough time to gather the facts.

"It's a strange place, the Hollow. Makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid."

His voice was sad, and quiet again, any anger or discomfort left behind on his trip down memory lane. It was always strange to witness just how fast people's moods could change under Sherlock's control, sitting in that chair. Strange, but magnificent. Much like the detective himself.

"Yes, if I wanted to read poetry, I'd read John's emails to his girlfriend's. Much funnier."

Excuse me? His what's?

...they would be discussing this later.

"What did you see Henry. Get to the point."

"Footprints. On the exact spot where my father was torn apart." Henry whispered.

Well, that was a tad anti climactic. If the Hollow was a local landmark as he said, people, tourists, must visit it frequently. It was just a bad coincidence Henry has seen them in that exact spot, before they were washed away by the rain.

"Man's or a woman?"

"Neither."

The doctor looked up in confusion, his pen ceased mid sentence. An animal's? That was less likely but still very possible. With it being surrounded with woodland and all that.

"They were-"

"Is that it? Nothing else? Footprints- is that all?"

The taller man's tone was condescending, he was obviously frustrated at wasting so much time on a boring case.

"Yes but they were-"

Sherlock didn't let him finish.

"No, sorry, Doctor Mortimer wins. Childhood trauma mashed by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye Mr. Knight. Thank you for smoking."

Making his way to the kitchen, Sherlock casually buried his hands in his pockets and turned his back on the client. It was a no-so-subtle way of letting someone know they were overstaying their welcome. One of the genius's numerous psychological techniques that John had grown to recognise, by pattern. It was mean, but successful more often than not.

"No, but what about the footprints?"

Henry twisted his back to look at the detective, not getting the message.

"Oh, well, they're probably paw prints, could be anything, therefore nothing. Off to Devon with you. Have cream tea on me."

"Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound."

The figure froze where he stood, before turning around and walking back quickly, his bored manner replaced by a serious one.

"Say that again."

"I found footprints, they were..."

"No,no,no your exact words. Repeat your exact words from a moment ago, exactly as you said them."

"Mr. Holmes. They were the footprints of a gigantic...hound"

John watched as a gleeful smile spread over the other's face. Huh...oh no.

"I'll take the case."

Chapter Text

"Sorry, what?"

John blinked in surprise, looking at his college for explanation. Sherlock ignored him, as always, and looked rather deep in thought.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention, it's very promising." he said to Henry, who looked just as confused as John felt.

"No,no,no. Sorry, what? A minute ago footprints were boring, and now they're very promising?"

This man seriously had issues. Though, he did already know that. He had identified it quite early on in fact.

"It's got nothing to do with footprints. As ever John, you weren't listening."

Of course it was his fault! If only his intellect was as swollen as Sherlock's, then he might be able to make sense of whatever ran through his mind.

"Ever heard of Baskerville?"

He frowned, trying to remember.

"Vaugly. It's very hush-hush."

"It sounds like a good place to start." he smiled.

Henry, who still looked very lost, began to stand.

"So you'll come down then?"

He looked hopeful, his sad eyes looking brighter than they had all morning. It made John miserable to think just how desperate he must have been, just how intent to prove he wasn't insane. Whatever they did find, the doctor didn't know wherever it would either give him salvation, or destroy him.

Sherlock grinned.

"Of course! A twenty year old disappearance, monstrous hound: I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

He made his way out of the door, presumably to pack in his room, not stopping to bid the two goodbye. Henry made a small sound of disappointment, before turning to face the doctor.

"Thank you for listening, Doctor Watson. I should be going."

"Won't you travel with us?" John asked, not wanting him to feel unwelcome.

"I'm sorry, I wanted to do something while I was here in London first. I hope you don't mind."

Deciding not to pry about the nature of said activity, he stood and placed his notes on the desk.

"That's quite alright Henry. And please, call me John."

Henry looked quite pleased.

"Well then, John, you will want to make your way to Grimpen village, there's an inn there that the pair of you can stay at. I'll be very happy to pay the fair for your stay, if that's what you want."

Could he get any sweeter?

"I'll ask Sherlock, but that probably won't be necessary. Thank you though."

"Well, let me know."

He held out his arm to John, a scrap of paper resting lightly on his palm. He took it hesitantly, before realising that it was his contact details.

"Thank you."

Henry nodded, and walked out, leaving John alone where he stood. He shoved the paper into his pocket before making his way to his room to pack.

To be honest, they didn't really have much of a timescale to work with here. They could be there for days or weeks depending on what Sherlock deducted. And knowing him, he would want to 'prolong the hunt' to make it more exciting. Which called for more shirts.

When he had his moderately sized travel bag packed, he made his way downstairs to where Sherlock was waiting. He looked very excited, practically shaking on the spot with pent up, case caused, energy. When he saw his blogger, his eyes lit up, and he swung the door open.

"Henry had something to do so he won't travel with us."

"I know."

John wasn't even going to ask how, because he knew it would make no sense no matter how the taller man attempted to explain it. He had learnt from a lot of experience.

They hailed a cab, and Sherlock made his way towards it, his attention clearly caught by something in Mrs. Hudson's shop. Soon, John could hear shouting, and their landlady threw a large hunk of bread at the glass window in rage, creating a loud bang.

She was arguing with Mr. Chatterjee, John could hear mentions of 'wives' and 'cruises' amongst an array of swear words. She really was a scary lady.

He stood next to Sherlock, both of their heads turned to watch the spectacle.

"Looks like Mrs. Hudson finally found out about the wife in Doncaster."

"Wait till she finds out about the one in Islamabad."

Laughing to himself, John clambered into the vehicle: Sherlock had wordlessly opened the door for him. He greeted the driver, and placed the two bags in a way that they wouldn't bother his college.

It was a silly thing to admit, but he had always avoided taking taxis since their run in with the cabbie murderer. They made him feel rather uneasy.

"Paddington station please." Sherlock said to the driver, as he settled into the seat beside John and the bags.

The cab began to move, joining the steady flow of traffic in the dreary London streets. John yawned slightly, and groaned internally at the thought of the long journey ahead of them, still not quite comfortable with the silent figure driving.

Thinking of it, the doctor had never actually visited Dartmoor. Maybe this could be enjoyable, if you forgot about the whole monster hunting part.

At the very least, he hoped they would find somewhere to sit down and have some tea at some point. Sherlock had a tendency to abandon rest stops and food for the sake of cases, which always brought John's spirits down. All those times he had been dragged around...

John came back to reality and tore his gaze away from the window, realising that Sherlock had been looking at him. He gave the man an inquisitive look.

"You ok?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied quickly, without a shred of hesitation.

John frowned slightly.

"Look, are you sure about this? It does seem a bit far fetched, even for your standards."

Sherlock hummed, and gave the ex soldier a small, hesitant smile.

"Worried about monstrous hounds John?"

Worried? He was beyond worried about what they were driving blindly into. Hound or not, he knew nothing good was going to come from this case. Besides helping Henry.

"I'm pretty sure Henry only mentioned one horrible, vicious monster, thank you very much." he replied, and Sherlock's smile grew brighter.

"You never know what we'll find...sounds like a spooky place"

"Oh shut up."

He shifted uncomfortably where he sat. Because of the two large bags next to him, his position was already getting uncomfortable. The drive to the station hopefully wouldn't take too long.

The consultant detective grinned, and then, without a word, grabbed the handle of the closest bag and pulled it over to his side. John was confused for a moment, before giving him a thankful nod. That was much better.

"To answer your question John, no."

"No?"

"No, I'm not completely sure about what we are getting ourselves into. Believe it or not, I'm in the dark about that. However, I know that all great cases have odd, unpredictable starts like this. It will be a great addition to your blog, after we solve it."

"You sure seem confident."

"Have you met me?"

That was true. Very true.

"You can't say much, you've never read it." he added, referring to the blog.

Sherlock looked at him, puzzled.

"Of course I have. I still don't think it's necessary, but your writing is good."

He sounded strangely sincere, not a common emotion for the taller man. To say he was surprised was an understatement. John always thought that the consultant detective had been avoiding his blog to either make a point, or just because he didn't care for it.

But he had actually read some of it? That was...nice?

"How come you never mentioned?"

"I didn't want to feed your massive ego."

"Seriously?"

"Well, sort of. I just kind of thought you knew. I did quote it to you several times. Not my fault if you weren't paying attention." he said, getting a little defensive.

"You do realise that half the time you talk to me I'm not actually there?"

Sherlock quietened, seeming lost for a reply. Luckily, their journey was about to come to its end, pulling them both out of the awkward conversation.

The cab pulled into the station car park, they got out, and Sherlock paid the fair. The sky was beginning to drizzle, and John looked up at the grey clouds brewing overhead. Typical British weather. With a bag each, they entered the hustle and bustle of the station, trying to find their platform in time.

...

It was only after the train ride, and after picking up a rather swanky rental jeep(courtesy of Scotland Yard) that John finally relaxed, to a small degree. They were out of the most urban part now, meaning much less traffic as they delved deeper into the countryside. And no more creepy taxi drivers.

Sherlock was driving, he had insisted, and some radio station was playing quietly in the background. Though, he knew neither of them were really listening to it. The detective wasn't the best at 'chatting' for long periods of time, and neither was he to be fair.

For now, they had just been enjoying each other's company without speaking. Gradually, as their friendship had deepened, they had both agreed this was the best course of action for things like car rides. For both of their mental sakes.

However, John was starting to get bored. And, whilst wracking his brain for something to start a conversation with, he remembered something he had meant to bring up earlier.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

He paused for a second, debating dropping it, before continuing.

"How come you were, well...pushing Henry so hard about his sexuality? It wasn't as big of a deal as you made it."

Waiting for the other man to respond, he fiddled subconsciously with his sleeve, sensing this topic wasn't the most fun.

"I wasn't pushing him. I need the information I need John, you know your small, placid mind can't comprehend that. Don't start trying." he said flatly.

When they had first met, that kind of comment would have hurt, but with time John had grown to recognise that it was a defensive mechanism of sorts.

"You were pushing him Sherlock. He was uncomfortable."

"And why do you care?"

John scoffed, his voice growing louder.

"I care about all of our clients-"

"No you don't. You usually let me get on with it. I've gone much further than that before, and you've never batted an eye. What makes Henry so special?"

Sherlock said their clients name venomously, spitting it out like it had left a bad taste on his tongue. Clenching his fist, the doctor tried to take deep breaths, calming himself.

"What exactly are you implying?"

"I'm not implying anything."

His voice had grown cold, and bitter as he kept his eyes religiously trained on the road.

"You definitely are implying something, I know that tone of voice."

He better not mean what John thought he did.

"I'm just saying, you don't usually care so much about clients. That's all. And for the record, he's not that bad looking, if you like that sort of thing..."

"Sherlock!" John cut him off angrily.

How could he think of something like that, that John was giving Henry special treatment or something? He was a guy for heaven's sake!

"I'm straight Sherlock."

"I never said you weren't."

"Even if I wasn't, that wouldn't be an ok thing to say anyway. Henry is obviously terrified of something, whether it's real or not, and damn it Sherlock I want to help. I've dealt my my fair deal of fucking trauma, and it wasn't even close to what he experienced! So please, for the love of God, try to show him some respect."

He took a shuddering breath and grew quiet, regretting his outburst slightly. But it was important that the other man understood.

"Let's stop here."

Wow. He wasn't even going to answer, after all of that. The nerve of this man...

Sherlock stopped the car along the side of the road. They had to be close now, the area was mostly fields and large rock structures. Sherlock disappeared behind one, reappearing moments later at the top whilst John peered at the map, trying to get a sense of where they were. All the vegetation looked rather...samey.

"That's Baskerville." he called out, unsure if Sherlock could hear him, or, if he was even listening.

He swiveled the map round, matching it to the small cluster of buildings in the valley below.

"Uh, and that's Grimpen village."

"So that must be...yes, Dewers' Hollow."

The sunlight was making it a little hard to see without squinting, so it took longer than usual for the ex soldier to get his bearings. But it was a beautiful view. Sherlock replied a moment later, realising that John had brought the map with him.

"What's that?" he questioned, pointing ahead.

John raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, aiming them in the direction that the detective had pointed. His eyes were greeted with numerous danger of death signs, all scattered nicely through layers of barbed wire, their bright colours contrasting the muddy grassland beneath them. He couldn't exactly say he was surprised.

"A minefield? Technically, Baskerville's an army base, so I guess they've always been keen to keep people out."

"Clearly."

Folding the map back carefully, John made his way back to the jeep, leaving Sherlock stoop atop the rock. He looked weirdly picturesque, like some actor from a fantasy film.

He sat back in the passenger seat, and eventually Sherlock joined him.

"We're heading to Grimpen now then?"

The detective nodded, and started the car. The silence wasn't as pleasant as it had been before, it was now tainted with anger and stifled awkwardness. They didn't need to endure it much longer though, as the village came into view sooner than expected.

It was a beautiful mixture of old stone buildings, obviously quite a touristy place, there were several groups of walkers lingering in the streets.

The inn wasn't difficult to find, and they parked in the car park adjacent to the old building, labelled 'The crossed keys'. Vegetarian, apparently.

Sherlock got out first, striding purposely as he often did, his signature coat flowing behind him. A tour guide was talking to a group of tourists as they walked past, a sign with a crude hound drawing to his side. The people listening were captivated, believing every single word that fell out of the man's mouth.

"All right, three tours a day. Tell your friends, tell anyone! And remember, if you value your lives, keep away from the moors at night." he grinned sickeningly.

Sherlock reached up and pulled his collar up after they made their way past the group, in a way he only did when feeling particularly cool. John gave him a look.

"What? It's cold."

They both smiled to themselves, and walked inside the inn.

It was a cosy place, tables filled with mostly older people eating and drinking, and a fire crackling in the corner. It had a nice, friendly atmosphere, the kind of establishment that was rare to find in London. The air smelt amazing, a mixture of gentle smoke and cooking from somewhere distant. Sherlock didn't look all that impressed, giving the room a suspicious look. He walked around, surveying while John tried to book a room, looking for anything of use.

"I'm sorry, but it's a busy time of year doctor." the red cheeked barman said to him.

"We only have a double room available. But I'm sure that won't be a problem for you and your partner."

The man gave John a knowing wink, handing him the key. Well, it was better than sleeping in the jeep. But seriously, what was it with people assuming him and Sherlock were an item?

"We're not-" he cut himself off, seeing that the pub was busy and not really wanting to go down the debate route.

Instead he paid with a slightly pained smile, and the barman turned his back to get change from the till.

"It was then that he noticed something strange on the counter, amidst a stack of receipts. It was a bill for meat, quite a lot of meat, from what he could tell. Wasn't this supposed to be a vegetarian restaurant? Without really thinking about it John grabbed the receipt and shoved it into his pocket, just before the man turned back around to hand him change.

"Ta."

Before he was about to leave, John looked back at the barman.

"I couldn't help but notice on the map of the moor, a skull and crossbones?"

"Oh, that."

"Pirates.?"

The man looked a little confused, not quite understanding the joke.

"Er, no. No. The great Grimpen minefield they call it."

So he had been right about the minefield theory, at least. It must be quite well known for the locals.

"Oh right?"

"It's not what you'd think. It's the Baskerville testing site. It's been going for 80 odd years. I'm not sure anyone really knows what's there anymore." he continued, drying a pint glass with a rag while he talked.

Testing sight? Testing what exactly?

"Explosives?"

"Oh, not just explosives. Break into that place, and if you're lucky you'll just get blown up. So they say, in case you were planning a nice wee stroll."

John wondered if any walkers had made that mistake before, how many people had not received that warning.

"Thanks, I'll remember." he smiled, as best as he could.

"Aye. Well it buggers up tourism a bit, so thank god for the demon hound! Did you see that show? The documentary?"

Perking up a bit, the doctor put on a more interested face. As good as Sherlock was at seeing the facts, he wasn't all that adapt to the good old fashioned questioning. That was something John could contribute to the case.

"Quite recently yeah." he answered.

"God bless Henry Knight and his monster from hell!"

The barman chuckled. Henry must be a local legend of sorts, after the TV interview.

"You ever seen it? The hound?"

"Me? No, no."

He seemed amused that John would even suggest that, the tone of his voice suggesting that he had talked this through with a million before him. It must get quite tiresome, after a while.

He pointed out the door, to the tourist guide he had seen earlier, now standing on the phone in the courtyard. John noticed Sherlock, who was still hovering around, gaze following the direction as well.

"Fletcher has. He runs walks, the monster walks for the tourists you know? He's seen it."

"That's handy, for trade."

Perhaps they had come to some sort of agreement, the barman pointing tourists in the tour guides direction to increase his business.

He didn't reply to John's comment, his attention instead being snatched by another man who joined them. He gave them both a friendly smile, wearing a white chef's uniform.

"I've just been saying we've been rushed off our feet Billy." the barman said to the new man, who was presumably 'Billy'.

"Yeah, lots of monster hunters, doesn't take much these days, one mention on twitter and whoomph!" he laughed.

"We're out of WKD." he added, with a more serious note.

"Alright."

The barman walked past and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. They seemed quite close.

"What with the monster, and the ruddy prisoner, I don't know how we sleep nights! Do you, Gary?"

"Like a baby." the barman answered with a grin.

The doctor watched them, not quite sure if he should leave or not. He had been hoping to find out some more, but, it seemed that was all they knew. Or, all they were willing to share.

"That's not true. He's a snorer."

"Hey- shh"

Gary hit him gently on the shoulder. John was beginning to get the vibe that they were together, judging from the domestic way they acted. That was nice.

"Is yours a snorer?" Billy asked, looking at him kindly.

It took a moment for him to register what he meant, and when he did, he reddened slightly.

"Got any crisps?"

Billy handed him a pack from behind the counter, pitying him and not probing any further. John bid them farewell, before realised Sherlock had slipped away, in the direction of the tour guide.

He took a deep breath, and followed him.

Chapter Text

He paused before he reached the old wooden door, realising that he had forgotten to let Henry know that they had arrived. John pulled out his phone from his pocket, and found their clients contact, pressing call.

He had created a new contact for him earlier with the paper from his pocket, while Sherlock had been poised on the rock. However, the detective had returned to the car before John could call or message to let Henry know that they were close. And, quite frankly, he didn't want to talk to the man on the phone after his and Sherlock's conversation earlier. It just hadn't sat right with him.

"Hello?" Henry picked up, his voice slightly distorted by the line.

The doctor felt a small wave of relief flood him, he had almost thought it would dial forever.

"Hi, it's John. I just wanted to let you know we've arrived in Grimpen."

"Oh great- I just got home myself."

He could hear a small smile in the other man's voice from his end of the line, which apparently was infectious, as John let himself smile too.

"Would you and Mr. Holmes like to come round tomorrow? You know, to talk things over?" he asked, after a moment's pause.

"Yes! Yes. Er, Sherlock's just looking around right now, you know, talking to locals and stuff."

"Sorry, don't let me keep you John."

"Not to worry. I called you remember?" he chuckled dryly.

"Right...well, tomorrow afternoon then?"

That would hopefully work around whatever Sherlock's investigating plans were. And 'afternoon' was a graciously wide bracket to work with.

"Great. Text me the address?"

"Sure. Goodbye John."

The line disconnected, and John slid the phone back into his pocket, slowly. He couldn't help but feel that he had caught the other man at the wrong time: his voice had sounded even more wobbly than it had in his interview earlier that day. But, it wasn't his job to pry. It was his job to help Sherlock, which he could probably do with, well, doing.

The doctor hurried back on his way, walking out into the courtyard, where the sun was beginning to fall lower in the sky. It would surely be dark soon.

Sherlock was sat at a table in front of the tour guide the barman had referred to, giving off the impression of a relaxed, and bored holiday goer. He had also managed to snaffle a pint from god knows where, and sipped it idly as they talked. John couldn't hear what was being said, and he walked towards them, aiming to take the other seat at the table.

"I called Henry-" he started hesitantly, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Bets off John, sorry." he said, not sounding sorry at all.

"What?"

He gave the detective a confused look, but Sherlock refused to meet eyes with him, his gaze was instead fixed on Fletcher. This must be an interrogation technique thing.

"Wait, wait, wait. What bet?" The tour guide asked, with a curiously strong accent.

Sherlock smiled pleasantly.

"Oh, I bet John here fifty quid that you couldn't prove you'd seen the hound."

He decided to play along.

"Yeah, the guys in the pub said you could."

The tour guide, who had seemingly already taken a dislikening to the consultant detective, laughed.

"Well, you're about to lose your money mate."

"Yeah?" Sherlock said condescendingly, which urged Fletcher, which was what he apparently went by, to continue.

John could see what he was doing now: insulting his pride to get information. Good tactic. Though, all of the dark haired man's tactics were good, no, beyond good-

"I've seen it. Only about a month ago, up at the hollow."

John focused again as he took out his phone, scrolling, focused, looking for something.

"It was foggy, mind, couldn't make out much."

"I see, no witnesses." Sherlock grumbled, his persona slipping away slightly.

"No, but-"

"Never are."

John leaned over and gave Sherlock a small kick under the table, unseen by Fletcher, but significant enough for his message to get across: stay nice, don't scare him off. Sherlock nodded, only moving his head a small amount: you wouldn't know it wasn't unintentional unless you were looking for it. And besides, Fletcher wasn't focusing in the slightest. His eyebrows were furrowed as he stared at the device, until a proud smile lit up his phone. He showed them the screen, and laughed again, proudly.

"There."

It was a rather blurry picture of a dog-like creature, surrounded by tall grass. It wasn't exactly...the most convincing piece of evidence he had ever laid eyes on. It looked rather edited. And whilst tourists and gullible conspiracy theorists may fall for it, it was no match for Sherlock Holmes. Or John Watson, for that matter, thank you very much.

"Is that it? It's not exactly proof is it? Sorry John, looks like I win." Sherlock grinned arrogantly, glancing at him to get him to join in.

John obliged reluctantly, hiding a small smile with his hand to look like he was laughing. All part of the act. He felt quite cool really.

""Wait, wait! That's not all!"

He seemed less confident now, annoyed his first set of proof hadn't worked.

The pair neutralised their expressions, turning their attention back to him. The tour guide was intent on making them believe him now: just as Sherlock had presumably predicted.

"People don't like going up there you know, to the Hollow. Gives them...a bad sorta feeling." his voice had grown hushed, not wanting the babbling tourists milling around to them to overhear.

"Ooh, is it haunted? Is that supposed to convince me?" Sherlock cut across him again, spurring him on further.

There was an angry fire beginning to grow in the man's brown eyes, and John almost felt bad. But it was all for the greater good, like all the things they did.

"Nah, don't be stupid! Nothin' like that. But I reckon there is something out there. Something from Baskerville- escaped." he said, rolling his eyes at the start, but levelling out his tone to a more serious one.

"A clone? Super-dog?"

"Maybe. God knows what they've been spraying on us all these years. Or putting in the water. I wouldn't trust 'em as far as I could spit."

"Is that the best you've got?"

Fletcher paused for a moment, eyes darting around. He leaned closer, his tone dropping even quieter than before.

"I had a mate once who worked for the MOD. One weekend, we were meant to go fishing but he never showed up, well, not till late. When he did, he was white as a sheet. I can see him now. 'I've seen things today, Fletch' he said, 'I ain't never want to see again. Terrible things. He'd been sent to some secret army base- Porton down maybe? Baskerville? Or somewhere else. In the labs there, the really secret labs, he said he'd seen awful things. Rats as big as dogs he said."

He paused for a breath, and John watched him, mesmerised. His voice had grown sullen as he spoke: the recount taking him back to the moment.

"And dogs, dogs as big as 'orses."

Fletcher pulled a slab of what looked like plaster from his bag, holding it out for them to see, an unreadable expression on his face. It was what looked to be a paw print, which was of considerable size, just to note. A print that could only belong to their mystical hound.

They stayed quiet for a moment, stunned, before Fletcher slid the artifact away into the depths of his bag. Doing so seemed to break the spell over John's mind, and he spoke up, looking at the consultant detective.

"Uh, we did say fifty?"

Sherlock wordlessly opened his wallet and handed John the money- looking deep in thought.

"Mm. Thanks."

Grinning, Fletcher stepped back, pleased with his effect on them, and Sherlock's assumedly stunned silence.

"Well, I'd better bid you folks farewell. I have tours to run."

"Right, er, thanks mate." John said.

He gave the doctor a nod, ignored Sherlock, and walked away. They watched him until he disappeared, his gait made jolty by the sign he was carrying.

Well, he had been... interesting?

Sherlock turned to look at him, obviously pleased. John groaned slightly.

"I know what you're going to say." the doctor started, flatly.

"I haven't said it yet."

"Yes, but I know that look. That's Sherlock's look of going off somewhere dangerous to investigate immediately. And without a solid action plan."

"I always have a solid action plan." Sherlock bit back, looking rather offended.

"Well, yes, I know that. I mean a plan that you never take the time to explain to me. Same thing" he replied.

"But you didn't say that."

"I meant it."

"Then why didn't you say it?" Sherlock said, sounding genuinely confused.

John groaned far the second time, momentarily hiding his head in his hands. If he had a toddler, he could imagine that this was what talking to them would be like.

"Nevermind! Just, forget it."

"Okay..." Sherlock said, drawing out each syllable.

He waited for another smart comeback, but it never arrived. The detective simply watched, waiting for him to continue.

"My point was, we can't go rushing off anywhere now. Look how dark it's getting!"

He pointed to the sky, where the sunlight had all but bled away, leaving the musky shroud of dusk in its wake. The majority of the tourists around had retreated inside, and they were left alone; the only reminders that life existed being the flickering fire in the windows of the pub. It was quiet: serene. And certainly not the kind of atmosphere you ever found lurking in London.

Sherlock hummed, glancing up.

"We should go inside, eat something, and plan what we will do, tomorrow."

"But-"

"Sherlock." John interrupted.

Sherlock sighed.

"Fine."

He did feel a bit mean. But, could he really stop him if he wanted to? The detective probably knew that he was right, deep down. Not an awful lot to investigate Baskerville wise in the pitch black.

He got up, flicking his coat dramatically behind him as he went. John followed as he made his way into the inn, the low murmur of evening chatter becoming clearer as they entered.

The interior wasn't too busy: the space was taken up predominantly by only a handful of middle aged holiday goers, and old local couples visiting for a drink. Most of the villages tourists must be day visitors, they would be off home by now.

A few curious heads turned their way as they entered, but they were ignored, and they made their way to an empty two person table, far from anyone in earshot. His collegue still looked a tad grumpy, but lightened up a bit after removing his coat and setting it around the back of his chair. He ran a hand through his hair absent-mindedly, before fixing his attention back on John.

"So?"

John blinked.

"Er, so what?"

"So- what are you ordering John?" he asked slowly, like speaking to a child.

Well sorry he didn't automatically know everything that ran across the detective's mind! How awfully rude of him.

"Well, I was waiting for you to have a look actually." he said, gesturing at the menus.

"I already know what I want."

"You do? You haven't even opened the menu Sherlock."

The other man gave him an exasperated look, one that he had seen too many times before.

"Do I really need to explain?"

John didn't reply, and, taking the doctor's silence for a yes, Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to begin his long winded explanation.

"Well, firstly-"

"Oh please don't. Just let me go before they get too many dinner orders. Save that very fun story for later, yeah?"

"Well, ok then. But you haven't decided yet."

"I'll just have the same as you. I really can't be bothered."

Sherlock looked unbothered, telling the doctor his order. John got up and walked to the counter, ordering with a woman who hadn't been there earlier, before returning. Their drinks arrived a short while later, and the dark haired man swirled his absentmindedly, the tinted liquid glistening in the light, not really focusing. He looked up, catching John staring.

"What is it?"

He swallowed dryly, and took a sip of his own beverage. Which actually wasn't bad.

"Well, normally this the point where you fire ideas at me? You know, the whole demon hound situation? Ring a bell?”

“Ideas? I have too many ideas for words Watson, but usually you don’t care for them.” he replied, slightly confused.

Frowning, John fixed him with an unimpressed look.

"I've told you not to call me Watson. Gives me the heebee-jeebies..."

It was hard to avoid the use of that name in everyday life, and he usually didn't care, but hearing it from the taller man put his teeth on edge. Call him picky if you like, but he wasn't going to stand for it.

"I apologize. Please cease your heebee-jeebieness."

The doctor stared at him, and the detective stared back, blue eyes bearing into his own.

"That's not a word, you do realise?"

"Or course I know that. I was making a joke." he added with a completely straight face.

"...right. You see, when people normally make jokes-"

He stopped, deciding it best not to get into this here.

"Don't worry about it. Ideas please."

"As I just said, John, I have too many. I can't just 'hit you' with the deepest workings of my mind like a simple arcade game. You wouldn't keep up."

"I never keep up with what you're saying."

John took another sip of his drink, lowering his voice when he realised their conversation had caught the attention of some other customers. Sherlock hummed, something he had been doing a lot of today, noticing the shorter man's unease.

"How about a plan for tomorrow instead?" he tried.

"Baskerville."

"Baskerville? What, like looking around the border?"

"No, looking inside. We need to find exactly what they're hiding." the man stated, exasperated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"But-"

Sherlock cut him off, his attention caught by a worker walking their way.

"Foods here." he said pleasantly.

...

It was quite late when the pair finally retired, making their way up from the quietened pub to their room upstairs.

John had spent the evening after their meal continuing with his blog by the fire. Sherlock had stuck around for a while, sitting with him, but was bored after a while and decided to go for a walk.

The doctor had been a little anxious letting him go alone, knowing his tendency to wander off. He was half expecting the consultant detective to go skipping off to Baskerville in the dark, without him. Sherlock however had left before John could offer to go with him: swirling his coat on and strolling out into the night.

Despite his worries, his friend had surprisingly returned two hours later, his expression calmer and more mellow than before. He gave John a rare smile before sitting beside him again, where the blogger had now opted for less writing, and more sitting with a drink. He had also retrieved their bags from the jeep on his way.

They left for their room together a short while later: John pointedly ignoring a look from the barman as Sherlock strolled ahead. He caught up to him just before they found the room, deciding it was probably best to warm him about the whole bed situation.

"Er, Sherlock?"

"Yes?" the detective said as he held his hand out for the key, which John passed to him reluctantly.

"Erm, the barman said there weren't any rooms available apart from a double."

"Ok?"

Sherlock looked unbothered.

"I just thought it was worth mentioning, er, in case you got the wrong idea? I didn't do it on purpose."

He noticed with a cringe that his voice had gone a bit stuttery, which the taller man would have definitely noticed.

"I don't know why you would."

As usual, Sherlock really didn't understand how society sometimes saw them. He really hoped, for their reputations sake, that the whole one bed situation didn't go beyond their own ears. He could picture the newspapers now.

The door swung open, to reveal a rather beautifully decorated room, with old, yet simple, English style furniture. If not for the bed anxiety he was currently experiencing, the ex soldier would have been quite impressed.

"Well...this is nice." he said as a moderately awkward silence settled over them.

It didn't usually feel like this with him. Why has it changed?

He chose to make himself busy, unzipping his bag and transferring the few folded clothes his had packed earlier. It was beginning to come clear that he hadn't brought nearly enough, especially in the shirts department, in his rush to keep up with the detective that morning. The case was also starting to look like it would be a lot more complex than initially presumed. He wondered if the inn had a washing machine he could use...

"Something wrong John?" Sherlock asked, and the doctor realised he had drifted off.

"Huh? Oh-nothing. I was just thinking I might have under packed a tad." he replied with a forced laugh.

"They don't have a washing machine available."

How could he possibly know that?

Actually, on second thought, John didn't want to know.

"Bollocks. Are you sure?"

He nodded, and they settled into silence again, both searching but neither finding something to say. Eventually though, Sherlock broke it.

"John."

Oh dear. That tone couldn't be good.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry. For earlier. I was...out of line for suggesting something like that."

John's expression neutralised, and a small droplet of guilt bounced in his stomach. Sherlock looked genuinely worried as he watched him, hovering near the end of the bed, not quite sure what do do with himself. Had he been thinking about this all day? Apologizing definitely wasn't his forte, not if it hadn't been really bothering him.

"It's fine, I know you didn't mean it. We were both tired." he said slowly, trying to make his voice believable.

Sherlock fidgeted with his hands. "Thanks."

Though, he didn't look quite satisfied, still waiting for something else. The doctor hardened his gaze.

"I'm not apologizing to you mister."

"It was worth a shot." Sherlock shot back sullenly, before chuckling.

"You said you talked to Henry?" he added.

"Yeah. He said we should go round tomorrow, talk somethings through. I have the address."

"Ok. I'll...look forward to it."

There was still a touch of bitterness laced into his words, but John let it slide. One apology was groundbreaking enough for the other, he didn't need to cause a fuss and require another when they had only just reconciled.

"I'm sure you will."

With the atmosphere significantly lighter than before, they both got ready for bed, the long day beginning to take its toll on him. His college was less affected however, his eyes still shining with apprehension for the hunt tomorrow, though less than earlier.

Despite his exhaustion, and his quite frankly desperate need for sleep, the ex soldier found himself laying awake until far past midnight, staring at the plastered ceiling. The other man had fallen asleep practically immediately next to him, his soft breathing being the only thing John could hear. He had explained it to John once, he had some breathing exercise thing that allowed him to sleep almost instantaneously even in the most stressful situations.

Sherlock had briefly attempted to teach him the skill, but quickly gave up, rendering him 'unteachable'. Which was a shame, as he could really use it at times like this.

The peacefulness outside was... infuriating in a way. Even though it had been just a day, he was already missing the hustle and bustle of London: the people, threat, and excitement. The detective may be beyond pleased to be here, but John was beginning to disagree. This case was going to last forever, he just knew it.