The Hounds of Baskerville [Reader Insert]

Thanks for Smoking

     "Louise Mortimer. She's the reason I came back to Dartmoor. She says I have to face my demons," said Henry.

     You cocked your head and raised a brow. "What happened when you went back to Dewer's Hollow that night?" you asked Henry, who followed up with a confused look. "You went there on the advice of your therapist and now you're consulting two detectives..." you noticed Sherlock staring at you from the corner of your eye. You looked over and just managed to catch his glacial blue gaze before he looked away, almost nervously. His eyes. They changed again. They're always doing that. "What did you see that changed everything, Henry?" you asked, silently scolding yourself. Of course Sherlock's eyes changed color. He's heterochromatic. You knew this. So why did you keep getting so entranced? (Gee, I wonder. It's a mystery, isn't it?)

     Henry took another drag of smoke and lowered his gaze. When he spoke, faint fog hissed between his teeth with each syllable. "It's a strange place, the hollow," he began. "It makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid..."

      Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, if we wanted poetry, we'd read John's emails to his girlfriends. Much funnier."

      You laughed, shaking your head and shrugging apologetically at John, who looked slightly pissed. You noticed, quite inadvertently, that Sherlock looked quite pleased with himself. Perhaps it was his jest toward John that had him delighted, or perhaps it was that he'd made you laugh. (*Raises eyebrows suggestively* I mean, chemistry is his specialty, is it not?) But Sherlock then frowned at himself. He looked frustrated. You decided not to dwell on it.

     "What did you see?" you pressed, eyes boring into Henry.

     Henry exhaled the rest of his smoke, (Sherlock, seeming to have had his fill- or at least for the time being- didn't inhale it this time) looking a bit defeated. "Footprints," he finally answered. "On the exact spot where I saw my father torn apart."

     Disappointed, you and Sherlock groaned in harmony (well that could've been worded better) and sat back in your seats. As if anticipating your questions, John questioned under his breath, "Man's or woman's?"

     Henry heard him and responded almost proudly, "Neither! They were-"

     "That it?" Sherlock interrupted him. "Footprints? Nothing else?"

     "Well, yes. But they were..." he broke off like he was struggling to find the words to describe it. 

     Before he could, you sighed, "Nope. Sorry, Dr. Mortimer wins. It's a childhood trauma masked by an invented memory."

     "Boring," Sherlock agreed (which didn't happen too often). "Goodbye, Mr. Knight. Thank you for smoking."

     "But-but the footprints!" 

    "Probably pawprints." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Could be anything."

     "Therefore nothing," you concluded. "Case solved. Off you pop." You stood up and moved to leave. After all, you'd only come because Sherlock was covered in blood, and now that that was over, perhaps you could get back to your experiment.

     Sherlock did the same thing, moving towards his room to do presumably Sherlock-y things.

     "Th-th-they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"

     You and Sherlock both froze.

     Sherlock turned around deliberately. "Say that again," he ordered.

     You narrowed your eyes. "Your exact words, Mr. Knight."

     "They were... the footprints... of a gigantic hound," Henry repeated slowly and uncertainly.

      A grin spread across your face. "We'll take the case."

      "Sorry, what?" John gaped.

     Sherlock raised his hands in prayer position under his chin, an action you found to be a guilty penchant to watch. "This is very promising, Mr. Knight. Thank you for bringing it to our attention."

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

     "It's nothing to do with footprints, John, weren't you listening?" Sherlock came back from the kitchen. "Baskerville, John. Ever heard of it?"

     "Vaguely...? It's very hush-hush."

      "Sounds like a good place to start."

     Henry sat up in his designated client chair and smiled hesitantly. "So... you're coming down, then?"

     "No, I can't leave London at the moment," answered Sherlock, before you could say anything. You tilted your head at him with a puzzled expression. "Don't worry, though, we're putting our best man on it!" Sherlock took a step toward John and patted the doctor on his shoulder robotically. 

     John blinked, while you simply frowned to yourself, trying to work out Sherlock's sudden strange behavior. "What do you mean, you're busy? You don't have a case! I moment ago you were complaining-!"

    "Bluebell, John! I've got Bluebell!" Sherlock feigned utter excitement.. He turned to Henry to elaborate. "The case of the missing rabbit. NATO's in uproar. You know how it is." 

     ".... So you're not coming, then?" Henry let disappointment shadow his features.

     Sherlock pouted and shook his head at Henry with a mockingly regretful expression, which was unfortunately attractive. You shifted in your seat.

     Suddenly, you realized what game Sherlock was playing at. "Oh." Your voice was quiet. "Okay." When you rested your head in your hands, you didn't notice Sherlock's absolutely pained expression at causing you unhappiness. You looked up at John. "The cigarettes."

     John groaned and stood up, positively, annoyed. He moved over to the window and reached behind the curtain, pulling out a single pack of cigarettes. He threw it at Sherlock, who'd by now dressed his features in a mask of smugness.

     Sherlock caught the pack single-handedly only to toss it behind him. "Don't need those anymore. I'm going to Dartmoor!"

     Henry got to his feet in a rush. "So you are coming!"

     Sherlock smirked. "Twenty-year old disappearance? A monstrous hound? We wouldn't miss this for the world!"