A/N - *sweats nervously* if I don't finish this book before 100 chapters imma cry I REFUSE TO GO OVER so fingers crossed I can be detailed and concise - send me writer hopes and prayers my lovelies ❤🙏
__________________
It was around half six when they got to the Dartmoor national park. Dusty lavender clouds rolled across the light, fading peach-plum sky. All four of them carried torches with them as they ventured over the uneven grassy and rocky ground, nervously trekking towards Dewer's Hollow.
While early, at this point in the year, the dark chased the light away rather rapidly.
Sherlock and Henry were the closest walking pair, not really straying far from each other, whereas John and Elizabeth strayed behind slightly. Rustling in the bushes behind them caused John and Elizabeth to whip around, breathing a little quicker as they shone their torches into the bushes.
"Probably just...a rabbit." Elizabeth rationalised.
John nodded in agreement.
The thief looked over at Sherlock and Henry who continued heading away and decided to follow after them. John, on the other hand, spotted a light far across a field that stopped before the area of woodland.
"Elizabeth!" He hissed quietly, too afraid to shout, "Sher - "
He gave up seeing that they were too far from him now. And he still wasn't feeling any braver to yell unless something truly terrible happened. He looked back at the light, noticing it was flashing and fished for his notebook to note down what he thought was more code.
"U, M, Q, R, A." He frowned at the letters, "U, M, Q, R, A. Umqra?"
The doctor shook his head and flinched slightly at the sound of a crow cawing - maybe the detective could make sense of it? He looked down the unclear path again.
"Sherlock?" Came his hushed voice as he hurried down the path.
Elizabeth had followed after the other two men but again strayed behind when she heard more rustling. She shone her torch off the path at the vegetation around her, only to spot another overgrown path. She looked to her right, after the client and detective and saw they were gone already and then to her left only to see John still hadn't caught up. Again, she looked back down the dark path, plants reaching out as though they were hands waiting to grab her.
"Just...don't die." She sighed, deciding to wander off on her own.
If it was a rabbit or another woodland creature, so be it, but she highly doubted it would be this supposed monster of the moors. Maybe an escaped zoo animal...that was a little more frightening to think about. She gently pushed the overgrowth out of the way as she pressed on down the path, eventually coming out of it to find herself amidst trees.
"Fat lot of nothing then." She said to herself, smirking, and mocked herself "And you, Miss Parrish, were scared. Scared of what? Some trees? An owl and a crow? Honestly..."
Just as she was about to turn back, she heard another rustle and she spun on the spot, shining her torch into every area of pitch black. She took a breath.
"There is...nothing here." She gulped.
Then she heard a growl from behind her.
* * * * * *
When Sherlock and Henry had continued down the path, full speed ahead towards their destination, they had ended up chatting a small bit. Or at least because Sherlock was directing the conversation towards answers he wanted.
"Met a friend of yours."
"What?"
"Doctor Frankland." He specified.
"Oh, right. Bob, yeah..."
"He seems pretty concerned about you."
"He’s a worrier, bless him." Henry nodded, as they came to a bit of an edge that dipped down into a rather large crater, "He’s been very kind to me since I came back."
"He knew your father."
"Yeah."
"But he works at Baskerville. Didn’t your dad have a problem with that?"
"Well, mates are mates, aren’t they? I mean, look at you and John."
Sherlock was intrigued by his point, "What about us?"
"Well, I mean, he’s a pretty straightforward bloke, and you..." He decided against explaining as he couldn't really explain it himself, "They agreed never to talk about work, Uncle Bob and my dad."
Henry stopped by the edge, looking down sullenly into the dark abyss before them. Sherlock paused too, looking at Henry and awaiting an explanation as to why he had stopped.
Mr Knight nodded in the direction he was looking, speaking with some dread in his tone, "Dewer’s Hollow."
Sherlock wasted no time at all in making his way down into the hollow, beckoning Henry to follow him. There had to be some clues left here after his father's murder - be it by beast or by man. He noticed paw prints and disturbed ground, certainly a sign of some animal being there.
That's when they heard her ear-splitting scream followed by a blood-curdling howl.
Sherlock and Henry shared an alarmed look as they shone their torches around the top of the pit that they stood in. The detective's heart pounded in his chest - was Elizabeth okay? They should have never come here, this was a stupid idea of his.
Meanwhile, Elizabeth sprinted through the forest, dodging trees and leaping over thick branches and growth. She had no light source with her as she had dropped her torch in pure terror, more desperate for some safety instead of light. Monsters weren't real, she thought as she pelted onwards, God knows where, but what had attacked her was a beast and she could still hear it chasing after her. The thief dared not look back though in the fear of tripping and falling and meeting a grizzly end.
Without noticing that the ground dropped, she fell anyway, sliding down the mud and leaves that made up the sides of the pit that the two men were in. She cried out as she tumbled down the steep edge, rolling until she hit the ground at the bottom and even then she didn't stop, scrambling away from the ledge she had fallen from.
"Elizabeth!" Sherlock called to her, eyes wide with fear of what had happened to her as he crouched to take her in his arms, "Elizabeth, it's me, calm down."
"Oh God, is she alright?" Henry asked, hurrying over.
She clutched his coat with fearful strength as she shook her head, eyes as wide and as frightened as a doe faced with a hunter. The thief panted, tears streaming down her face. Sherlock looked her over, spotting that her jacket now had a jagged tear in the front as he took her face in his hands.
"Elizabeth, look at me, breathe. What did you see, what happened?"
"The - the - we have to - to go. I - I saw it."
More howling was heard.
"Oh God, where - where is it?" She asked tearfully.
"It's alright, you're safe." Sherlock reassured her.
He stood from her, shining his torch around the top of the pit again. Henry moved away from the pair, shining his own torch along the ledges as well. The detective's entire face fell when he saw the snarling creature at the top of the edge. And then, in a flash it was gone again.
Sherlock blinked hard. It couldn't be true. What he saw couldn't be true. Monsters weren't real, and genetically modified beasts - hounds in particular - it just couldn't be. He was going to brush off what Elizabeth had experienced as a trick of the mind but...what he had seen with his own eyes only struck the fear of God into him too.
"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God." Henry kept repeating as he made his way back down to them, "Did you see it?"
Sherlock shook his head sharply, squeezing his eyes shut again. He looked down at his partner who had her hands over her face, trying to calm down. It was lies. It had to be. A trick of the mind. A trick of the mind that had affected all of them. No. He refused to believe it and pushed past Henry.
Mr Knight didn't know what to make of this but looked back down at the crying thief and back at Sherlock then back at her again. He crouched down to help her up.
"Miss Parrish, Miss Parrish, come on. Let me help you up." He said as he did this supporting her gently as he pulled her up. He helped her follow after the detective, "We can go. We can leave."
* * * * *
John finally caught up with them, "Did you hear that? Did you find - oh, Elizabeth." John sighed but his brow wrinkled when he saw the speechless, traumatised look of her, "Elizabeth?"
"We saw it. We saw it." Henry nodded as he kept helping her onwards, "Miss Parrish was chased by it."
"Jesus, Elizabeth?"
She didn't respond. She was far too shaken to process any words at this point. John quietly took over helping Elizabeth on from Henry as the detective spoke up.
"No." Sherlock spoke sharply as he powered on ahead of them, "I didn’t see anything."
"What?" Henry was in disbelief, "What are you talking about?"
"I didn’t. See. Anything."
John paused, his arm around the thief - who remained in a state of shock, barely responding to any stimulus - as he looked at Henry. Mr Knight could insist on it. They had all seen the hound.
"But you saw it, didn't you, Miss Parrish?"
She didn't answer.
"I think it's best we get back first before we start questioning each other." John stated, turning to keep himself and Elizabeth moving.
Henry stood there for a moment, feeling rather betrayed.
* * * * * *
While Sherlock had stormed off straight back to the pub, John and Elizabeth accompanied Henry back to his home. The thief was more so there because she was still just drifting besides everyone, not really able to focus on a separate action of her own as she continued to process her trauma.
"Look, he must have seen it." Henry insisted as he walked through the greenhouse with the other two, "I saw it – he must have. He must have. I - Why? Why? Why would he say that? It-it-it-it-it was there. It was! Look at Miss Parrish - she can barely speak."
The army doctor threw a look of concern back at his silent friend. Elizabeth lingered in the hallway outside Henry's therapy room, staring blankly at a painting on his wall, as John tended to the poor client.
"Henry," John spoke gently as he took him by the arms and directed him to the sofa, "Henry, I need you to sit down, try and relax, please."
"I’m okay, I-I-I am okay." Henry reassured the doctor.
"Listen, I’m gonna give you something to help you sleep, all right?"
"This is good news, John. It’s-it’s-it’s good." Henry nodded, oddly reassured, "I’m not crazy. There is a hound - there - there is. And Sherlock – he saw it too. No matter what he said, he saw it..."
* * * * * *
Once John had administered some medicine that would help Henry sleep, he stepped out into the hallway where Elizabeth was now sat on the stairs, head in her hands.
"Elizabeth? Are you o - "
"No." She whispered with a gulp, "I don't - monsters aren't real, are they? They're not?" Elizabeth looked up at John, liquid fear still forming in the corners of her eyes, as her lips quivered. She wrapped her arms around her own torso, "I thought I was going to die, John."
He was deeply perturbed by this, "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, "Jacket's just ripped. I managed to hit whatever that thing was off me with a stone."
"Was it - " John was a little unsure as to whether he should ask this question, "Was it just a normal dog?"
Elizabeth shook her head and shrugged, running her hands over her face again, "I - I don't know. It was dark but it was - it wasn't like a dog at all - it - it was...wild - monstrous." She regretted even using that word.
John nodded, absorbing her words and then offered her a hand up from the stairs, "I think we should go and find Sherlock."
* * * * * *
At the pub, John ushered Elizabeth in to the cosy building, sending her over to the bar and insisting she get herself a drink - be it water or something stronger. In the mean time, he spotted Sherlock sat in a chair by the toasty fire.
"Well, he is in a pretty bad way." John said, pulling up another chair for when Elizabeth came along, "He’s manic, totally convinced there’s some mutant super-dog roaming the moors. But then, I say that and then there's Elizabeth who's bloody traumatised from an animal attack - maybe it was a super-dog?" John shook his head, "But there isn’t, though, is there? 'Cause if people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we’d know. They'd be for sale. I mean, that’s how it works."
Sherlock barely acknowledged his friend nor replied to him, just sat there, breathing raggedly and consequently trying to control it as he stared deeply into the fire. Had what he seen really been real? Of course it had been - whatever it was had attacked his partner. But could it really be true?
Elizabeth came along, a glass of water in hand and sat in the chair that John had pulled up between himself and Sherlock. She, too, gazed into the flickering amber flames and found some comfort in the light.
"Er, listen," John said, now bringing out the facts in the form of his notebook seeing as all three of them were here, "Er, on the moor I saw someone signalling. Er, Morse – I guess it’s Morse."
John saw Sherlock blink hard, almost as though he were trying to hold a whole flood of emotions back. Having never seen him like this before, John swiftly continued, hoping to distract the detective.
"Doesn’t seem to make much sense. Er...U, M, Q, R, A. Does that mean...anything?"
Again, Sherlock took a breath, still looking at the burning wood. Elizabeth looked over at him and, feeling his pain of their logic being undermined, she moved to hold his hand that lay on the arm rest.
But he quickly pulled it from her grasp.
The thief said nothing, just looked away, not at John, but at the floor now, watching the dull reflection of the dancing light.
John saw these actions and looked between the couple, mildly uncomfortable, "So, okay," He said, putting the notebook back in his pocket, "What have we got? We know there’s footprints, 'cause Henry found them, so did the tour guide bloke. We all heard something. Elizabeth was clearly...attacked by...something..."
As the army doctor spoke, he saw that Sherlock was struggling even more to remain calm. This never happened to Sherlock so to say that John was disturbed would be an understatement.
"Maybe we should just look for whoever’s got a big dog." John finally suggested.
And that was when Sherlock spoke, "Henry’s right."
"What?"
Elizabeth looked over at Sherlock now, studying his features, noting the tiny beads of sweat on his forehead and how his brown curls were slightly damp with perspiration, how his eyes were as wide as saucers, how his lip trembled. She wanted to be there for him but she had no words in her mouth and so she just listened.
"I saw it - too."
John frowned, "What?"
"I saw it too, John."
"Just...just a minute. You saw what?"
"A hound," The detective elaborated, meeting his friend's gaze, "Out there in the Hollow. A gigantic hound."
John scoffed quietly, skeptically - surely not? Sherlock frantically blinked back tears of frustration for he was determined not to cry here over some thing he thought to be non-existent. The thief moved to try and hold his hand again but again he moved his own hand away.
"Um, look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this, okay? Now you, of all people, can’t just - let’s just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the facts." John rationalised.
"If we're being rational," Elizabeth looked at John now, serious as ever, "Then, John, one of those facts is that I was attacked by something in the hollow."
This was not helping his case, John thought to himself, but equally she was not wrong. He couldn't deny that. Sherlock had steepled his hands under his chin, an action of normality that he hoped would ground him enough for the panic to stop trying to take flight with him as an unwilling passenger in tow.
Sherlock spoke again, "Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true."
"What does that mean?" The doctor asked as the two looked at the detective again.
He huffed, reaching for a small glass of liquor on the table in front of him and picked it up. Tremors ran through his hands, rendering him unable to hold the glass still.
The detective scoffed as he stared at his hand, "Look at me. I’m afraid, John. Afraid..." He took a sip of alcohol.
"Sherlock - "
He took another sip, hand still trembling, "Always been able to keep myself distant," Another sip, "Divorce myself from - feelings. But look," Sherlock showed his shaking hand to the two again, "You see...body’s betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions." He placed the glass down, "The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."
"Yeah, all right...Spock," John's concern had grown as he spoke, "Just...take it easy."
"We're all human, Sherlock." Elizabeth commented, still wanting to reassure him in some way, "That's what you keep telling me."
"Exactly." John nodded, "You’ve been pretty wired lately, you know you have. I think you’ve just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up."
"Worked. Up?"
"Elizabeth was attacked." He stated, "It was dark and scary - "
"Me?!" Sherlock was still referring to John's previous point, "There’s nothing wrong with me."
"We're not saying there is but - "
Elizabeth stopped when she saw her detective virtually breaking down. At the thought of malfunctioning in some way, at the thought of his machine-like, stoic-self being imperfect in this situation, the detective began to pant, all the while sat down. He massaged his temples, desperate to calm down.
"Sherlock?"
His fast breathing still continued and he struggled to breathe any slower.
Elizabeth called to him softly, "Sher - "
"THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
Both doctor and thief had flinched at his furious outburst, the thief a little more shaken than John was, as something about his sharp, shouting tone of voice felt like it had sent her back to the past, opening a door to a childhood memory she didn't ever want to remember. Too blinded by his own emotions, he didn't process this look of utter terror in his lover's eyes as he glared at them both.
Everyone in the pub had stopped what they were doing to look up at the disruptive guests too yet it took seconds for them to resume their average conversations.
Elizabeth had sat back in shock, her gaze still full of distress whereas John had slumped in his seat, cross to core with the way Sherlock was acting.
"You want me to prove it, yes?"
This time, neither did. But on the detective went anyway.
"We’re looking for a dog, yes, a great big dog, that’s your brilliant theory." Sherlock's voice even shook as he reeled off his words now, "Cherchez le chien. Good, excellent, yes, where shall we start?" He rudely pointed over to a pair sat at a table, eating, "How about them? The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman. The answer’s yes."
"Yes?" John prompted unenthusiastically.
"She’s got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we’re looking for."
"Oh, Sherlock, for God’s sake..." Even John knew this was deduction out of spite.
"Look at the jumper he’s wearing. Hardly worn. Clearly he’s uncomfortable in it. Maybe it’s because of the material; more likely the hideous pattern, suggesting it’s a present, probably Christmas. So he wants into his mother’s good books. Why? Almost certainly money. He’s treating her to a meal but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he’s trying to economise on his own food."
"Well, maybe he’s just not hungry." John suggested.
"No, small plate. Starter. He’s practically licked it clean. She’s nearly finished her pavlova. If she’d treated him, he’d have had as much as he wanted. He's hungry all right, and not well-off – you can tell that by the state of his cuffs and shoes. 'How d'you know she's his mother?' Who else would give him a Christmas present like that? Well, it could be an aunt or an elder sister, but mother’s more likely. Now, he was a fisherman. Scarring pattern on his hands, very distinctive – fish hooks. They’re all quite old now, which suggests he’s been unemployed for some time. Not much industry in this part of the world, so he’s turned to his widowed mother for help. 'Widowed?' Yes, obviously. She’s got a man’s wedding ring on a chain round her neck – clearly her late husband’s and too big for her finger. She’s well-dressed but her jewellery’s cheap. She could afford better, but she’s kept it – it’s sentimental. Now, the dog...tiny little hairs all over the leg from where it gets a little bit too friendly, but no hairs above the knees, suggesting it’s a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact it is – a West Highland terrier called Whisky. 'How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?' 'Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name and that’s not cheating, that’s listening. I use my senses, John, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I’ve never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone."
The army doctor stared at the detective, gobsmacked by his appalling behaviour. Being upset was one thing but he didn't expect this level of rudeness from his friend, not when he had known him for quite a while now.
Tears burned Elizabeth's eyes, partly because of the sudden unfriendly reminder about her terrible childhood, triggered by his shout and partly because she certainly didn't like seeing him like this.
"Yeah." John cleared his throat, shuffling in his seat, "Okay...okay...and why would you listen to us? I’m just your friend. She's just your partner - "
"I don’t have friends." He hissed
"Nah. Wonder why?" John said.
The doctor's head tilted, still processing this line as Sherlock looked directly at Elizabeth.
"And I don't have partners like you." He spoke the words with venom lacing his tone.
A single salty drop rolled down her cheek as she frowned at the detective. Without a word, she got up and raced out of the pub. John looked after her and then at Sherlock, thrown off guard by this statement and promptly followed after her.
* * * * * *
John found Elizabeth sobbing outside. Between the build up of her own horror and the added torture of the conversation she had mainly sat through, she was at a breaking point.
"Hey, hey." John spoke softly to her, as he moved to pull her into a friendly hug, "Elizabeth, come here." He sighed, "Sherlock is...having one of his moments. We both know he can be a cock when this happens. It's not right, it's not fair but it is Sherlock and he's clearly gone through a shock tonight like you have."
"He meant that though." She cried lowly, "The way he looked at me - the way he said it."
"No - no, I'm sure he didn't. He didn't, Elizabeth, he loves you, he does." John insisted, "When Sherlock gets overwhelmed he pushes people away. He always does this. It's an arse hole move but - I'm sure, truly sure, he didn't mean it."
"I'm not staying." She muttered, "I'm not. This place, with the - the hound and with him being like - like this - I'm sorry but I can't stay." Elizabeth pulled away face damp and red and shook her head, "I'm getting on a train back to London tonight. I'm sorry but I just can't."
"Look, we all just need to take a moment - "
"I'm serious, John, I'm going back. I can't cope!"
"Okay, okay, let's just calm down." He soothed her, "It's about...half-seven now. From here to London by train is easily more than three hours - "
"I would rather be on a train than here." She backed away from him, planning to walk into the pub around the front to avoid seeing Sherlock again so she could get her things, "I'm going back to London where I know it's safe - "
"What?" John looked at her like she was crazy, "Where Jim and gangs are after you?"
"At least those are two things that I know how to deal with - not killer hounds."