Project H.O.U.N.D was an experiment in a CIA facility. Leonard Hansen, Jack O'Mara, Mary Uslowski, Rick Nader and Elaine Dyson. It was based on the idea of a new deliriant drug that could render the person highly suggestible and manipulable. It was a weapon. It could have totally discombobulated the enemy using fear and stimulus. They shut it down and shoved it into the deepest depth of the facility in 1986 because of the effect it had on the test subjects...
Prolonged exposure drove them insane, they became uncontrollable and aggressive. But someone had brought it back, reopened the project. "But who?" Clara asked, looking at Major Barrymore's computer. "Who would want to do that?"
"Do those names mean anything to you, Doctor Stapleton?"
Stapleton shook her head at the Detective. "No, not a thing."
Sherlock sighed. "Five principle scientists, twenty years ago." He brought up the picture of the H.O.U.N.D group on the screen. He zoomed in on the blurred faces, squinting closely.
"What if he, or she, is in the back - old enough to be there in 1986," Clara trailed off placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leaning towards the screen. "Frankland," she whispered, jabbing a finger at one of the faces.
"Oh my god. Bob Frankland," Stapleton exclaimed. "But Bob doesn't even work on...I mean, he's a virologist. This was chemical warfare!"
"Cell phone!" Clara blurted. "He said cell phone."
"American," Sherlock agreed. It fitted. "Nice of him to give us his number," Sherlock muttered, fishing out his phone. "Let's arrange a little meeting."
John's own phone chimed loudly. "Hello?" He answered. Clara could hear a shrill voice sobbing out of the receiver. "Whe-Where are you?" John swore quietly, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. "He's gone, he attacked her - the therapist - and now he's gone."
"Who?"
"Henry - he's got a gun."
Clara snatched her phone off of the desk and hit speed dial. "Lestrade," She said, looking at Sherlock. His grey eyes glinted. "Get to the Hollow, Dewer's Hollow." Clara swallowed, pausing. She licked her lips worriedly. "Bring a gun."
.
"NO!" Clara shrieked, her feet nearly skittering over the edge of the Hollow. Henry was standing in the middle of the damp moor, pistol barrel shaking over his parted mouth. Sherlock grabbed the back of her coat but her shoes slipped over the wet leaves. He caught her around the waist and pulled her back.
"John!" Sherlock urged in an insistent growl.
"Yep, on it." He and Lestrade sprinted down to the bottom, towards Henry.
Clara slowed her breathing down and turned to face Sherlock. "Are you...Christ, are you?"
"I'm fine, fine."
"Right, yes. Of course, um."
"Henry..." Clara breathed, her brain kicking in. They shared a look and then saw Henry waving his gun wildly at John and Lestrade. They scrambled down the Hollow as fast as they could.
"You have to remember, really remember what actually happened here that night," Sherlock said, his words demanding.
Henry's face was crunched up in despair. "I thought it had got my dad – the hound. I thought..." He screamed out in anguish, raising the gun back to his head. It jittered over his nervous lips.
"No, Henry, for goodness sake," Clara lurched towards him but Sherlock held her hand. A silent plea. She might provoke him to pull the trigger.
"Henry, remember. Liberty and In. Two words a frightened little boy saw twenty years ago." Sherlock's words shot out of his mouth in rapid fire. Henry stopped trembling but the gun remained at his mouth. "You'd started to piece things together, remember what really happened here that night. It wasn't an animal, was it, Henry?" Henry straightened up. "It wasn't a monster. It was a man."
Henry's eyes widened as the memories rushed back to him.
"You couldn't cope. You were just a child, so you rationalised it into something very different. But then you started to remember, so you had to be stopped; driven out of your mind so that no-one would believe a word that you said."
Clara stepped forward, quietly holding out her hand, palm up, to accept the gun. She took another step and gently pried the gun from his fingers.
"But we saw it: the hound, last night. We s...we, we, we did, we saw..."
"Yeah, but there was a dog, Henry, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We both saw it – saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus; that's how it works, right Sherlock?"
"Yes, but there never was a monster," Sherlock said. An anguished howl ricocheted off the trees and the whole forest seemed to shake. Their heads snapped up and flashlights scanned the wood. A low, hunched shape was stalking the rim of the hollow. The snarls rattled their bones.
"Sherlock," Clara gasped, her shoulders trembling. Her voice was barely audible. Sherlock held out a hand towards her, a gesture made from muscle memory. Clara. They had the same gravity, there was a tangible pull between them.
"No," Henry muttered, "No, no, no, no..." Panic was rising up his throat and into the night.
"Henry, Henry..." Clara shifted away from Sherlock, shuffling towards the panicking man. The creature was still slinking around the hollow like a prowling lion. Clara swore, her breath hitching. Henry crumpled to his knees and sobbed into the dirt. The fog was swirling around them like a ghostly ocean. It was up to Clara's knees.
"Shit!" Lestrade bellowed as the creature's eyes glowed like an angry hearth.
"Greg are you seeing this?" John asked, his eyes crazed. Lestrade's expression answered the question. "Right, so he isn't drugged. So what is that, Sherlock? What is that?!"
"All right, it's still here..." Sherlock dragged his hands down his face, trying to separate fact from fiction. "...But it's just a dog. Henry, It's nothing more than an ordinary dog!" The hound raised its shaggy head and howled to the moon.
Clara stumbled backwards. "Sherlock. Not. Helping." She gritted her teeth, her hand twisting around Henry's gun tighter. It was real, the monster wasn't a drug induced hallucination. Clara could see its fur shining under the stars and the claws scraping back the soft dirt. The hound opened it's mouth and sharp white teeth glowed in the moonlight. Saliva dripped off its canines as it licked its jowls. They were going to die by the claws of a monster.
"The fog!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"What?" Clara shrieked. She was aiming Henry's gun at the hound. Sherlock paused for a second taking the image in. Did she even know what she was doing? She looked like she did - safety off and hands steady. How did she know what she was doing? Sherlock's brain asked these questions and dismissed them in under a second. "The drug - it's in the fog! Aerosol dispersal - that's what it said in the files. Project H.O.U.N.D, it's the fog! Chemical minefield!"
Lestrade threw his arm across his face, smashing his nose into the crook of his elbow to stop inhaling the chemicals. The hound was still coming closer to the group.
Clara heard the smush of damp leaves behind her and yelped, turning around. Clara whipped around, Sherlock following. There was a figure stepping slowly up to them. "Frankland!" She shrieked, pointing her weapon at him without a thought. Sherlock grabbed him by the coat lapels.
"For God's sake kill it!" Frankland roared as the monster clambered down the banks, nostrils flaring. Lestrade and John both took a few shots at it and it finally squealed, rolling down among the muddy leaves.
"Look at it Henry," Sherlock panted, leaving Frankland to Clara and pushing Henry to the body of the monster. He resisted, planting his feet into the ground.
"No, no, no, I can't..."
"Look at it!"
It was just an ordinary dog, small black, button eyes, a dark coat and paws smaller than Clara's hands. Sherlock was right - they had been drugged. Henry turned, realisation and anger twisting his features. He let out a shriek, lunging at Frankland, pushing him to the ground. "You bastard, you bastard!" Lestrade, John and Sherlock had to pull him off. "Twenty years! Twenty years of my life making no sense! Why didn't you just kill me?"
Frankland got up, Clara aiming the gun steadily at his head. He smirked at her, black eyes drilling into hers. "You wouldn't pull the trigger," he smirked, chuckling with dark delight.
"Don't tempt me," Clara deadpanned.
Frankland went to grapple for the gun but Clara pulled the trigger, purposely missing him by bare inches. Frankland stilled, eyes wide with disbelief. "You could have killed me, you mad bitch," he bellowed.
Clara arched an eyebrow. "Just used to a better class of alien," she mused. She turned, smiling slightly at the boys. "You were saying, dear?" She prodded.
"Ah, yes, um..." They all looked like codfish with their mouths open, especially Sherlock. "Henry, er, yes-er, because dead men get listened to. He needed to do more than kill you. He had to discredit every word you ever said about your father, and he had the means right at his feet – a chemical minefield; pressure pads in the ground dosing you up every time that you came back here..." Sherlock spun around, gesturing at the Hollow. "Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once."
He laughed with delight, clapping his hands together. "Oh, this case, Henry! Thank-you, it's been brilliant."
"Sherlock..."John started, a line appearing between his brows.
"What?"
John gave him a pointed stare. "Timing."
"Not good?"
"No, no, it's - it's okay," Henry butted in. The colour was slowly coming back to his cheeks. "It's fine, because this means..." He took a step towards Frankland, his spine straightening. John stepped with him, ready to intervene. "...this means my dad was right." Tears were tracking down Henry's cheeks, parting through the grime of the moor. "He found something out, didn't he, and that's why you'd killed him - because he was right, and he found you right in the middle of an experiment."
Suddenly, the dog whined loudly. A slow snarl rumbled up its throat and slipped through its bloody lips. It stumbled to its feet, whimpering in pain. John fired again, finally killing the animal.
"Oh, really?" Clara screeched in exasperation. Frankland took his chance to run off. Sherlock raced after him, straight into Clara's line of fire. She swore at the detective and lowered her gun, trying to catch up with her short legs.
"It's no use, Frankland!" She heard Sherlock yell. They reached the barb wire fence stopping them from entering the minefield. Frankland, however, didn't hesitate, clearing the fence and falling to the other side. He jogged a few yards and stilled.
"Frankla-"
He deliberately lifted his foot and a explosion of light rippled through the air. Sherlock tackled Clara to the ground as the others ducked. The force rattled their ears and forgotten debris coated them. "Would you really have shot him?"
Sherlock's nose brushed hers. They were millimeters away. Clara scoffed. "Course not, I was just trying to scare him. Pretty impressive, though, wasn't it?" She smiled her beautiful smug smile.
"Fooled me," Sherlock muttered, eyes laughing.
"I'd really love to have dinner with you," Clara blurted, her words like a mess of hot air.
"Good thing the chemistry really is quite simple," Sherlock chuckled. He surprised her, pressing the whisper of his chapped lips on the edge of her mouth. A promise, a tentative experiment, a scientific exploration.
Clara grinned. "Get off me, Cheekbones," she scolded, though her voice was breathless. "You promised dinner, remember?"
.
"So..." John coughed, shaking salt over his vegetarian version of a hearty breakfast.
"So..." Sherlock mimicked, taking the lid off of his cardboard coffee cup to cool it down.
John sighed loudly. "I wonder what Clara's up to?" He looked pointedly at the inn.
Sherlock picked up a newspaper, pretending to read the front page. "Oh look, Mrs Hudson will have a fit," he muttered, showing John an article on rising condiment prices.
"Sherlock."
"We could probably ask Mycroft to do something about. Bribe a manager or something. Can't have the jam prices overtaking the marmalade."
"Sherlock, I know where you were last night."
But Sherlock wouldn't play so John shovelled in his breakfast until the detective finally stopped rambling about supermarket prices. John knew that Sherlock didn't sleep in the two bedroomed room they had booked. His bed hadn't changed from the night before.
"So what were you up to last night?" John asked, a second attempt.
"Nothing," Sherlock shrugged.
"Really," John muttered, biting his toast.
"I had dinner," Sherlock allowed, sipping his coffee.
"With Clara?"
"Maybe," he coughed, looking around desperately for help.
"And then..."
"This coffee is revolting, I think I'll go and get a new one," Sherlock babbled, he practically ran back towards the inn.