Sherlock - The Game Is On!

The Hounds Of Baskerville- Three

Chapter Three

Packing my bag, I run round the room collecting more essentials. Yes, sharing a room with Sherlock also meant moving everything I own into his room. Didn't mean that I felt as though I was intruding. I know it sounds silly, but I found it to be a big thing having my underwear in the same draw as Sherlock's per say. It was embarrassing but also charming. The little things always mean a lot.

Staring at my old uniforms from the RAF and The Army from Buckingham Palace I sigh. Trusting Sherlock we will be breaking into Baskerville at some point. Grabbing the Army uniform I fold it, placing it in a separate bag. Zipping the bags I walk out the bedroom. Sending a final glance to the living room I glide down the banister. "Ready?" John asks. I turn around seeing my aunt lay ten shits in Mr Chatterjee. "Cruise together. You had no intention of taking me on it." With that she throws something at the door. I smile. "Seems to be she's having a to do with him."

"You call this a 'to do'? She's only just found out about the wife in Doncaster."

"Wait until she finds out about the one in Islamabad." Sherlock responds, mutually. "Well, it could be worse."

"Enlighten us?" John prods. "Well, the last time my departed uncle cheated... She shot him. In the groin."

"Bloody hell. Can't think why your have fighters spirit." Following the boys, John automatically moves seats leaving the seat next to Sherlock bare. I laugh. "Thanks John."

"Paddington station, please." And off we go. The train ride was the opposite to busy, which I was thankful for. Gave me chance to settle before the storm. Settling my head on Sherlock's shoulder I closed my eyes. "John shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"I can hear you thinking, it's physically disturbing to watch your face contort a question." I responded, not opening my eyes. Feeling the vibration of a deep chuckle, Sherlock lightly presses a kiss to my head...

Dartmoor. Bleak but beautiful some would say. Sherlock stood on a large boulder looking in his top form for the dramatics. "There's Baskerville... That's Grimpen Village... So that must be..."

"Dewer's Hollow?" I questioned. John nodded in confirmation. Sherlock pointed across to the field. "What's that?" Lifting his binoculars from his neck John looks towards the area in question. "Minefield? Technically Baskerville's an army base, so I guess they've always been keen to keep people out."

"Clearly."

Driving to Dewer's Hollow we park up and get out. Walking to the pub we hear a young man speaking: "Three times a day, tell your friends. Tell anyone! Don't be strangers, and remember... Stay away from the moor at night if you value your lives!" Sherlock, who has been pulling his coat closely to him, now pops his collar up. "I'm cold." John and I turn to each other in question. " 'Boutique Rooms & Vegetarian Cuisine'. How delightful." Clapping my hands together I walk through.

Sherlock prowls around the inside of the pub whilst John and I book the rooms. "Eh, sorry we couldn't do a double room for you boys."

"That's fine. We, we're not..." John gives up on trying to state his sexuality when he sees the managers smug smile. "There you go."

"Oh, ta. I'll just get your change."

"Ta." I laugh to myself. "Swap keys?" He asks. "Sure." Tossing each others keys, we turn to notice a pile of receipts and invoices which have been punched through a spike. One is labelled 'Undershaw Meat Supplies'. I nod my head and John quickly swipes it. "There you go."

"I couldn't help noticing on the map of the moor: a skull and crossbones."

"Oh that, aye."

"Pirates?!"

"Eh, no, no. The Great Grimpen Minefield, they call it."

"Oh, right."

"It's not what you think. It's the Baskerville testing site. It's been going for eighty-odd years. I'm not sure anyone really knows what's there any more."

"Explosives?" I question. "Oh, not just explosives. Break into that place and if you're lucky, you just get blown up, so they say... In case you're planning on a nice wee stroll."

"Ta. I'll remember."

"Aye. No, it buggers up tourism a bit, so thank God for the demon hound! Did you see that show, that documentary?"

"Quite recently, yes." I answer. "Aye. God bless Henry Knight and his monster from hell."

"Ever seen it? The hound?" John questioned. "Me? No." Gary points past Sherlock to the window. "Fletcher has. He runs the walks, the Monster Walks for the tourists, you know? He's seen it."

"That's handy for trade."

"I'm just saying we've been rushed off our feet, Billy." He turns to the Chief in question. "Yeah. Lots of monster hunters. Doesn't take much these days. One mention on Twitter and oomph."

"What with the monster and that ruddy prison, I don't know how we sleep at night. Do you, Gary?"

"Like a baby."

"That's not true." He looks to John. "He's a snorer."

"Hey, watch it!"

"Is yours a snorer?" Pointing to Sherlock. John diverts conversation. "Got any crisps?" Walking outside we witness Fletcher about to leave the table Sherlock is allocated at. "Bet's off, Michelle, sorry."

"Bet?"

"My plan needs darkness." He looks up at the sky. "Reckon we've got another half an hour of light..."

"Wait, wait. What bet?" I move to sit partly on the picnic table. "Oh, he bet me fifty quid that you couldn't prove you'd seen the hound." I clocked on. Fletcher raised his brow at me. I gave him my sweetest smile. He turns to Sherlock. "Well, you're gonna lose your money, mate."

"Yeah?" Sherlock patronises. "Yeah. I've seen it. Only about a month ago, up at the Hollow. It was foggy, mind, couldn't make much out."

"I see. No witnesses, I suppose."

"No, but... Wait!" He pulls up a photograph from his phone. "There." The trio of us peer at the digital image, showing a dark-furred four-legged something in the distance but, with no scale amongst the surrounding vegetation, it's impossible to tell the size or even the species of the animal. Sherlock snorts. "Is that it? It's not exactly proof, is it? Sorry, Michelle. I win."

"Wait, wait. That's not all. People don't like going up there, you know to the Hollow. Gives them a... Bad sort of feeling."

"Ooh! Is it haunted? Is that supposed to convince me?" Sherlock places the pint down. "Nah, don't be stupid, nothing like that, but I reckon there is something out there something from Baskerville, escaped."

"A clone, a super-dog?" Sherlock let's out a sceptical snigger. "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?" I taunted. Fletcher hesitates for a moment but eventually speaks, reluctantly, lowering his voice. "I had a mate once who worked for the MOD. One weekend we were meant to go fishin' but he never showed up well, not 'til late. When he did, he was white as a sheet. I can see him now. 'I've seen things today, Fletch,' he said, 'that I never wanna see again. Terrible things.' He'd been sent to some secret Army place. Porton Down, maybe; Maybe Baskerville, or somewhere else. In the labs there, the really secret labs, he said he'd seen... Terrible things. Rats as big as dogs, he said, and dogs, dogs the size of horses." With that he withdraws his bag, holding up a concrete cast of a dog's paw print, but the print is at least six inches long from the tip of the claws to the back of the pad. I pounce through result.

"We did say fifty? Didn't we darling." Fletcher smiles triumphantly as Sherlock gets out his wallet and hands me a fifty pound note. "Ta." Sulkily, Sherlock gets up and walks away. John finishes his drink and follows him.