Sherlock - The Game Is On!

The Hounds Of Baskerville- Six

Chapter Six

Sherlock speed walks to the Inn, unclasping our hands he makes way towards the armchair by a roaring open fire, I pay for the drinks. "Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock stays silent. "Okay." I smile, numbly. His face still held shock and disbelief. I sigh to myself taking a gulp of my drink. We stay silent. John walks in and notices us. He gestured to Sherlock and I, I just shrug. Sighing to himself he pulls a chair up. "Well, he is in a pretty bad way. He's manic, totally convinced there's some mutant super-dog roaming the moors."

Sherlock held his hands in the prayer position from his mouth, Lost in thought. "And there isn't, though, is there? Because 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." I look to Sherlock, nervously. He was on a break through of a panic attack. John pulled his notebook out. "Er, listen: er, on the moor Michelle and I saw someone signalling. Er, Morse I guess it's Morse. Doesn't seem to make much sense. Er, U, M, Q, R, A. Does that mean... Anything..."

"John." I press warningly. He looks up finally realising how distressed Sherlock is looking. Putting his notebook away he sits back in his chair. "So, okay, what have we got? We know there's footprints, because Henry found them; So did the tour guide bloke. We all heard something." Sherlock blows out a shaky breath. "Maybe we should just look for whoever's got a big dog."

"Henry's right." Sherlock spoke. I turn my head in question. "What?"

"I saw it too." He stated, pulling in another shaky breath. "I saw it too, John."

"Just... Just a minute. You saw what?" Sherlock finally meets our gazes but his face is twisted with self-loathing as he forces himself to admit the truth. "A hound, out there in the Hollow. A gigantic hound." He states, gritting his teeth. John laughs in amusement. "John!" I ground out. Sherlock looks away. Is he crying?  John didn't know how to cope with this strange reaction from Sherlock, Neither did I. "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 I don't think you realise, once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true." I state, cautiously. "What does that mean?" Sherlock reaches down and picks up his drink from the nearby table. Looking down at his trembling hand, he sniggers. "Look at me. I'm afraid, Michelle. Afraid." Taking a shaky drink he continues with his conversation. "Sherlock?"

"Always been able to keep myself distant... Divorce myself from... Feelings. But look, you see..."  He holds up the glass and glares at his shaking hand. "Body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions." Slamming his glass on the table, I jump. "The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."

"Yeah, all right, Spock, just..." I look around at the other people in the restaurant behind us before looking back to Sherlock. "Take it easy." I stay silent watching as Sherlock blows out a few more breaths, still failing to bring himself under control. He glances panic-stricken at John. "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." I snap my head in statement. "Worked... Up?" I question. "It was dark and scary..." Sherlock started cackling sarcastically. "Me?! There's nothing wrong with me."

"Breathe." I mumble. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, groaning in anguish. John looks at him in concern. "Sherlock..."

"John..."

"Sher..." I stamp on John's foot. "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" Now looking around, other patrons stare at us. "You want me to prove it, yes?" I hold my head in my hands. "We're looking for a dog, yes, a great big dog, that's your brilliant theory. Cherchez le chien. Good, excellent, yes, where shall we start?" Sherlock looks over his shoulder and points towards a man and woman sitting opposite each other at a table in the corner of the restaurant. His voice becomes savage and relentless as he goes into deduction mode. "How about them? The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman. The answer's yes."

"Yes?"

"She's got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we're looking for." I state. Sherlock glares at me, solemnly. "Oh, Sherlock, for God's sake..." Sherlock then looks briefly across at the man and his jumper with reindeer and holly leaves knitted into it before turning away again. "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 takes another quick glance at the man. "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. Sherlock spit fires becoming almost frenetic. "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?' Because 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."

He glares at me as he spat the conversation out to John. "Yeah. Okay. Okay." John responded, slowly. John and I try to settle back while Sherlock stares towards the fire, breathing heavily. "And why would you listen to me? Michelle even? We're just your friends."

"I don't have friends." Sherlock replied, savagely. "Wonder why?" John stands up and looks at me. "Michelle, I know you find sentiment difficult to comprehend with, but for what's it's worth... If he's going to act like a total prick..." I look up at him, John scratches his head. "You can do better. Come on." With that said I get up, not sparing a glance to Sherlock and walk away. John slides his arm comfortably around my shoulder.

"I feel bad." I state once we're outside. "Don't be. This is his problem, he wants to be an arse let him." I hug John, warmly, before I make my way to no where in particular.