I was recently informed by sevenpercent that I had left out a very important detail that leads up to the first scene in "Hound of the Baskerville." Thank you for the reminder!

Therefore I have added a few things to part in which Sherlock is on the Tube and toward the end, if anyone would like to read it again for your Sherlockian pleasure, you are more than welcome.

Harpoon on the Tube

Chapter One

Harpoon, Pig's Blood, and Symptoms of Fear

Staring, staring, and more staring. And little else besides.

How irritating. How unutterably dull.

The World's Only Consulting Detective released a heavy sigh.

It all began after Sherlock had performed a most interesting and entertaining experiment involving a dead pig and an antiquated harpoon. Most inconvenient though it was to dash off all the way to a local pig farm to call in a much-painful favor rather than coaxing Molly Hooper for the same—she would have been an immensely yielding target for his armament of irresistible charms, of course, but it might have been impossible for her to follow through at St. Bart's, particularly since the said specimen wouldn't have been fresh enough for his needs—it was worth it, regardless of having to suffer through the offensive conditions and moronic residents of the typical rustic life.

Like always, his deduction had been correct.

Once Sherlock had obtained the inanimate animal, he took firm hold of the seafarer's javelin and proceeded to thrust the metal barb unashamedly into its sides, its body rocking to and fro and old innards spurting surprisingly high from the post-mortem wounds to splatter across his white shirt and pale face. But he didn't mind. It was only blood, after all. He did this kind of thing often enough, and his button-downs were used to the wars of his more aggressive style of washing. Although, he had refused to wear anything else, though he felt rather naked without his black blazer, blue-striped scarf, and Belstaff coat but it was better to have left them on the peg at the flat, safe and untainted. However, more significantly at the moment was the shape and depth of the marks left behind on the sow's skin was precisely the ones inflicted on the victim of his latest case. Conclusion: The primary suspect was in fact the murderer; case broken open and sufficiently closed. He knew it. And so, he couldn't help himself but to smirk arrogantly in consequence. At least now he had evidence to satisfy those incompetent people at New Scotland Yard. Finally! His pleasure at his success was paramount, indeed.

Afterwards arose the far less amusing portion of his venture: the trip home. Under ordinary circumstances, it wouldn't have been so grating and ridiculous an objective, but he forgot to factor in how stupid people were, especially when they merely saw and did not observe.

At first, it didn't seem so bad. He simply strode to the nearest roadway and tried to flag down a cab. And that was when the strange looks began. The witless cabbies would start to make their way toward him in their usual manner but once they got an eyeful of the consulting detective in his bloodied state and honed elongated weapon being lazily fingered at his side, they would each blink incomprehensibly, furrow their brows, and then drop their jaws in pure shock. That was when he lost them. All five of them had dramatically spun around or taken side streets just to get away from him, barely scraping by street lamps and narrowly rolling their black cars.

Sherlock frowned. How could they make any money this way?

Getting to Baker Street would be more difficult than he had anticipated, more difficult than it should have been. Idiots.

Once the sixth cabbie had repeated the role play and rebuffed his request to be a fare, abandoning Sherlock there on the wayside, it officially sealed his fate. A fleeting idea crept into his head but decided against it. John wouldn't like being summoned all that way just to bring the taxi ride to him, not to mention that it would be pointless, though as to why that was he couldn't quite make sense of. They would both end up booted out anyway if the evidence so far was of any indication, and he didn't enjoy making his flatmate angry; the man was liable to strike out physically. No, instead he would have to resort to the only other means of public transit. Sherlock internally cringed.

Whilst wasting his time trudging to the nearest Tube station, Sherlock tapped out a quick text to John.

Been inexplicably delayed. Taking the Tube home. SH

By the time Sherlock reached the Tube station stairs and commenced to descend them with unparalleled grace, his phone chirped, alerting him of a new message and he immediately quested out his mobile from his pocket and gave it a cursory perusal.

Tube? But you hate the Tube, don't you? Why aren't you taking a cab?

Because people are too stupid. SH

Sorry, what?

Idiots never actually think! You know what I mean. You're one of them. SH

There was no response after that. Sherlock vaguely wondered if he had offended the good doctor in some way. Suddenly, humanity's disregard for intelligence seemed overwhelmingly rampant. Oh, how useless and disparaging emotions were; he was glad that he wasn't bothered by them. Well, it couldn't be helped just now. And yet, Sherlock profoundly hoped his colleague would forgive him once again for his rash tongue and ready insults; he had never had a true friend before and the thought of losing John made his chest ache. Irrational sentiment had little to do with it, he rationalized. The partnership had become too vital to his work was all. And he had become accustomed to the ex-soldier's company. Who else would get the shopping? One could not survive contentedly without milk for one's tea.

Since Sherlock discerned no reason as to hold an oyster card considering his aversion to the London transport system in general, he was forced to stalk purposefully to the ticket counter and approach the coffee-slurping attendant who ignored the detective for a moment or two but once he methodically took Sherlock's cash, he glanced up at last, performing a picturesque double-take then eloquently dropped his mug, spilling his espresso all over the desk. After which the thin sputtering imbecile took a step back away from the partition, his eyes wide and face visibly paling. Interesting; obviously, the boy was in fear. How laughable. There were more dangerous people floating about than Sherlock Holmes, two in particular from where he was standing. A serial rapist was just now leaning against the far wall, staring predatorily at a teenage girl with downcast eyes not three meters away and a muscular and tattooed convict who was just now pick-pocketing a middle-aged businessman. Why would anyone think he himself was a threat when the crime was right in front of them, thronging at their backs?

Sherlock outstretched an arm toward the transparent barrier, ice-blue eyes narrowed. "My ticket, please?" he drawled in a monotone. Despite the employee's loud gulp and shaking hands, he complied though slowly and with violent flinches.

"Oh, do shut up," Sherlock murmured not quite under his breath. The detective imperiously rolled his eyes and retrieved the tiny snippet of paper, sprinkling the counter with pig's blood.

Just then, the late morning crowd multiplied drastically; their voices and laughter competing with the screeches and rumbles produced by the passing trains. Unfortunately, that was when the staring became annoyingly prevalent. What was wrong with these people? Couldn't they tell that it was pig's blood marring his sharp features and white shirt and not his own, or another person's for that matter? Really, how many killers wandered about in such a public place looking like this, so obviously bringing attention to himself and thereby getting himself arrested? It was overtly obvious that he wasn't an unstable psychopath. What perfect idiots!

As Sherlock passed through the mechanical turnstile and drifted toward the platform that would lead him to the center of London, the populous gawked at him then turned away, hastily retreating as far from him as they could. The conversations were abruptly cut short, the laughter died. One toddler, upon spying Sherlock's magnificent and blood-drenched harpoon, cried out, "Mummy, look, it's a pirate!" Sherlock felt his mouth curve into a half-smile and his gait become smoother and more dignified. One highlight of this wretched detour that made it almost worth it. Almost.

Strangely enough, Sherlock's unconventional outerwear had one benefit. For instance, instead of fighting a path through the cattle-like droves to the Tube's sliding doors Sherlock was saved from making the effort. In this case, sheer intimidation by virtue of a tall dark-haired man decorated by blood and accompanied by a presumptuously large and appalling implement obliged the pedestrians to scatter as though Sherlock were on fire. Out of nowhere, a breach came into being from where he stood to the train's entry portal. That suited his needs more efficiently. And he was more than delighted to ignore their panic and head straight for the Tube. Even more so once he heard a pair of security guards running behind him in pursuit. But he bypassed the gaping throng and out of the hands of the authorities. It wasn't necessary, of course; Lestrade would have released him without a spot upon his record. But he longed for fun in a black hole of boring. Besides, the expression on their mundane faces was priceless.

On the Tube train itself, the staring ensued. Again, it was useful to have a five foot polar magnetic radius away from the nearest rider. It allowed him a better bench seat and the space in which to stretch and to think. Well, in theory; but, in truth, it was growing more of a task to try to think properly when so many spectators with eyes like saucers filled with liquid fright to the brim persisted in returning them to him before darting away again. Most would make their escape at the next stop only to be replaced by more of the same stock.

The blood on his cheeks and nose were beginning to itch as the drops dried. At least none had stowed away into his mouth as yet.

The situation in of itself was bad enough considering the incessant jolting, the retina-burning fluorescent lighting, and the stench of urine and oil grease stabbing his nostrils, but add the jerky fidgeting and trapped-animal behavior of the other occupants, and it was downright insufferable. Sniffing again-with more emphasis and longevity as well as increased interest this time-Sherlock caught a whiff beyond the more acrid smells to discover leftover cigarette smoke on one of the three commuters he had already deduced were addicts, the one he could tell that had just alleviated his fix. The fragrance was a most familiar brand, one he liked very much. Ever since he had surrendered to the temptation of Mycroft's Christmas gift of a cigarette just after The Woman first faked her death, Sherlock had been plagued by his cravings to have another, just one more that was all. How delightful. And yet detestable, for the tell-tale signs of edginess and trembling, the sheer need, were rising up to shroud his concentration again. That was something he could not abide, could not permit. Nicotine patches just weren't enough anymore, not enough from a single box anyway...

Sherlock scowled and tapped his fingers against the spear he held upright beside his plastic seat, fiddling with its adjoining length of rope. He gave a good attempt at distracting himself with the various advertisements plastered along the walls, criticizing their lack of originality and misuse of English grammar until even that revoked his interest. Then he realized that he was surrounded by adequate subjects for practicing his remarkable deductive skills. His growl of self-abuse remained internal for his neglect.

Lonely construction worker. Alcoholic concierge. Anxiety-ridden secretary. Bipolar housewife. Religious German tourists.

Boring, boring, boring! Why was it so impossible for mankind to be more fascinating?

"Calling the police would be both unwise and unnecessary, so I suggest you put down your mobile," Sherlock advised with an exasperated sigh to a rain-coat clad man not far away from him whose actions proclaimed his supposed clandestine call like a neon beacon.

One more stop to go. Finally; it was almost over.

A twenty-year old girl in an oversized jumper and heavy makeup staggered in just as the train doors closed shut once more. As since she was consumed in the act of texting on her mobile, she did not notice the unnatural conduct of the others or the instigator of it, and so saw no reason against sitting directly in front of him.

Sherlock's keen gaze swept over the young woman, missing nothing. "You should dump the boyfriend. And soon. His ill temper will get worse and so will the beatings. For the sake of your own life and the life of your unborn child, you need to move out and get a restraining order. I would if I were you."

Whipping her head up, the girl seemed perplexed and, like the others, she took in his unsightly guise. Gasping, she dropped her phone and clenched her seat before wrapping her thin legs around the metal poles beneath it. Sherlock's expression softened. "Break up with him today," he said slowly, each word distinct. His eyes held hers until his coming exit was announced on the intercom and the doors separated them.

He hoped she would listen, but doubted it.

The upper entrance to flat 221 B on Baker Street was flung open as Sherlock Holmes made his dramatic and condescending return. He let the harpoon's butt end fall to the floor in exhaustion and stood there for a moment, catching his breath and endeavoring to calm the tension in his body and mind and his latest unpleasant experience.

"Well, that was tedious!" the detective commented, his baritone metaphorically rusted with bitter barbs.

The hateful staring and bugged-out eyes materialized again in the form of Dr. Watson in a lesser form whilst reclining in his chair and scanning the Daily Mail, but in this case his reaction was more along the lines of disbelief and concern than actual distress. That was new. And, Sherlock learned quickly, his tongue was not as frozen.

"You went on the Tube like that?" his flatmate asked. Definitely in disbelief.

The curly-haired man's usually impassive face twisted into a grimace of disgust and aggravation. "None of the cabs would take me!"

Sherlock thundered away to his room to grab some clean clothes. Predictably, his best friend followed in his wake before Sherlock could rummage out his purple shirt.

"How could you have possibly have done something like that?" He hovered in the doorway; his hands fisted and mouth a thin line.

"The blood? People have seen worse on the morning report. I did nothing wrong, you know, it's just a harpoon," Sherlock snapped back.

"It's not that, you git! I already know you're more than capable of handling weapons and resisting the adverse effects of-of overexposure to bodily fluids. That's not what I mean. You could have been attacked; you could have been fined, or arrested!" John took a deep breath and shook his head. "There are certain rules of etiquette on the Tube…you shouldn't rupture the delicate balance! No one should. People will freak out! Bit not good, Sherlock, seriously."

"And mind, who proclaimed that irrational declaration?"

"It's unspoken, Sherlock. Some things don't need a proclamation. Most people are actually dictated by natural human behavior," the doctor answered pointedly.

"When have social restrictions and proper conduct ever deterred me, John? The work is what matters, nothing else."

John rubbed his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, and nodded resignedly. "Fine. True enough in your case."

As the small blonde man made as to retreat, Sherlock paused in the midst of his trouser hunt and halted his colleague by saying his name in a low, reserved voice, one so unlike his usual all-knowing self-assured tone that it promptly caught his attention, made him pivot back to face him, startled and worried. The taller man peered up at the doctor with innocently remorseful eyes—eerily close to those of a kicked puppy—and spoke up again. "John…are you still angry with me?"

John huffed. "You're the consulting detective. You figure it out." His utterance that should have been cold and riddled with rage was in fact half-hearted and feeble. And Sherlock knew it. A small grin crossed his face.

Even when the man was a complete and total prat, the doctor still could not turn a proverbial deaf ear or blind eye from the compassionate side of his nature; especially when it involved Sherlock Holmes, the best friend his life had ever been graced with. The ex-soldier accorded his flatmate a meeker reflection of the dark-haired man's expression of mirth.

Sherlock sobered briefly. "I am very sorry for insulting you, John, I am. I can't imagine why you felt that way, but I was unbearably chafed by all the idiotic people on that excruciating Tube and lashed out at you for no reason. I never intended offense, believe me. "

'I see." John hummed in consideration, flicking his eyes to Sherlock's bureau, his nightstand, the ceiling finally returning them to the person himself and nodded. He cleared his throat to respond. "Right, then. Got it."

Turning away for good this time, John added as an afterthought. "The least you could have done was wiped off your face."

The detective smiled in earnest once his flatmate was out of sight.

Another solved case, another thoughtless killer outwitted and defeated, but no one as yet to succeed him…

What to do now?

Sherlock groaned. Upon spotting the harpoon, he seized its staff with a glint of pleasure in his crystal blue eyes, reveling in its assuring weight and magnificence. It inspired panic and therefore would scare away the bunglers. And it made him look devilish to boot. Then and there he decided to keep it and hold it for the remainder of the day. Maybe he could unearth something else to skewer before long, just to stave off boredom for another day, as well as his growing need for a cigarette. Otherwise, he would go mad. And that would be unacceptable.

Let me know if you enjoyed it! Comments are greatly appreciated!

I'll need some time to continue with this particular story since I will be on vacation then I need to re-watch the episodes to find more ideas for following chapters-poor me I know! Suggestions would help immensely! Thank you!