A Deep, Organizing Power

Disclaimer - I own nothing but the AU bits.

– cowers as Sir Arthur rolls in grave –

A/N: By the way, can anyone identify where I'm getting the chapter titles from?

I made it back to Baskerville Hall far before luncheon was ready, and so Sir Henry and I engaged in a friendly game of billiards.

Proof of how distracted I was, trying to think my way through the obvious feeling of danger I had, added onto that the strange events of the morning, was evidenced in the fact that the American bested me two games out of three.

"You all right, Watson?" he asked, raising his eyebrows as I conceded the third game.

"Just a little preoccupied, Sir Henry," I replied, "I had hoped by this time Holmes would have been able to break away from London and come down here. It's a heavy load to carry, being his emissary, you know."

"I can't imagine," the man said honestly as we made our way to the dining room, "But we've been here for three weeks now, and nothing even suspicious has happened, except for Barrymore's behavior, and we cleared that up last night."

Possibly another reason why I was so on edge – I could not forget that the man I saw on the Tor was not the convict; he was much too tall. Barrymore's story did not explain his existence. There were too, too many mysterious factors in this business, and I knew I was out of my depth.

I said a silent prayer for Holmes to finish up whatever was keeping him in London and get down to us before something happened that I was either too powerless to prevent or too absolutely exhausted to see coming.

"D'you really think there's even anything in the legend, Doctor?" Baskerville asked me as we sat down to the meal, "since nothing has even happened in three weeks?"

"Holmes told me there was danger, Sir Henry. That is enough to tell me there is definitely something wrong," I replied.

My mind went back to that morning on the station platform, just before I joined Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry in the compartment. Holmes had pulled me off to the side, and his grip on my shoulder was so intense it was almost painful.

"This is a nasty, dangerous business, Watson," he had said intensely, "Do please take no chances. Our opponent is as dangerous as they come – please, please take care."

I was surprised by his unusually emotive words, but even more so by the genuine worry in his thin face as he shook my hand in parting.

"Remember, Watson. No chances," he said again as I turned to get into the compartment, "I – I should not like to have to get myself another biographer."

I laughed, a little uneasily, trying to lighten his mood.

"I doubt you could find one willing to put up with you, Holmes!" I called out the window as the train began to move.

He smiled, but the smile did not reach his entire face. He lifted his hand in farewell, and then his face clouded over with a look I interpreted as worry. Then the train shot out of the station and I could no longer see him.

"Watson? Are you all right, man?" Sir Henry's voice snapped me out of my reverie.

"What? Oh, excuse me, Sir Henry. I do apologize; I was thinking of something."

"You miss Mr. Holmes, don't you, Doctor?"

The American's face showed nothing but sympathy, and I readily admitted the fact.

"I cannot help but feel I am in over my head," I replied.

We finished the rest of the meal in silence for the most part, and as Barrymore came in to clear the dishes, we both exited the room and headed to the drawing room. The baronet wished to show me some of the plans he had been discussing for refurbishing the Hall.

But before we had reached the room, Barrymore came hurrying after us, telling us that Stapleton was here to see Sir Henry.

We looked at each other, and he sighed. "I suppose I'll have to see the man," he grumbled, "show him into the study, Barrymore, I'll be there in just a second."

"He probably has come to apologize, Sir Henry," I said, as the baronet turned to go in that direction, "so have no fear – the man is not violent by nature; I would assume he now is much calmer than this morning."

The man gave me a small grin of thanks and disappeared into the hall leading to the study.

I wandered back to the dining room, waiting for Sir Henry to return. Aimlessly ambling around, I was not really looking at anything, my mind deep in thought.

I was endeavoring desperately to make something of the business, but I was having dreadful trouble focusing. Holmes always said a complete break from a task could clear the mind immensely, and I determined to put the matter from my mind for a while at least.

Barrymore was nearly finished clearing the table, and so I wandered over to the wall of splendid portraits on the left side of the room. Holmes's idea of art was simply atrocious in my opinion, but I should like to think that I at least can recognize a fine painting when I see one. And these really were fine.

My thoughts turned back to Holmes, as they had more and more the last few days especially, and I absently wondered what he would be doing in Baker Street about this hour. Probably giving Mrs. Hudson fits by not eating lunch, I decided with a wistful smile, or destroying the contents of the cabinet containing our case files.

How I wished he were here! I had never been out before for so long on a case all alone, and I very much did not like the feeling. I could not shake off that dark premonition of impending danger.

To rid myself of the feelings, I tried an exercise Holmes was often trying to sharpen my skills at – recognizing faces, and not people. Each time he donned one of his outrageous disguises, he would lecture me about paying attention to features and faces, and not their trimmings.

As I endeavored to do so on the portraits on the wall, trying to see the Baskervilles in them as only faces, not outrageous hairstyles or beards, I was intrigued by my own progress in being able to picture the men as they must have looked without those strange fashions I am so glad were outlawed long before my time.

I had started with Sir Charles, the late heir, and was working my way backwards. I had not yet finished when Sir Henry came in to find me staring fixedly at one of his ancestors. I must have looked slightly odd, for he started to laugh.

But it was a welcome sound to my ears, for the man had been near petrified after our chase on the moors last night, and the events of the morning with the Stapletons had done nothing but drag him deeper into his black mood.

"Well, what did the man have to say?" I asked, seeing his manner had lightened considerably.

He proceeded to tell me about Stapleton's handsome apology. I had to admit to being shocked beyond measure, for the sincerity and effusiveness of the thing seemed as out of character as his explosive nature had earlier.

But if Sir Henry was happy, then there was no harm done.

We spent the rest of the day looking at his plans for the Hall and then I went up to my room to write a report to Sherlock Holmes while Sir Henry looked over some paperwork.

After dinner that night, my attention wandered once more to the portraits on the wall, and this time I started at the other end, with the oldest one being that of Sir Hugo – the one legend said had been killed by a demon hound.

I was amusing myself with Holmes's little exercise when suddenly I stopped, and took another look at the painting.

No, it was impossible. My overwrought nerves were most definitely shot to pieces if I were seeing things of that nature.

Sir Henry had followed my gaze. "Is something wrong, Watson?" he asked, staring at Sir Hugo's portrait.

"No," I said lightly, wanting to laugh at my own ridiculously distraught state of mind, "nothing at all."

I thought no more about the matter until later that evening, when Barrymore knocked on the door of my room and told me a letter had arrived from London, special delivery. I thanked him and seated myself on the edge of the bed, opening it.

I expected the answer within to be just one more instance of my overwrought imagination. I could only guess as to what Holmes's reaction would be had he known what tricks my brain was playing on me. I was quite glad I had not told him what I was doing.

I opened the envelope, and two newspaper cuttings and a picture fell out. As I picked the photograph up from the floor and saw the caption 'Mr. & Mrs. James Vandeleur', my stomach suddenly twisted itself into a knot.

I had been right.

To Be Continued - thanks for reading! Please review!