From the corner of his eye, Watson saw Holmes's arm drop, the revolver pointed uselessly at the ground as he stared in shock. Lestrade was similarly struck, his mouth hanging open. Watson's focus of attention, however, was the monster that was pounding towards them.
It was a great, black shadow, the size of a large pony, its massive paws beating that thunderous tattoo on the hard ground, each panting breath sounding like a roar in its great chest. Its jaws dripped with saliva, as its muscles bunched and then stretched beneath the black fur of its flanks. Its teeth shone brightly despite the darkness, and it snarled as it ran effortlessly, loping towards them with terrible purpose.
Then, at the last moment, it bounded over the stream, diverted its course, and pounded on passed them, locked into the hunt of the scent it was following… Sir Henry!
Watson recovered himself, stepped, turned, levelled his gun, and fired. The sound jarred Holmes and Lestrade, who both snapped around and let fly a couple of shots each. Either they had all missed, or the hellish hound was unaffected; for it ran on and disappeared from sight around a rocky outcrop.
"Get after Stapleton, Lestrade!" Holmes cried, "Get him!"
Watson was already running after Sir Henry, his revolver in his right hand, carrying his silver tipped walking cane in his left as he took off in pursuit of the hound, Holmes hot on his heels.
~*~
Sir Henry trudged along the moor-path, one hand clasping his coat close around his chest, braced against the winter cold. The mist breezed around him, constantly changing; sometimes he could see yards ahead, at others he could not even make out his feet upon the path. He was so lost in his own thoughts, that when he heard a sound behind him, he paused and half-turned, thinking that he had imagined it. Stories of ancient, hell-cursed hounds and dead relatives rose in his mind, as he half-thought that he had heard a growl.
He paused on the path, and turned back – there had been a noise behind him! His eyes widened slowly as he realised, with a horror that chilled him far deeper than the icy air could reach, that what was approaching him through the shifting mists, was the hound that had haunted his darkest nightmares. It snarled, and Sir Henry stood, rooted to the spot, frozen in place, as the great black dog paced slowly towards him, eyes flashing, teeth bared, growling as it advanced ever closer…
~*~
"Sir Henry!"
There was a cry, close by; Dr Watson! Sir Henry did not dare call back, as he stood stock-still, terrified beyond coherent thought, unable to even run from the piercing, malevolent glare of the animal before him.
"Sir Henry!" Watson called again, closer now, his voice edged with concern.
Sir Henry tried to call out, but the words died in his dry mouth when the beast growled again, pausing its advance, ears pricking up. The fog cleared momentarily, and Sir Henry saw Watson come running, stumbling over the moor's rough terrain, a gun in one hand, cane in the other, for what little defence either could provide against such a demonic creature…
"My God," Watson froze upon sight of the hound, which turned its red eyes towards him, growling ominously.
Sir Henry held one hand up, swallowing quickly – Watson had almost run into the monster in the fog, and Watson now stood much closer to it than Sir Henry. The hound had turned to face the doctor, growling, now faced with two targets. Its scented prey, Sir Henry, was within reach, but here was a new thing and the huge dog sensed the threat that this newcomer posed. It snarled at Watson warningly.
A cold look crossed Watson's face, as he slowly raised the revolver. The hound's growl deepened, as if it knew…
"Watson!" the distant cry distracted them momentarily; Holmes had fallen behind in the chase, uncharacteristically, slowed by the fog and the unfamiliar ground, "Sir Henry!"
Watson opened his mouth to reply. The hound leapt.
~*~
"No!" Sir Henry found his voice at last, and the word tore from his throat as the hound launched itself into the air, crashing into Watson, slamming him into the ground.
Watson's revolver went off, once; then twice, even as his cane flew from his grip. He cried out in agony as the hound sank its teeth into his upper left arm, tearing through coat, clothing and flesh as if through paper. Watson cried out again at the hot sensation of pain as it ripped through his arm, even as he turned his right arm and put a bullet point blank into the monster's temple.
It yelped, releasing Watson's arm, staggering sideways, but then turned and glared at him with hate in its eyes. The bullet seemed to have simply bounced off the monster's skull, and although blood dripped from the wound in its skin, it seemed virtually unaffected. Watson shuddered, even as he gripped his shredded arm. The shot could not have missed – it's skull must be tougher than iron!
The hound turned and paced slowly towards him, even as Watson saw his own blood dripping from its jaws. It growled, the deep rumble echoing from its cavernous chest.
Watson raised his revolver again, and emptied the remaining chambers into the creature. It did not fall, and barely seemed affected by the bullets, and Watson wondered, insanely, through a haze of pain and blood loss, whether this was indeed a hound sent from hell itself, if nothing could kill it.
"My God! Watson!" Holmes appeared over the ridge, taking in the scene before him.
Holmes raised his gun, and fired; the hammer fell with a damp click, and he swore; he had stumbled, dropped the gun, and now the powder in the chamber was damp. The hound ignored him; Watson was on the ground, helpless before it, his right hand clamped around his upper left arm, gasping for breath. The hound was almost upon him, clearly ready to finish the foul job it had started, even as Sir Henry stood by in dumb shock, staring in fixed horror.
The fog shifted again, a shaft of moonlight broke through momentarily, and something shone in the grass nearby. Holmes was already snatching it up even as his mind processed what the item was; Watson's sturdy walking cane, the silver tip sharpened to afford a better grip on soil, meant for hill-walking and rough ground. It had been the reason he had chosen this particular cane to bring to Dartmoor.
The hound was so fixed on Watson that it did not have time to react when Holmes, clutching the cane in both hands, like a spear, ran at the hound and rammed the sharp point into its flank with all of his strength.
The hound let out an unearthly howl that shook the ground and echoed around them, before it crashed over onto its side. Its paws twitched once or twice as it struggled for a moment, then it slumped over heavily, and lay completely still.
~*~
"Watson!"
Holmes shot forward and dropped to his knees beside the fallen doctor, even as Watson struggled to sit up. Holmes slipped his hand beneath Watson's shoulder, supporting him as Holmes's eyes swept the damage done to his arm.
"Oh my God…" Holmes breathed, "Watson…"
"It's…it's… I'm fine, Holmes," Watson gasped, the pallor of his face belying his words, "Sir… Sir Henry?"
"I'm here," Sir Henry, almost as white as Watson, staggered forwards, "I'm unhurt, doctor – thanks to you."
Watson nodded, relieved, not trusting himself to speak. His arm burned with a deep, fiery pain, and the hand he had clamped over the wound was doing little to staunch the bleeding. He was beginning to feel light-headed, even as he watched Sir Henry cross over to the dead dog, Watson's cane still sticking out of its side.
"What is it?" Sir Henry mused, stunned, "It… I saw the doctor empty his revolver into the thing at point blank range and it kept going!"
"It's dead, whatever it is," Holmes replied, as Sir Henry gave it an experimental nudge with his foot.
Watson opened his mouth to comment, but pain flashed up his arm and he groaned aloud. Holmes's concerned expression swam before his eyes, his grip on Watson tightening, calling his name, even as Watson felt himself slipping into darkness.
~*~