Chapter 4. In Which All This Has Happened Before, The Butler Did Everything, and Creepy Moor is Creepy.

John settled himself in his seat without a moment to spare-the train began to move immediately, as though it had been waiting on him to make its departure. Attempting not to stand out as an anachronism, John only nodded at the only other passenger in the compartment, a portly, brown-skinned older gentleman with an impressive handlebar moustache. Rubbing at his own upper lip again, John thought about the contradictory yet accurate phrasing of "acting natural", and he turned his gaze to the view outside the window.

From his vantage point, London sprawled out all around him, the city darker and dingier than in his day, pollution hovering in a brown-grey cloud above it. He leaned back, his mind whirring as he watched the train leave London behind. The scenery transformed into the green countryside sooner than he expected, another reminder that he was no longer in the England that he knew. There had to be a way out of this pickle he was in, but he was damned if he knew what it was. As both Sherlock and Holmes would advise, he needed more data, but the only resource he had was back in London.

Except.

The sudden memory causing him to sit up with more violence than was appreciated by his traveling companion, John thrust his hands into the various pockets of his frock coat, scrabbling until his fingers closed around the object of his search-the journal. It contained the legend of the Baskerville curse; what else might it have between its worn leather covers?

He flipped to the first page.

The reminiscences of John H. Watson, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department

His breath stalling in his throat, John stared at the name-his name-written on the flyleaf. His wide eyes moved to the next page.

In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out.

It simply wasn't possible.

"Poor devil!" Stamford said, commiseratingly, after he had listened to my misfortunes. "What are you up to now?"

"Looking for lodgings." I answered.

"That's a strange thing," remarked my companion; "you are the second man to-day that has used that expression to me."

"And who was the first?" I asked.

Not. Possible.

And yet here it was, written in ink in the book before him.

As Holmes spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the same far-away expression which I have already remarked upon. Finally, he sniffed the dead man's lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

"There is nothing new under the sun," said Holmes. "It has all been done before."

"Bloody hell," John muttered, earning a look of reproach from his compartment-mate, but he hardly noticed, too occupied with trying to comprehend what he was reading. A Watson, meeting a Holmes, living and working with a Holmes, in almost the exact way that John had with Sherlock-but over a hundred years before. Was this the past he was trapped in, then? Or some alternate dimension of time, a different reality in which they were still destined to meet? And how the hell did he end up here?

Consumed with the need to know the answers to these questions, John spent the rest of his journey poring over the pages of the journal. He read more of his-no, Watson's-first case with Holmes, and then the many adventures they'd been on, some of them so familiar it was as though John were reading a memoir of his own life with Sherlock. By the time the train arrived in Grimpen, he had reached the last entry, his eyes skimming over the tale of the hound that he'd read the night before-back when he was in his own bed, his own place and time. Had that only been hours ago? He felt like he'd led another lifetime in the interim.

The last written page described Holmes and Watson's plan to meet with Baskerville and Mortimer the next morning; the remainder of the journal was blank, almost as though it expected John to put pen to paper and carry on what his-ancestor? predecessor?-had begun.

The train was slowing, signalling their arrival at the station, and his compartment-mate was folding away his newspaper and rising to gather his things. John reluctantly closed the journal and tucked it back into the breast pocket of his coat, standing and wondering what would happen now that he'd managed to get himself separated from the one person who might believe him.

Once on the platform, John discovered his trunk already unloaded. Beside it stood a short and composed-looking dark-skinned man wearing a black suit, black tie, and white gloves. As John came towards him, the man dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

"Hello," John said, giving a cautious grin. The man seemed only a bit older than John, his closely-cropped hair an even mixture of black and white.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Watson. Sir Henry sent me," the man answered, his voice soft but clear.

"Oh, wonderful," John said, and he reached out his hand. "Please call me John."

The older man looked up at him with careful surprise.

"Yes, sir," he answered, and John could tell from the man's tone of voice that he would do no such thing.

"And your name?"

"Barrymore, sir."

"Right. Good," John said, dropping his hand, and looking all around for a distraction to dispel the awkwardness. John had no idea what this man's position might be-driver? footman?-and only knew that he was giving himself away as an outsider with every action.

Luckily, Barrymore took up the slack, efficiently instructing the porter where to take the trunk and guiding John to the waiting carriage. It was of open design, with four wheels and a matched pair of black mares to pull it, and John climbed into the back as the trunk was secured.

Barrymore hopped, quick and elegant, into the seat next to the driver-a hunched old man who looked John over with suspicion and then grunted-and they were off.

The sun hung low in the sky, and the amber light shone weakly along their path as the carriage bumped its way down the moor. The terrain around them seemed both beautiful and desolate, the scrubby heather dotted with rocky outcroppings that took on strange shapes in the dying light. Feeling a chill run through him that had nothing to do with the weather, John was glad when they passed through an iron gate, and yew trees began to line the road, signalling that they were nearing the hall.

However, once the great house came into view, it was no comfort. The building was huge, grey, and imposing, silhouetted against the sunset like a dark, lurking mass. The bleakness took on a tinge of the gothic when John saw the mostly-leafless vines of ivy clawing up the edges of the hall like black, skeletal fingers.

"Fantastic." John hoped Barrymore hadn't perceived his sarcasm, but knowing what little he did of the man so far, it was unlikely.

Henry had greeted John at the door and introduced him to Mrs. Barrymore, the housekeeper, a nervous-looking, roundly-shaped woman who held her hands in front of herself as though she feared they might wring themselves if she let them. She was visibly relieved to see her husband, her light brown face brightening once he was at her side. Henry seemed oblivious to his servants' moods, focused more on sending off Mortimer-who had stayed with him, as Holmes instructed, until John's arrival-and welcoming John. Henry insisted on the full tour before dinner, and kept up a lively chatter as they wandered through the absolutely dismal place. Though Baskerville Hall may once have been grand, Henry's father had allowed the majority of the rooms to fall into disuse, only requiring a very small portion of the house for himself. The abandoned sections reminded John of ghost stories, all tall gray walls with portraits that seemed to watch him as he walked through.

"It's a bit . . . grim," John said, unable to refrain from commenting on the moor in general and the manor in particular.

With a great exhalation of relief, Henry nodded. "Yes, Dr. Watson, I quite agree! It's no wonder my father was so skittish, surrounded by all this. One could go quite mad here."

John glanced over at his host, noting his furrowed brow and pursed lips. "And how long have you been here at Baskerville Hall?"

"Only a few days before Mortimer and I resolved to see you and Mr. Holmes," he answered. "It was the news of Selden's escape that did it."

"I'm sorry?" John said, hoping the news wasn't something he should already know.

His heart sank as Henry raised a dubious eyebrow at him. "The Notting Hill murderer! Escaped from Princetown not one week ago! Surely it made the London papers."

"Certainly! Forgive me-I thought you said 'seldom'," John covered lamely. Henry gave him an odd look but soon shook it off and continued.

"Ah. Well, that bit of news, along with my father's death, this business with the hound . . . it's enough to make me raze that yew alley and plant lamp posts instead, perhaps find a wife who can brighten up this miserable tomb."

Good luck with that, thought John, pitying the future Mrs. Baskerville to be tasked with such a job. Nodding vaguely and hoping to avoid any more conversational missteps, John followed fairly silently the rest of the way.

The tour complete, Henry returned to the main hall, finally leading John up to his room, where he was inordinately relieved to see that someone had laid out a complete outfit for him. Certainly, it had been Barrymore. The full evening attire of white tie and black suit (including a jacket with tails, no less) reminded John of his military dress uniform, only with seventeen more accessories involved. He descended the stairs to find Barrymore waiting with cocktails, and proceeded to spend the next two and half hours experiencing "dinner"-a multi-course affair nearly obscene in its variety and amount from soup to nuts. By the time he bade his host goodnight and climbed the stairs to his room, John was exhausted.

Finally, in a simple pair of sleep trousers and a nightshirt, he collapsed into the chair at the writing desk.

Unable to settle his thoughts, he reached for the journal. After fiddling with the pen and ink set on the desk for fifteen unproductive minutes, he rummaged through the room for a pencil. Though Mrs. Hudson had been most thoughtful in the packing of his trunk-indeed, he found a revolver neatly wrapped in a tea towel-he could not locate the little silver pencil. He could have sworn he'd tucked it inside the journal back at 221b, but it was nowhere to be found. And though he had no doubt he could summon Barrymore with the bell pull near the bed and have a pencil in no time, the idea of asking Barrymore for yet one more thing this evening was abhorrent, as the man and his wife clearly did the work of five people between them already.

In a stroke of luck he found a plain wooden pencil in the nightstand near the bed, and, thus armed, he sat down again to write, though he knew not what or for whom until the words began to tumble from him.

What I know:

-It is 1889.

-I'm in England. Dartmoor.

-I'm on a case.

-For Sherlock Holmes.

-Holmes is not my Sherlock but he's very similar.

-Both are exceedingly clever, both consulting detectives, both show-offs.

-Holmes seems older than you. Kinder.

-Holmes is more appreciative. Affectionate, even.

-You don't worry so much (at all, really) about my need to eat or sleep.

-You don't tell me "I want you back home safe."

-Or link arms with me in the street.

-Or kiss me.

So. Yeah. That's different.

Too different. I'm sitting around having three-hour dinners and chatting about the countryside when what I should do is go right back to London, back to Holmes, and just tell him what's happened. He's bound to figure it out soon; if he's truly anything like you, he's already sensed that something is more than a little off. But he's also the most likely person to find a way out of this mess. I should have told him, first thing. But I.

I thought he was you.

Just for a while.

I thought it was some kind of elaborate experiment, because, honestly, what else was I supposed to think? Certainly time travel was not the first conclusion I drew.

But now I'm stuck here, and I'm not even in London-I'm out on the bloody moor chasing some phantom dog and trying to solve two mysteries on my own.

Which I know, is what I threatened to do last night, back at home, in the present. And I meant it. I fully intended to go on the morning train and take my best shot.

Here's the thing.

I don't actually want to solve puzzles without you.

Allowing himself a moment of melancholy, John underlined the last word and stared at it until he felt his eyes burn. He sniffed and dropped the pencil, shutting the book with a thwap, and blinked.

Looking to shake the despair that he felt creeping over him, he stood and walked over to the window, drawing away the curtain to gaze outside. The moon was high and full, casting its blue light over the landscape. The window faced the front of the hall, the wide grassy space below lying flat before the entrance like a dewy carpet. Beyond the lawn lay the alley of yew trees, flanked on each side by the rolling moor, its curves broken here and there by constellations of rock. It was deathly silent, the quiet night so unlike the constant hum and clatter of London that he found himself remembering nights in the desert, the rare moment of calm when he could turn his gaze upward and see a million stars glittering in the inky night. He looked out along the eerie moor and was surprised to find himself missing Afghanistan, if only because its silence was familiar, known.

A sound pierced the quiet in that moment, pulling John back into the present-or his current present-once more. He had initially thought it was imagined, his fears getting the better of him in his moment of loneliness, but then the sound came again, a wretched, amplified wailing.

Without hesitation, John grabbed a candle and the revolver. Barefoot and silent, he crept over to the door to his room and opened it a crack. Peering into the hallway, he saw Henry doing the same across the way.

"You heard it too?" Henry asked in a raised whisper, and John refrained from voicing the very Holmesian reply that dangled on his tongue. Obviously. Instead, he nodded, and stepped out into the hall, indicating that Henry should get in step behind him.

The young baronet did as he was instructed, and soon they were padding down the hall towards the central staircase. John stopped to listen, and Henry bumped into him from behind, nearly upsetting a marble bust of Tennyson in the process.

It occurred to John that Henry Baskerville did not have much experience with adventuring.

While John was contemplating telling Henry to go back to his room, a shuffling noise reached his ears. He handed the candle to Henry and moved forward towards the sound coming from one of the rooms further down the hall, staying low, weapon held straight out before him.

The revolver felt unfamiliar in his hands, and though he figured it would do the job, he missed the Sig, the feel of the grip in his palm, the way his fingers curled around it like a natural extension of his hand.

The rustling came again, and John's head whipped around towards the source of the sound. One of the empty bedrooms. The door was slightly ajar, and a thin line of light spilled into the dark hallway.

John inhaled, then kicked at the door. As it swung open, he entered. "Who's there?" he demanded, gun trained on the source of light.

Mrs. Barrymore screamed and promptly dropped her lantern.