Author's Note: Yay, double digit chapters! Finished this one last night, but I thought I'd save it for today. I feel like some of you have already guessed at this chapter (most likely because you've read the books and know the plots I'm trying to tie in), but I hope some of you are surprised :) Hope you like it, reviews are loved. I don't own Sherlock.

Compared to the large amount of noise made by the police officers outside, the house felt oddly quiet. The five of us made our way into the main hall, our footsteps reverberating across the tiled floor.

"So, where would you like to start?" Mortimer asked, turning towards me.

"Sir Baskerville's bedroom." The bearded man, John, answered. He glanced at me wearily. "I mean, if you don't mind. It seems to make the most sense to me."

"Yeah, okay." I nodded, looking back at Mortimer. He led us up the staircase towards a large door at the end of the top floor.

"We've left it just as it was that night." He said, bringing us into the room. It was extremely clean, not a thing out of place. A fire place was at the far end of the room, surrounded by several chairs. Long, thick curtains draped over the windows, leaving the room dark and cold. A large, framed portrait of Sir Charles Baskerville was mounted above the mantle piece.

I glanced around the room, trying to decide where to start. Stapleton and John walked forward, investigating the bed and windows.

I looked at Mortimer and Sir Henry. "Who exactly is Mr. Stapleton?"

"A former teacher. He showed interest in the case after your friend, um..."

"Ah, yes." I nodded, trying to avoid the subject. I gave them a small smile and walked towards the fire. I studied the mantle piece and tried to find anything of importance. My gaze shifted towards the painting just before Stapleton cried out, "Oh, Dr. Watson, look!"

I turned towards the pair to see John staring at his friend, confused. Stapleton motioned for me to come over. I walked towards them slowly. "Yes, Stapleton?"

"I, ah... I thought I'd found something. Nevermind."

I glanced from him to John, trying to figure out what they were up to. John stared past me at the painting, his eyes flicking across every detail of it. He pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and started writing. Stapleton glanced at the paper and looked back at me. "Sorry, but, um... we already checked over there. Will you help us over here instead?"

"I suppose." I cleared my throat and stepped towards them, still not convinced that I should trust the pair.

"Sir Henry, Mr. Mortimer?" A voice called from the door. A young woman stood in the doorway. She was thin and pale, her voice quavering slightly. "The officers downstairs want to see you."

"Ah, Beryl. Dr. Watson, this is my sister." Stapleton smiled. "She's helping us as well. Shall I come as well, Beryl?"

"I... I think it's about this murderer though..." She eyed him nervously.

His smile grew wider. "I'll go down then. I need to speak with you, anyway. You coming, John?"

The bearded man glanced at me, then shook his head. "I'll keep investigating with Dr. Watson."

Beryl let her brother pass her, looking back at the two of us. She had a strange look on her face, almost as if she was scared, as she closed the door behind her. I glanced at John awkwardly, looking back towards the painting above the mantle piece.

"Well, he clearly didn't want me to see this." I said, moving closer to the painting. John followed me, a small smile on his lips. I tried to ignore the man standing behind me as I studied the painting. There was something familiar about this picture of Sir Charles, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it.

I looked at it for a few moments, then backed up in realization. "It looks a bit like him, doesn't it? Stapleton." I glanced back at John. His smile had grown considerably wider.

"Good." He nodded, still staring at the painting over my shoulder. "Say, what do you think about that part there?"

I turned back to the painting, looking for what he'd pointed at. "I don't see any-" I looked back, but the bearded companion of Stapleton no longer stood behind me.

Instead, I was looking into the smiling face of Sherlock Holmes.