A/N: Transcript taken from: . #cutid1

Once again weeks passed, and the trio heard nothing. It appeared that Moriarty and his gang had gone under the radar again avoiding. John was reading his newspaper whilst Rosie was scrolling through John's laptop. Suddenly, Sherlock burst through the flat door covered in blood. He slammed the end of his harpoon into the floor. Both John and Rosie looked up wide-eyed.

"Well that was tedious." Sherlock said frustrated.

"You went on the tube like that?!" John said baffled.

Frustrated Sherlock replied, "None of the cabs would take me."

He turned and left the room. John and Rosie looked at each other just as confused as each other.

After he got changed, Sherlock paced about the living room with his harpoon looking between John and Rosie. "Nothing?"

"Military coup in Uganda." Rosie began.

John chuckled. "Another photo of you with the, er…." He pointed to the photo.

"Oh, um, cabinet reshuffle."

Sherlock roared with rage and began complaining about his lack of cigarettes. Mrs Hudson came in and he began begging with her. When she didn't know he took his frustrations out on her and began making deductions that made her quite upset about her 'friend' Mr Chatterjee. She slammed the door after her. John begged that she went after her and apologise.

"I need a case!" Sherlock shouted.

At equal volume, John replied with "You've just solved one…."

"By harpooning a dead pig, apparently" Rosie cut in.

"That was this morning," he started drumming his fingers on the chair he was sat on. "When's the next one?"

"Nothing on the website?" Rosie asked.

Sherlock handed John his laptop whilst Rosie got up to look. He then began to tell the story of bluebell, the disappearing luminous rabbit. Then a look of joy appeared on his face.

"Ah! What am I saying? This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."

John and Rosie looked at each other. "Are you serious?"

"It's this, or Cluedo."

Both John and Rosie explained why they were never going to play that again. Then the door bell rung.

"Single ring." John said.

"Maximum pressure" Rosie joined.

"Just under half

second" Sherlock finished.

"Client." All three of them said simultaneously.

Soon after the client walked in and explained his situation and then the trio found themselves watching a documentary.

"What did you see?" Sherlock inquired.

"I…I was just about to say." Henry Knight, the client, nervously said.

"Yes, in a TV interview. I prefer to do my own editing."

Henry explained that his father was murdered in Dewer's Hollow (an ancient name for the devil) and the devil was what he saw that night. It was a massive creature with black fur and red eyes. It tore at his father and that was as much as he remembered. The next day was found wondering the moor, they never found his body. John reckoned dog or wolf, Sherlock however thought genetic experiment. When Sherlock stifled a laugh, Henry explained no-one apart from the TV took him seriously. He also thought that Sherlock wouldn't be able to help him. Henry stood up and began to make way for the door.

"Because of what happened last night." Sherlock said before Henry left.

"Why, what happened last night?" Rosie asked.

"How…how do you know?

"I didn't know; I noticed," Sherlock quickly reeled off facts. "You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely nervous to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr Knight, and do please smoke, I'd be delighted."

Henry looked at John and Rosie and went to sit back down searching through his jacket pocket. Sherlock carried on.

"Punched-out holes where your ticket's been checked…" John tried stopping him, but he continued. "The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee: the strength of the stain shows that you don't take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast – or the nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich."

"How do you know it was disappointing?" Henry half sobbed.

"Is there any other type of breakfast on a train? The girl – female's handwriting quite distinctive. Wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later – after she got off, I imagine – you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidently smudging the numbers. You've been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you're not that into her after all. Then there's the nicotine stains on your fingers…your shaking fingers. I know the signs. No chance to smoke on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here. It's just after nine fifteen. You're desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at five forty-six a.m. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?"

Henry stared in amazement. "No. You're right. You're completely, exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick."

"Its my job."

John played with idea that Henry had created the beast as a way to cope with his parents death. Henry said that his therapist, Dr Mortimer, said the same thing. She said that he had to return to Dartmoor to face his demons. Sherlock brought the conversation back to the hound.

"What did you see?"

"Footprints – on the exact spot where I saw my father's body torn apart."

"Man's or a woman's?" Rosie asked.

"Neither. They were…"

"Is that it? Nothing else. Footprints. Is that all?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Yes, but they were…"

"No sorry, Dr Mortimer wins. Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye, Mr Knight. Thank you for smoking."

"No, but what about the footprints?"

"Oh, they're probably paw prints; could be anything, therefore nothing," Sherlock lent back and gestured towards the door. "Off to Devon with you; have a cream tea on me."

Sherlock stood up and buttoned his suit. He went into the kitchen when Henry turned to look at him. "Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound."

Sherlock stopped exactly where he was and turned back around. "Say that again."

"I found the footprints; they were…."

"No, no, no, your exact words. Repeat your exact words from a moment ago, exactly as you said them."

Henry thought for a second and then repeated the words. "Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic…hound."

Rosie spoke for the first time in a while. "oh…"

"I'll take the case."

John was shocked. "Sorry, what?"

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention. It's very promising."

John continued knowing her dad had misunderstood. "no, no, no, sorry, what? A minute ago footprints were boring; now they're very promising?"

"It's nothing to do with footprints." Rosie said. John shot her glace.

"As ever, John, you weren't listening. Baskerville: ever heard of it?" Sherlock asked.

"Vaguely. It's very hush-hush."

"Sounds like a good place to start." Sherlock said excitedly.

"Ah! You'll come down, then?" Henry was hopeful.

"No, I can't leave London at the moment. Far too busy. Don't worry – putting my best man and woman onto it." He walked over and patted John and Rosie on the shoulder. "Always rely on John and Rosie to send me the relevant data, as he never understands a word of it. She's not so bad."

"What are you talking about, you're busy? You don't have a case! A minute ago you were complaining…"

"Bluebell, John." Rosie and Sherlock interrupted. Sherlock carried on. "I've got bluebell! The case of the vanishing, glow-in-the-dark rabbit! NATO's in uproar."

Confused Henry asked. "Oh, sorry, no, you're not coming, then?"

Sherlock shook his head. John groaned. "Okay." John walked over to mantle. "Okay.

He lifted the skull up that sat on the side and threw them at Sherlock, who caught them and in turn through them over his shoulder. Rosie chuckled.

"I don't need these anymore. I'm going to Dartmoor." He then walked out the living room.

Henry rushed to his feet. "Er, sorry, so you are coming."

Sherlock turned back into the room. "Twenty-year-old disappearance; a monstrous hound? I wouldn't miss this for the world."