The Progression of Feelings

by seasidewriter1

Ana isn't sure what to expect when moving into 221b with John and Sherlock. Sherlock isn't sure of having a woman share his flat with him. But, soon the two find that both see the other as equally interesting as she joins the famous duo on their adventures. But what happens when Ana and Sherlock begin to realize they have feelings for each other? Will they admit it? *Sherlock/OC*

36. Thirty-Five: The Fog Clears

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (the show or the original works by A.C.D.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Ana.

35. The Fog Clears

The trio had found Stapleton at work in her lab; she had been standing over a white rabbit that had started to glow green when Sherlock had switched the lights off. After gaining her begrudging cooperation after threatening to tell Stapleton's daughter that Bluebell was a lab experiment, they gained access to one of the bigger labs. The main lights remained switched off, which was alright by Ana and John, who'd had their fill of bright lights. The two had just started coming off their frightened high. The visible remnants of their traumatic experience still clung to the corners of their mouths and hung in the drooping of their eyes. Sherlock––of course––remained completely collected and calm as he did his work bent over a microscope. He smashed up a sugar cube and pushed it under the microscope's lense, peering into it intently. They had been sitting there for a good twenty or so minutes, during which John had disappeared to the staff kitchen to make tea in hopes that it would help fully calm him down. He'd offered to bring some back for Ana, but she had refused, saying that she wasn't sure she could stomach anything at the moment. Sherlock continued to meticulously work over the microscope, writing things down on the table to the right with different colored wash-away markers. He hadn't told any of them what he was looking for; and no one really had the energy to ask.

Ana and John were seated at a lab bench, perched atop uncomfortable stools as they stared desolately into nothing. Her fingers were massaging her temples and every-so-often swept upwards to push strands of pesky hair from her face. Her heart had finally calmed down and she'd cried for a short spell, all of her tears absorbed by Sherlock's coat. Her mind was still reeling, though, caught on everything she thought she had seen. The consulting detective had said they'd been drugged. But it had all felt so real that her mind didn't want to let go of the possibility that it had been. With a sigh, she tried to expel that thought. It wasn't real… it wasn't.

"Are you sure you're both okay?" Stapleton asked Ana and John. The two looked at her suddenly, both having broken out of their quiet trance of staring off into nothing. "You look very peaky."

"No, I'm alright," John murmured, draping his arm over the corner of the bench. Ana swept her fingers through her hair again and managed half a smile. She turned around in her seat so she was facing Sherlock, who was seated at a different bench.

"Trust me, if you'd encountered us earlier, it would've been much worse," she informed, keeping the answer vague. She rubbed her eyes and then leaned back against the bench, both her elbows propped up against it.

"It was the GFP gene in the jellyfish, if you're interested," Stapleton said after a beat of silence. Ana and John gave her a matching look of confusion.

"What?" John inquired.

"In the rabbits."

"Oh. Yes."

"Aequorea Victoria if you really want to know." The scientist sounded proud. Ana flashed a smile and let her brows twitch upwards as though she were truly fascinated by the fact she'd just been given; a fact that she would likely forget by the end of the evening. John, clearly sensing that the scientist wanted to a chance to explain––or brag––asked,

"Why?"

"Why not?" she offered. "We don't ask questions like that here. It isn't done. There was a mix-up, anyway. My daughter ended up with one of the lab specimens, so poor Bluebell had to go."

"Your compassion is overwhelming," John deadpanned. He picked up the mug of tea he'd made earlier in the staff kitchen and sipped at the now lukewarm liquid.

"Award worthy, even," Ana added on, crossing her legs.

"I know. I hate myself sometimes," Stapleton replied in a tone of voice that made it hard to tell whether or not she was telling the truth or simpling mocking them.

"So, come on then. You can trust me––I'm a doctor. What else have you got hidden away up here?" John's attempt at questioning came off tired and half-hearted. He simply didn't have the energy or gusto to sound more involved or interested.

"Listen, if you can imagine it, someone's probably doing it somewhere," was Stapletons response. Ana's lips pulled into a displeased grimace. The scientist's response hadn't helped her any with trying to convince herself what she had just been through was all the result of drugs.

"Cloning?"

"Yes, of course. Dolly the Sheep, remember?"

"Humans?"

"Why not?"

"What about animals? Not sheep… big animals."

"Size isn't a problem, not at all. The only limits are ethics and the law, and both those things can be… very flexible." Ana arched an eyebrow and shook her head. "But not here––not at Baskerville."

Sherlock's stool noisily scraped against the floor as he hurtled to his feet. He snatched the slide out from the microscope and hurled it across the room, where it shattered against the wall. Everyone stared at him wide-eyed, having flinched at the sound of breaking glass.

"It's not there!" Sherlock shouted. John, who had hunched in on himself, quietly murmured 'Jesus!' Ana had a hand firmly placed in the center of her chest, heart racing once again. "Nothing there! It doesn't make any sense!"

"What were you expecting to find?" asked Stapleton, who looked appalled that one of her slides had just been destroyed. Sherlock began pacing, face twisting into an annoyed composition.

"A drug, of course! There has to be a drug––a hallucinogenic or a deliriant of some kind. There's no trace of anything in the sugar," Sherlock announced, gesturing to where he had been looking. John's gaze slipped to the mug of tea in his hand. Something clicked.

"Sugar?" he stressed. Sherlock stopped pacing to turn an intense gaze on his two flatmates.

"The sugar, yes. It's a simple process of elimination. I saw the hound. Saw it as my imagination expected me to see it: a genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. Henry Knight––he saw it too, but you didn't, John. Neither did you, Ana. Neither of you saw it. Now, we have eaten and drunk exactly the same things since we got to Grimpen apart from one thing, John: you don't take sugar in your coffee," Sherlock prattled off, pointing at the soldier as he began to pace again. Ana's head lolled backwards as she caught on.

"I see," John said, looking down at the floor, "so…"

"I took it from Henry's kitchen. His sugar." Sherlock stopped in front of the microscope he had been using and grimaced. "It's perfectly alright."

"Have you considered the possibility it isn't a drug?" Ana asked, raising her head.

"No, it has to be a drug!" Sherlock sat down again and placed both hands over his face. "How did it get into our systems? How!?" He shook his hands out, but kept his eyes scrunched shut in concentration. His head slowly began to raise and Ana shifted forward in her seat. She knew that expression, that vehement need to focus; it meant that they would have to leave the room shortly. "There has to be something. Something… ah… something…" his eyes flicked open, "something buried deep." His head snapped to the right and he waved his hand towards the door. "Get out."

"What?" Stapleton asked.

"Get out, I need to go to my Mind Palace."

John slouched and sighed quietly; whenever Sherlock disappeared to his Mind Palace back at 221b, he and Ana had to tiptoe around him for hours. They tried to avoid whatever room he was in for fear of shaking him out of his thoughts. Ana slipped off her stool and snagged her jacket, John soon to follow suit.

"Your what?" Stapleton looked between the three with confusion. Sherlock, who had turned his head to face forward and stare at a wall, didn't reply.

"He's not gonna be doing much talking for a while. We may as well go," John sighed.

"His what?" the doctor reiterated as they began to exit the lab.

"His Mind Palace," Ana said, folding her jacket over her arms. She looked at Sherlock as they passed him by––he was already hyper focused and didn't acknowledge them in the least bit. "It's a memory technique he uses."

"A sort of mental map. You plot a map with a location––it doesn't have to be a real place––and then you deposit memories there that… Theoretically, you can never forget anything. All you have to do is find your way back to it," John explained haltingly. When John had asked the consulting detective about it, he had sighed and quickly shot off an answer that John had to take in as quickly as it was spoken.

"So this imaginary place can be anything. A house or a street," Stapleton figured as they paused at the doors.

"Yeah."

"He said 'palace.' He said it was a palace."

They all glanced back at Sherlock, who was sitting with a perfectly straight back, a raised chin, and his hands held out in front of him. John's lips quirked to the side. "Yeah, well, he would, wouldn't he?" Ana cast one last look at the consulting detective before she followed the other two out of the doors, making sure it shut quietly.

Sherlock's eyes fell shut briefly as he found his way back into his Mind Palace. Once the doors had opened, he immediately set to work. He raised his left hand as a list of words pertaining to 'Liberty.' Some of such words included 'bell,' 'fraternité,' and 'pattern.' He swept his hand inwards and towards his chest, bringing all of the words together to form a new list. Both hands rose to cradle the word 'Liberty' on either side as Sherlock began to scroll through possibilities. The cold blues of his irises were revealed to the room as he scrolled through the words. They fell shut again when he came to one possible pairing: 'Liberty Pattern.' His head twitched to the side in dismissal. He flicked his right hand to the side, dismissing the word 'pattern' and then flicked his hand upwards to bump 'liberty' into a vertical position. With another wiggle of his hand, he drew forward the image of a crest that was accompanied by the words 'LIBERTY London.' Sherlock swept the crest away and brought the word back into its normal horizontal positioning.

With a waggle of his right hand, the language of the word began to change. With a sound that could have been described as radio babble, the word 'liberty' changed into 'liberté.' Twisting his hands in opposite directions before drawing them apart and away, a new set of words formed. 'Liberté––Égalité––Fraternité.' Swiping downwards, the words scattered and disappeared and his eyes flew open for a second time. The next pairing of words: 'Liberty Bell.' The word 'bell' jostled and the sound of a mighty brass bell echoed in his ear. The pairing was thrown to the side, and moved onto the next possibility. The image of John Philip Sousa appeared in his mind and the sound of the Liberty Bell March began to fill his ears. There was no connection to be made between the song and Henry's situation, so it was dismissed as well. 'Liberty' hovered around him in all directions teasingly, annoyingly. Sherlock threw his hands apart and scattered all the variations before moving on to the next word. 'In.'

The consulting detective's eyes rolled towards the ceiling and his facial muscles twitched some as he rapidly flipped through the possibilities. 'In.' 'Inn.' 'India.' 'Ingolstadt.' 'Indium (atomic number=49).' Finding that particular word a tad too frustration, he moved on to the word 'hound.' Sherlock pulled up images of various large dogs, such as the ridgeback and wolfhound, but those were soon flicked aside with a wave of his hand when their relevance couldn't be found. With his head cocking to the side, and a hand held to his mouth as though cradling a microphone, he sang the first three words of Elvis' 'Hound Dog.' A frustrated growl ripped from between his teeth and both hands flew to the side to dismiss everything that had come to clutter his mind with the word 'hound.' He rolled his head from side to side, making a series of strange faces before homing back in on what he needed to be doing. 'Liberty, In, Hound.' Sherlock managed to bat the first two away, but the final word decided to stick around. 'Hound' hovered in front of his face in bold lettering, so he slapped it away and tried to calm his mind.

Hound, said a distinct voice.

Sherlock's eyes shot open and he jolted with each new found discovery.

Liberty,

Indiana

H.O.U.N.D.

Sherlock's hands relaxed and his lips quirked to one side. It had been stored away, just as he thought. After taking a brief moment to relax after all the mental work he'd done, Sherlock leapt off his chair, snatched his coat, and made for the door. The other three were waiting outside, having reverted back to companionable silence while they waited for the consulting detective. When the doors flew open and he reappeared, they all perked up and looked his way.

"The lift is this way, isn't it?" Sherlock pulled his coat back on and headed back down the corridor, which left everyone scrambling to follow.

"You figured it out," Ana stated. Much faster than she had expected, too; she had honestly thought they might have been left waiting in the hallway for an hour or two. Sherlock's lips pulled into a grin.

"I was right, it is an acronym––for a project, a scientific project."

"What scientific project?" inquired Stapleton, who was all but jogging to keep up.

"Care to find out?" Sherlock smirked over his shoulder and popped his coat's collar.

When they gained access to the bank of computers outside of Barrymore's office––thanks to Stapleton's keycard––Sherlock had John stand watch by the door. Stapleton sat herself down at one of the computers as Sherlock had asked her to do whilst they walked. The closest computers used exclusively for research were located in that room, much to his annoyance about having to commute up a floor.

"Project H.O.U.N.D. … I must have read about it and stored it away. An experiment at a CIA facility in Liberty, Indiana," Sherlock further explained as Stapleton logged in. When the system inquired what it is she would like to search, Sherlock leaned over her shoulder and fed her the letters. "H, O, U, N, D." The computer made a couple of ticking sounds before it buzzed and informed them their access was denied. It was a protected CIA file.

"That's as far as the access goes, I'm afraid," Stapleton hummed disappointedly.

"There must be an override. A password," John suggested from his position by the door.

"I imagine so, but that'd be Major Barrymore's."

Sherlock began to mutter the word 'password' as he entered the Major's office; he sat himself down in the Major's chair and held his hands out as he began an initial visual scan of the room. "He sat here when he thought it up." Stapleton and Ana appeared in the doorway, watching as he spun the chair around in a slow rotation, his hands steepled in front of his mouth. "Describe him to me," he ordered Stapleton. Looking surprised at the order, the woman blinked and offered a vague shrug.

"You've seen him.

"But describe him!"

"Uh… he's a bloody martinet. A throw-back. The sort they'd have sent into Suez," Stapleton rattled off. Sherlock, facing the desk once again, threw his hands apart, the new information finding its proper place in his mind.

"Good, excellent. Old fashioned, traditionalist." He gestured to a couple of child-like drawings attached to the walls. "Not the sort of man to uses his children's names as a password. He love his job; proud of it and this is work related. So, what's at eye-level…" His eyes rapidly scanned over everything in immediate view from papers and maps pinned to the wall to the bookshelves on either side of himself. "Books. Jane's Defence Weekly––bound copies… Hannibal… Wellington… Rommel… Churchill's 'History of the English-Speaking Peoples'––all four volumes." Sherlock rose to his feet, the chair sliding back a handful of inches. "Churchill––" he gestured to a bust of the man that sat atop the bookshelf, "––he's fond of Churchill." His gaze fell back to the bookshelf, looking over the rest of the books inside. "Copy of 'The Downing Street Years.' One, two, three, four, five separate biographies of Thatcher." Sherlock bent at the waist in order to peer at a framed photograph on the desk. It depicted a boy in his teens with a man in a spotless military dress uniform. "Mid nineteen-eighties at a guess. Father and son––Barrymore Senior. Medals; Distinguished Service Order." Sherlock looked round to John with an expectant look. John, who had positioned himself just behind Ana and Stapleton, blew out a breath and racked his memory for a brief moment.

"That date? I'd say… Falklands veteran," John offered.

"Right. So Thatcher's looking more likely than Churchill," Sherlock decided, making to leave the office. Ana and Stapleton parted and let him through, allowing him to walk towards the computer they'd been at earlier.

"So that's the password?" asked the scientist.

"No; with a man like Major Barrymore, only first name terms would do." Sherlock bent over the keyboard keys and attempted to type in 'Margaret'; the system, however, only allowed for seven characters, which dismissed Thatcher's full first name. A smirk crawled across Sherlock's face as he typed in 'Maggie.' After a moment where the system processed, they were in.

Sherlock began to scan through file after file, report after report, taking in all the information at a pace that still boggled Ana's mind. It seemed like mere minutes when Sherlock came across a picture of five people wearing matching shirts. Clicking to the next page, they found a list of names, which Sherlock was quick to rearrange into a specific order:

Leonard Hansen

Jack O'Mara

Mary Uslowski

Rick Nader

Elaine Dyson

The first letters of each last name spelled out––

"H.O.U.N.D. …" Stapleton trailed off.

The four stared at the screen as Sherlock pulled up more reports and pictures, which put the situation into better perspective. Ana's brows drew together as she scanned over a particularly long section of writing that detailed the results of the project and those who had been subjects for it. A long list of side effects include 'paranoia, severe frontal lobe damage,' blood-brain, and gross cranial trauma.' Then two words––'multiple homicide'––jumped out at her, and caused Ana's facial muscles to twitch in a wince. Following those words were pictures of blood spilled across concrete floors, pooling beneath pale limbs and stained clothing. Project H.O.U.N.D. had been, in essence, a nightmare. An absolute disaster.

"Project H.O.U.N.D.; a new deliriant drug, which rendered its users incredibly suggestible. They wanted to use it as an anti-personnel weapon to totally disorientate the enemy using fear and stimulus, but they shut it down and hid it away in nineteen-eighty-six," Sherlock summarized, eyes still locked on the screen.

"Because of what it did to their subjects…" Ana trailed off, a loose fist curled in front of her mouth. Sherlock nodded, curls falling across his forehead.

"And what they did to others. Prolonged exposure drove them insane… made them almost uncontrollably aggressive."

"So… someone's been doing it again?" John asked, thinking of no other explanation for everything that had been happening. "Carrying on the experiments?"

"Attempting to refine it, perhaps, for the past twenty years…"

"Who?" Stapleton inquired. John nodded to the screen, where they'd just seen the names of the project leaders.

"Those names mean anything to you?" John voiced. Stapleton shook her head, recalling the five unfamiliar names.

"No, not a thing."

Sherlock sighed and drew the photograph of the leaders up, all of which were wearing matching shirts with the word 'H.O.U.N.D. Liberty, IN' emblazoned underneath the image of a dog's head. He began zooming in on individual faces, hoping to find recognizable features. "Five principle scientists… twenty years ago… maybe our friend's somewhere in the back of the picture… someone who was old enough to be there at the time of the experiments in 1986…" Realization dawned on Sherlock's face when he zoomed in on one particular––and familiar––person. He turned to John and Ana with a look on his face that suggested some finite amount of annoyance. "Maybe someone who says 'cell-phone' because of time spent in America; do you both remember?" John and Ana both hummed and nodded, remembering Frankland giving them his mobile number. "He gave us his number in case we needed him."

"Perfect way to throw us off the scent––what sort of criminal would offer their help on a case that would surely bring them to their knees?" Ana suggested, crossing her arms over her chest. Sherlock hummed his agreement and turned back to the computer screen, which Stapleton was staring at in awe.

"Oh, my god. Bob Frankland. But Bob doesn't even work on… I mean, he's a virologist. This was chemical warfare," Stapleton tried to reason, gesturing to the old photograph.

"It's where he started, though… and he's never lost the certainty, the obsession that that drug really could work. Nice of him to give us his number." Sherlock extracted Frankland's card from his interior coat pocket and stared down at the number written across it. "Let's arrange a little meeting."

Sherlock moved away to make his own call just as John's mobile began to ring. Ana leaned forward to read more of what was written on screen, lips twisting into a disgusted frown. The experiments they were describing were horrific; the pictures of the subjects could very well give her nightmares if she stared at them too long. It was mind boggling that there had been a group of people that would have wished to inflict such horrors on other human beings. Sherlock turned back around, still poised to pull his phone, and listened to John answer.

"Hello? Who's this?" John paused to listen before turning to his taller flatmate. "It's Louise Mortimer." Ana straightened up, having heard the sounds of crying come from the speaker of John's phone. Tension suddenly flooded the room. Into his phone, he asked, "Louise, what's wrong? … What? … Wh-where are you? … Right, stay there, we'll get someone to you. Okay?"

"Henry?" Sherlock inquired, once John had put his phone away.

"He's attacked her," John informed.

"Oh, my god," Ana muttered, eyes widening.

"Gone?"

"Mmm," John hummed.

"There's only one place he'll go to––back where it all started." Sherlock, who had finally withdrawn his phone, hit a key and raised it to his ear. After a brief moment of it ringing, he spoke into the receiver. "Lestrade, get to the Hollow––Dewer's Hollow, now. And bring a gun!"

OOOO

Very little conversation was had in the journey from Baskerville to the Hollow. Sherlock, Ana, and John immediately ran to their jeep and tore out onto the moors with their headlights on the brightest they could be. They sped across the hills, tearing up grass as they went, silently hoping they wouldn't make it too late. Ana had fished the torches out of the back as they trundled along, wincing whenever a large bump caused her to smack her head against the ceiling. Once they were as close as they could get to the Hollow by car, the trio jumped out, flicked on their torches, and began to run. The cold air bit at their faces and turned their cheeks and noses pink. They arrived at Dewer's Hollow just in time to see Henry fall to his knees in all the dead leaves, apologizing to his father. He opened his mouth and fitted the barrel of the gun between his lips, intent on ending his own life.

"No, Henry, no! No!" Sherlock exclaimed as they stumbled down one of the Hollow's leaf covered slopes. The Baker Street trio had their torches aimed at him, illuminating his pale and panicked face. Henry threw himself to his feet, frantically waving the gun in their direction.

"Get back! Get––get away from me!" he exclaimed, voice pitching higher and breaking as he tried to stumble away. John held out a calm hand, hoping it would prompt Henry to put the gun down.

"Easy, Henry, easy! Just relax," John intoned.

"I know what I am! I know what I tried to do!" Henry still had the gun trained on them, teary eyes having trouble focusing on the faces of those he'd asked to help him. Sherlock threw up a hand and Ana gently raised her own in a placating gesture.

"Henry, just… just put the gun down," Ana tried to prompt, voice gentle. Henry's distraught face crumpled into further distress, tears rolling down his cheeks in streaks of glittering moisture.

"No, no! I know what I am!"

"Yes, I'm sure you do, Henry," Sherlock agreed with a nod of his head. "It's all been explained to you, hasn't it? Explained very carefully."

"What?" Henry asked, voice having become less hysterical. Now it just sounded as though he had lost all hope.

"Someone needed to keep you quiet. Needed to keep you as a child to reassert the dream that you'd both clung onto because you had started to remember," Sherlock began explaining slowly, inching forward with cautious steps. "Remember now, Henry. You've got to remember what happened here when you were a little boy."

There was a beat of silence as Henry exhaled heavily, the gun still firmly held in his hands. The beams of the torches illuminated the wisps of fog and mist that slowly wove its way through the Hollow, creating an atmosphere that would have fit a horror film. Ana's nerves were on edge, and her own hands had started to shake; to her, it no longer mattered what it was that was happening with the hound or whatever the hell had occurred in the lab. All that mattered was that they get the gun away from Henry.

"I thought it had got my dad––the hound… I thought…" He paused to hiccup and let a sob rip past his lips. "I–I th-thou––oh, Jesus, I don't––I don't know anymore!" he cried into the night, curling in on himself. He bent at the waist and began to refit the muzzle of the gun into his mouth, tears beginning to fall from the corners of his eyes again. Ana and John lurched forward a handful of steps, arms outstretched and hearts racing.

"Henry! Stop, please!" Ana exclaimed, her voice loudly piercing the air as it mixed with John's cries.

"No, Henry! Henry, for god's sake!" John called out. Sherlock stepped forward again, hand once more outstretched to the man who trembled and shook before them.

"Henry, remember! 'Liberty, In,' two words, two words a frightened little boy saw here twenty years ago!" Henry's shaking hands slowly began to lower the gun, his eyes focused on the ground in a daze. "You'd started to piece things together, remember what really happened here that night. It wasn't an animal, Henry, was it?" Slowly Henry began to straighten up, head lifting. "Not a monster…" Henry's head pivoted so he could look at Sherlock with wide, glassy blue eyes. Realization slowly began to creep into them, a barrier starting to break. "A man." Henry's brows slowly pinched together as he began remembering things that had been buried in his mind for years. "You couldn't cope. You were just a child, so you rationalised it into something very different. But then you started to remember, so you had to be stopped; driven out of your mind so that no-one would believe a word that you said."

Lestrade arrived on the scene, slipping down the slope as he went. John walked up to Henry with his arm extended, nodding to the man comfortingly. "It's okay. It's okay, mate," he said gently, removing the gun from Henry's grasp. Ana inched forward and placed a comforting hand on Henry's arm, giving it a gentle rub. His glassy gaze turned to her and she smiled at him gently, hand slipping around to rub his sweat dampened back.

"It's okay…" she murmured. "Everything's okay now." Her hand shuddered with his stuttering breaths, his mind and body still processing everything that had happened in the past few minutes. He looked over Ana's head to the consulting detective, brows still pinched together.

"But we saw it––the hound, last night. We s... we, we, we did, we saw…"

"There was a dog, Henry, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog," Sherlock explained with a smile. "We both saw it––saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus. That's how it works." Sympathy crept into his expression. "But there never was any monster."

A howl, mournful and desolate, pierced the air.

Henry's face slowly contorted itself into a look of abject horror. Ana's hand fisted in the back of his jumper, eyes widening as she, like the others, aimed her torch at the top of the slopes around them. At the top lurked a massive creature that lumbered slowly along the rim of the Hollow's slopes. It couldn't be…

"Sherlock…" John murmured.

"No…" Henry's voice quavered. Sherlock, who was wide eyed, threw a hand out in Henry's direction.

"Henry…" he began.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Henry stumbled back, unwittingly dragging Ana with him. She squeaked as he grabbed hold of her in means of support, fingers clutching at his arms as he continuously wailed. Sherlock glanced their way and Ana gave him a look that was half frightened and half telling him she would try and deal with Henry.

"Henry, calm down!" Ana grabbed the front of his jumper, hoping to force him to look at her. She felt his weight slowly begin to slip towards the ground, which made her stumble. "Henry––" Her words were cut off as he fell to his knees, screaming in horror, still clinging to her where he could. His arms were curled around her legs, and his face was pressed against the side of her thigh in attempts to block the creature from view. He was like a child hiding his face in his mother's skirts. Ana wobbled at the sudden way he had latched onto her, but thankfully managed to recover her balance. She returned her gaze to the hound, which continued to skulk around above them.

"Greg, are you seeing this?" John asked Lestrade. He turned the beam of his flashlight the detective inspector's way, illuminating his utterly shocked face. Yes. Yes, he was, in fact, seeing it.

"I–I thought you said it was a hallucination as a result of being drugged!" Ana exclaimed. She thrust a finger at the creature and met Sherlock's gaze. "That is not a hallucination!"

"Lestrade is not drugged, Sherlock, so what's that?" John demanded as the thing leered at them with glowing red eyes. Sherlock failed to respond and Henry began to moan again, sliding towards the ground even more, which rocked Ana's balance. "What is it!?"

"All right! It's still here! But it's just a dog––Henry! It's nothing more than an ordinary dog!" Sherlock attempted to assure as the hound threw its head back and howled again. Henry turned his face away from Ana's leg and stared up at the creature he had once been convinced had killed his father.

"Oh Christ!" Lestrade exclaimed as the hound leapt down a short ways, allowing the whole of its body to be seen. Its red eyes narrowed and his mouth snapped open, its sharp teeth bared to its potential victims below. As torch beams danced across its body, cuts and hairless spots could be seen, making the whole of its visage disgusting and terrible. It snarled a second time and looked as though it were getting ready to pounce.

Henry whimpered quietly and sank more of his weight against Ana, which finally proved to be her––literal––downfall. The woman fell to the ground and her torch toppled out of her hand. All her breath escaped her as she lay prone. It was the last position she wanted to be in in a dire situation. Pushing herself up on her elbows, she spotted a figure lingering just off to the right––it was a man, if she was seeing the staturing right through all the fog. He was wearing a mask. Just as her mouth snapped open to say something, Sherlock lurched forward and ripped the mask off the man's face.

The consulting detective's expression crumpled. The face behind the mask was… Jim Moriarty. He was grinning, eyes crinkled at the corners and gleaming maliciously. "No!" Sherlock exclaimed, grabbing hold of the man's coat front. "Not you! Not here!" Sherlock whirled the man around and snapped his head forward, allowing their foreheads to meet in a headbutt. Sherlock's forehead met the man's teeth, and as he panted noisily and stared wide-eyed into the man's face. But who he was clinging to wasn't Jim Moriarty; it was Bob Frankland. Frankland had a hand pressed to his mouth and nose, eyes narrowed at the fellow who had removed his mask. Sherlock took account of the way Frankland's hand was positioned and, suddenly, it all began to make sense.

"The fog," he said under his breath. John, who had just barely realized Sherlock had spoken, asked,

"What?"

"It's the fog! The drug, it's in the fog!" The mentioned substance had gotten thicker, pouring around them in hazy clouds. "Aerosol dispersal, that's what it said in those records. Project H.O.U.N.D.––it's the fog! A chemical mine-field!" Sherlock exclaimed. Lestrade threw his arm over his nose, torch and gun still aimed at the beast above them. Said animal began to inch forward, prompting Frankland to fling his hand away from his mouth in a panic.

"For god's sake, kill it!" he shouted. "Kill it!" When it stuttered forward a couple of steps, Lestrade let off two rounds, managing to strike the soil and leaves around it. Just as it leapt down the slope, snarling all the way, John fired Henry's gun twice. His bullets found their mark and struck the beast, which flopped over, dead. There was a quiet moment, where no one spoke, where everyone simply stared at the dead body––the body of a very large, but very domestic looking, dog. Henry shakily rose to his feet, mouth ajar and eyes glassy. Ana reached over and snatched her torch, then maneuvered herself back to her own feet. Sherlock backed up and placed a hand on Henry's back, giving a slight push to prompt him to walk forward.

"Look at it, Henry," he urged. When Henry refused to walk, Sherlock grabbed a fistfull of his jumper and pushed him forward; all the while the other man murmured 'no,' futilely trying to dig his heels into the ground. Ana watched on as she brushed bracken and dirt off her jacket and jeans. "Come on, look at it!" Henry paused as he took in the sight of the dead dog; then, he turned to a very rumpled looking Frankland, who once again had his hands covering his mouth and nose.

"It's just––you bastard!" Henry launched himself forward and tackled Frankland to the ground in a fit of rage. John, Lestrade, and Ana rushed forward and tried to pry Henry off of the scientist. "Twenty years! Twenty years of my life making no sense! Why didn't you just kill me?!" Ana grunted and pulled at one of Henry's arms, knowing that her strength alone wouldn't be able to pry him off. Her heels dug into the dirt and she tightened her grasp on his bicep. With their combined forces, the three managed to pull Henry off. They then acted as his support, as his knees seemed to be giving way. He began to sob again.

"Because dead men get listened to. He needed to do more than kill you. He had to discredit every word you ever said about your father, and he had the means right at his feet––a chemical minefield. Pressure pads in the ground dosing you up every time that you came back here," Sherlock explained. He flung his arms out and slowly turned in a circle, taking in the whole of the foggy Hollow. Ana helped Henry right himself, a hand placed on his stomach in hopes to support him. "Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once." Sherlock began to laugh delightedly, a grin stretching his lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes. Ana shot a disbelieving look his way as she felt Henry begin to sag again. "Oh-ho-ho-ho, this case, Henry! Thank you. It's been brilliant!"

"Sherlock," John sternly voiced, drawing the consulting detective's attention. John and Ana were giving him him matching looks of disbelief and disappointment. Sherlock's eyes flickered to Ana's arm, which was curled around Henry's middle, and how the other hand still held it's place just beneath his ribcage. His brows twitched together briefly before he returned his gaze to John's.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Timing," both his flatmates stressed. Sherlock took in Henry's exhausted state and how both his flatmates were attempting to physically comfort him. Ah. Yes. Timing. Perhaps mentioning how the case delighted him wasn't the proper comment.

"Not good?"

"No, no, it's okay," Henry attempted to convince, shrugging John's hand from his shoulder. He then gingerly removed Ana's hand from his stomach and stepped out of her comforting hold. "It's fine. 'Cause this means… this means that my dad was right!" Henry looked at Frankland pointedly, a deep-seated passion entering his voice. The older man slowly rose to his feet, disheveled and covered in dirt and dead leafs. Henry staggered forward a step, but Lestrade and John gently stopped him. "He found something out, didn't he, and that's why you'd killed him––because he was right, and he'd found you right in the middle of an experiment."

There was a snarling as the dead dog, who turned out to be not-so-dead, began to scamper out of the Hollow. With everyone's attention diverted to the dog, which John shot at again, Frankland took the opportunity to make his escape.

"Hey!" Ana shouted, eyes drawn to Frankland's movement. She immediately took off after him, shortly and quickly followed by Sherlock and John.

"Frankland!" Sherlock shouted as they crested the top of the Hollow. Once they were on flat ground, Sherlock overtook Ana as they ran. Lestrade and Henry scrambled to follow, the chase leading them into the shadowy forest. The beams of their torches were dancing wildly over tree trunks and through branches. They were all breathing hard as they tried to keep track of Frankland, who was weaving between trees and tripping over his own toes. "It's no use, Frankland!"

The trees began to thin. Frankland disappeared over the slight crest of a hill, which slowed down the others by a handful of seconds. Just as they were about to reach the top of the incline, an explosion ripped through the air, sending the others to a stuttering halt. The sky and forest and field brightened, almost as though it had suddenly been daybreak. The burst of energy hit them all square in the chest as they instinctively flinched away. With ears ringing, they all stared at what was the Baskerville minefield, where Frankland had made the executive decision to end his life. Ana panted heavily as the light of the explosion died out, and as a myriad of unpleasant smells reached her nose. She tiredly slouched forward and braced her hands on her knees, feeling exhaustion begin to creep into her extremities. It would seem that the country wasn't as relaxing as she thought.

OOOO

The next morning proved to be sunny and sufficiently beautiful. Despite wanting to sleep in till noon, the trio from Baker Street forced themselves out of bed in order to catch their train back to London. John and Ana ordered breakfast and sat down outside, intent on enjoying the good weather while it lasted. Sherlock insisted he would make coffee to all their specifications, assuring John he wouldn't force him to take sugar again. Ana had swept her hair into a braid, letting the breeze sweep itself over the back of her neck. She was convinced she would sleep on the train, and she would hopefully sleep the four or so hours that it would take to get back into the city. They had returned to the Cross Keys some time around three, having had to give their statements to the local police force; giving a statement was something she was used to now––she wasn't sure whether to be proud or concerned.

"Thanks, Billy," John intoned as the innkeeper came by with his and Ana's English breakfasts. The curly haired man nodded to them as he left, his presence soon replaced by Sherlock's. He set down a mug in front of John, and one in front of Ana, while he kept the third for himself.

"So they didn't put it down, then, the dog," Sherlock noted while raising the mug to his lips.

"Obviously. Suppose they just couldn't bring themselves to do it," John mentioned as he dug in to breakfast.

"I see."

John's lips pulled into a smile. "No you don't."

"No, I don't. Sentiment?" Sherlock asked. John raised his brows and a pointer finger, as though going 'you got it.'

"Sentiment!"

"Oh, come on, you can't tell me you didn't have a dog when you were growing up," Ana said, lifting a piece of toast. She was smiling brightly as she chewed, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Sherlock arched a brow and sipped at his caffeinated beverage. "Did you have a dog?"

"That is information only I am privy to," Sherlock informed, sitting down beside John, back leaned up against the table top. Ana snorted and began to cut into one of the roasted tomatoes on her plate.

"Since when did you walk out of a Jane Austen novel, Mr. Holmes," Ana teased. Sherlock's lips quirked to the side in a lopsided smile.

"Bringing the conversation back to more relevant topics…" John paused to chew and Ana shoved some beans into her mouth. "What happened to Ana and I in the lab?" Sherlock stared at John, then at Ana, who raised her brows in silent curiosity. Sherlock turned around and hid his expression as he reached for a tiny basket filled with sauce packets.

"Would you like some sauce with that?" he asked, hoping to divert the conversation.

"I mean, neither Ana or I had been to the Hollow, so how come we heard those things in there? Fear and stimulus, you said."

"Must have been dosed with it elsewhere, when you went to the lab, maybe," Sherlock tried to reason, searching through the sauce packets. Ana's brows pinched together, noticing how distracted he seemed, how quick he was talking. "You saw those pipes––pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve; and they were carrying gas, so…" He pulled out two separate packets, holding them up to both flatmates. "Which is it that both of you prefer? Ketchup or brown…?"

"Hang on…" John suddenly asserted, a thoughtful look creasing his forehead. "You thought it was in the sugar." Sherlock stared at him with a neutral expression, the packets of sauce still pinched between his fingers. Ana set her silverware down and leaned forward against the table. "You were convinced it was in the sugar."

"And you made us coffee…" Ana slowly put out there, brows drawing together. Sherlock licked his dry lips and took a swig from his mug. "In fact, you insisted John drink the coffee you made him, even though he doesn't take sugar."

"Better get going, actually." Sherlock turned to look at his watch. "There's a train that leaves in half an hour, so if you want…" He trailed off, watching stark realization wash over John's face. Ana had dropped her head into hands, Sherlock's leaving her lips in a sigh.

"Oh, god… it was you. You locked us in that bloody lab," John stated flatly. He met Sherlock's gaze unflinchingly, and Ana stared at him from across the table with a bland expression.

"I had to, it was an experiment."

"Experiment!?" John spat. Sherlock hushed him, glancing around to see if anyone had heard his outburst. When John next spoke, he was quieter, but furious nonetheless. "I was terrified, Sherlock, I was scared to death!"

"I thought that the drug was in the sugar, so I put the sugar in your coffees. Then I arranged everything with Major Barrymore," Sherlock explained. John exhaled sharply and unhappily, and Ana carried on with eating her breakfast, looking more tired than she had been a couple moments before. Sherlock stared at them with his forehead creased and what might have been a slight look of regret on his face. "It was all totally scientific; laboratory conditions––well, literally. Well, I knew what effect it had had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on average ones." John looked up from his plate and Ana shot him a look. "You know what I mean."

"But it wasn't in the sugar," John pointed out.

"No, well, I wasn't to know you'd both been exposed to the gas," Sherlock pointed out, picking up his mug.

"So you got it wrong."

"No."

"I'm siding with John on this one," Ana threw in.

"You almost always side with John," Sherlock deadpanned into his mug.

"It wasn't in the sugar, you got it wrong," John slowly emphasised.

"A bit," Sherlock relented. He froze for a moment and let his eyes flicker between the man and woman he sat with. "It won't happen again."

"I'll start keeping a tally for when you're wrong, then. We can look at it every New Years," Ana suggested, holding up a finger. "Count that as strike one. But in all seriousness, will we be okay? The drug doesn't have any… long term effects does it?"

"None at all. You'll be fine once you've excreted it, we all will," Sherlock assured, staring off down the street.

"Think I might've taken care of that already," John bluntly joked, causing Sherlock to snicker. Sherlock made eye contact with Billy across the way; the man smiled at him and went about pouring fresh cups of coffee for everyone. Setting his mug aside, Sherlock rose to his feet. "Where are you going?"

"Give me a minute. I have to see a man about a dog," Sherlock informed. With a smile, he walked towards Billy, leaving Ana smiling after him. She cocked her head to the side and chuckled.

"I bet he had a dog," she decided, watching as Sherlock pulled Billy aside. John hummed and raised his head curiously. She arched both brows and chewed on a bit of toast.

"What makes you say that?" John asked.

"That smile––it was a bit sad, like he knows what it's like to lose a pet. He totally had a dog before," Ana reasoned. A soft smile rose to her face, continuing to watch Sherlock talk to a very down-trodden looking Billy. "But it looks like Sherlock's found the grace to break the news gently."

John turned to look over his shoulder, nearly surprised to see that Ana was right. He pursed his lips and watched Sherlock usher Billy inside; the consulting detective took a glance their way, but his gaze seemed to be aimed just over John's head, right at Ana. The corners of John's mouth quirked upwards. "It seems he has found a bit of gentleness lately."

OOOO

The morning after they had returned from Grimpen Village was decidedly bland. The sky was overcast, the sunlight was grey, and they desperately needed to purchase groceries. Ana stood by the stove, waiting for the kettle to boil, thoughts drifting. She was lulled into that dreamy sort of state of thought thanks to the methodical clacking of John's keyboard keys; he sat in his chair, typing up the last of their more recent adventure. He always tried to write it when the events were fresh in his mind––it was easier that way. What was fresh in Ana's mind, however, was the events of two days prior. Particularly the kiss that she and Sherlock had shared in the churchyard. The memory made her want to smile, and to prevent that, she bit down on her thumb. Part of her worried that, because of Sherlock being 'emotionally compromised' the night before may have made the kiss a fluke. Perhaps his emotions had been so off the wall and out of place that he'd done something he hadn't meant to; and because they had been on a case, they hadn't had the chance to discuss it. It took a backseat priority wise, and for good reason. But now that they were back at Baker Street, now that everything had significantly calmed down, the situation returned to the forefront of her mind. She wanted to bring it up, yet she feared the sting of rejection that would confirm her fears being true. Ana's mind would conjure images of Sherlock's face crinkling at the mention of the kiss before he would bluntly dismiss any feelings he could possibly have for her. It made her lips twist into a frown.

The kettle whistled and Ana was quick to move it off the heat. She turned off the burner and exhaled slowly, pouring the boiling water into her waiting mug.

"No coffee this morning?" Sherlock asked, appearing from the hallway. Ana looked over her shoulder as she set the kettle aside and put her box of tea back into the cupboard. A smirk crawled up the corner of her mouth as Sherlock approached the counter. He then went about the motions of starting the coffee maker, withdrawing his favored mug from the cupboard. It was going to be a lazy day, it would seem; she and Sherlock were still in their dressing gowns while John was wearing a relaxed t-shirt under a cardigan and some flannel pajama bottoms.

"I think I may be put off coffee for a while," Ana joked, leaning back against the counter. "And sugar."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, the slightest hint of a smile apparent on his face. Ana mashed her lips together and fingered the hem of her dressing gown, which fell to mid-thigh length. She became vaguely aware that Sherlock was staring at her, brows pulled together and eyes thoughtful. "Something's bothering you––you're fidgeting with your dressing gown."

Ana pondered the idea of not telling Sherlock what was on her mind; the thought was fleeting, however. Since he knew that something was off, he wouldn't relent till she told him what it was that was on her mind. That was simply how things operated in 221b. So she inhaled deeply, steeled her nerves, and started to talk.

"The kiss, back in Grimpen…" Ana began, playing with the tie of the dressing gown. A knowing look bloomed across Sherlock's face. "I just wanted to know if… if it was a, uh… a… fluke, for lack of a better word. You had been coming down from an emotional night and… your emotions were everywhere… and I had been wondering if it wasn't what I thought it was." Ana swallowed thickly and wetted her dry lips; Sherlock's eyes flickered over the whole of her face, his gaze coming to rest on her lips. It then rose to her own again, and he moved in order to stand directly in front of her.

"The onslaught of emotions caught me off guard, yes. I was… affected in a way that I've never experienced. I will admit that I said and did things that were quite out of character, which prompted me to think of my feelings regarding you. That morning, in the church yard…" Sherlock wet his lips and recalled the events that had taken place. He arched both brows and the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. "It was genuine, Ana. It wasn't a fluke."

Ana's lips gently curved into a smile, the frantic beating of her heart calming down a fraction. She nodded and was about to thank him for clearing her confusion, but was effectively stopped by Sherlock's lips meeting hers. The kiss was brief, but in that quick moment, Ana could smell the lingering scent of his shampoo. She could feel the slight scratch of the stubble he'd yet to shave. Just as she was about place her hand on the back of Sherlock's head, he drew away.

"I promised you clarification on what I said," he suddenly reminded in a quiet voice. Their heads were still close enough for her to feel his breath caress her face. She nodded and reached up to brush hair out of her face.

"You did," she agreed equally quiet.

"When we first met I had been wholly against a female flatmate. One factor that managed to convince me to reconsider was that I was… strangely intrigued by you. I believe that intrigue was rooted in the fact that you were quite clever and you had a taste for what it is I do… and it would seem that somewhere along the way intrigue turned into attraction. When I say you had never been just a friend, I mean to say that I have always attributed something more to you. I've not had experience with this sort of thing, which some might say is regrettable, and it makes it… difficult to describe the thought process put into this discovery––" Sherlock explained, inhaling deeply so it could continue. Ana placed a hand on the center of his chest, silently telling him to stop talking. That lovely little smile returned to her lips, making her eyes seem to twinkle with one emotion or another.

"That's all the explanation I need, Sherlock. Should I find myself wanting to discuss it further, I'll let you know," she told him. Sherlock looked down at the hand that sat on his chest, recalling the similar action she'd done in Baskerville. The warmth of her palm was quite pleasant, he realized. Ana tilted her head towards the coffee maker that sat shoved in the corner. "I think your coffee's done."

As predicted, the day carried on at a relaxed pace. John finished his blog post, which Sherlock immediately took to reading, and immediately typed out a comment about it once he'd finished. He took to making blunt conversation with the others commenting, looking vaguely unsatisfied John was paying the comments no mind. His last comment on the post––'fetch me my revolver'––was mimicked out loud as he slammed his laptop shut, adding on something about the general public's stupid love of terrible jokes. It turned out the other commenters had been making puns regarding dogs; to sate his annoyance, Sherlock picked up his sudokube and threw himself into working on it. Ana did pop out for groceries to which she and John had a brief and friendly argument over whether she was going to go to Tesco or Waitrose. Mrs. Hudson came by to make sure they'd come back from Dartmoor in one piece. She mentioned she had read the blog post before remarking that the case had seemed awfully frightening. Sherlock bluntly made a comment about John's writing style, which earned him a dry look from the blogger. All-in-all, it ended up being a typical day on Baker Street.

Somewhere around half-past ten, Ana and John had managed to get Sherlock to go downstairs and apologize to Mrs. Hudson for the comments he had made before leaving for Grimpen. He had disappeared down the steps with a sigh, biting his tongue to stop whatever disgruntled words he would have said to his flatmates. Ana sat herself on the sofa and opened her laptop, intent on reading John's blog entry on Baskerville. The top entry on the website, however, was not 'The Hounds of Baskerville,' as she had expected it to be. It was a cheerily titled with 'Hello Boys!' Brows furrowing, she tentatively clicked on the bold green text and was immediately greeted with a video, which was sandwiched between this message:

Do forgive me for hacking into your blog.

See you soon, boys!

But I shan't forget the lady of the flat, either––I shall be seeing you quite soon, my dear!

xxx

"John…" Ana looked up from her screen with pinched brows. John looked up from his book curiously, expression prompting. "Someone's hacked your blog." His face slackened.

"What?" He rose from his chair, discarded the beaten-up book, and quickly crossed to the sofa. He seated himself beside her and peered at her laptop screen.

"See, they've left a video."

"What is it of?" John asked, eyes narrowing as he read the message.

"I don't know. I suppose there's only one way to find out, though…" Ana leaned forward and set the computer down on the coffee table. She enlarged the video and clicked play––immediately wishing she hadn't.

The screen displayed the bronze numbers on the door of their flat, zoomed in on the weather tarnished '221b,' the knocker, and the glossy black paint.

"Who lives in a house like this?" drawled the whispering voice of Jim Moriarty. Ana's face slackened and paled; John became visibly more stiff and his fingers curled into fists. The screen hissed with static for a moment. "It's only me…" The video cut to their front hall, slowly moving towards the stairs that led up to their flat. "How clean is your house?" Moriarty sniffed heavily. "I smell baking––it's apple pie…" The camera panned to the oval shaped mirror that hung opposite the coat hooks and then focused on the darkened hall that led to Mrs. Hudson's flat. Shadows were cast across the armchair that sat adjacent to the stairs, a seat that Ana had often times sat on to fix the laces of her boots. "The glorious Mrs. Hudson…" Ana held her clasped hands up to her mouth as the man holding the camera filmed himself approaching the stairs, which were well worn from all the foot traffic it had seen. Moriarty snickered. "Hello!" he tittered.

Ana's eyes snapped towards the door to the flat, some part of her fearing that he would be standing there. But, thankfully, there was no sound besides the distant tone of Sherlock's voice. With a shaking inhale, Ana turned her gaze back to the screen, finding that Moriarty had filmed his climb up the stairs, pausing to get a close-up of the wallpaper in the stairwell. It was decorated with images of bamboo; Ana quite liked it––it gave character to their home. Moriarty, on the other hand, seemed to think otherwise.

"Oh, god, look at the wallpaper…" The camera panned to their open door and living room. With another hiss of static, he was inside. The view moved around the front room, skimming over the chairs by the fireplace and the sofa as the Irishman hummed, "Here we are: Sherlock Holmes HQ." He padded over to the table and zoomed in on a piece of hand-drawn sheet music; the image lingered briefly. "Too many notes…" The focus switched to the various odds and ends scattered across the table, from dice to a jar of coins. "Boring, boring…" The camera tilted upwards to the bull skull on the wall. A sound of disgust flooded the speakers. "He's got headphones on it, good god…" His interest then shifted to the bookshelves beside the window, panning over the shelves carelessly "Books, books, books…" Then it was on to the mantlepiece, where Sherlock had stabbed through a stack of case request letters with a pocket knife. The camera zoomed in and slowly slid down the length of the knife. "What have we got here? Temper, temper, temper…" It zoomed back out and was swept to the left, the next sight causing the man behind the camera to scoff. Moriarty focused on Sherlock's skull, which always sat on the left end of the mantelpiece. No matter where it was moved, it was always returned to that same spot. "A skull?" Incredulity laced his voice and it sounded like he was supressing a scoff. His voice dropped to a gruffer tone when he continued speaking. "I wonder what your skull would look like on my wall…" A cold chill ran down Ana's spine and she had hunched in on herself as the video progressed.

"More skulls, more skulls…" The video lingered on the glass painting of a skull just over the couch, then quickly cut to other objects that found their homes on various shelves. The images ranged from Sherlock's collection of bullets, various paintings that had been picked up here and there or gifted by thankful clients, and a beckoning cat Ana had bought in Chinatown sometime after the Blind Banker case. "Market stall tat…" Moriarty tutted distastefully. It cut to the sudokube that Sherlock had been using earlier that day, and a note of sarcasm entered the man's bored Irish drawl. "How the hours must fly by." The skull made a reappearance in a slow pan as Moriarty chillingly parodied a line from Hamlet. "Alas, poor Sherlock, I knew him well…" The video hissed with static and showed a final image of Moriarty filming his way towards the door. "Time to go, time to go…" He then laughed a chilling, self-satisfied laugh as he filmed his shadow appearing on the wall.

The video ended with a hiss of static that drowned out the remainder of Moriarty's laughter. The chill that had slithered its way down Ana's spine proceeded to infect the whole of her body. Her fingers shook. The room felt a couple degrees cooler. John's cursing barely registered in Ana's ears as she began to look around the room. Moriarty hadn't touched a thing; if he had, Sherlock would have noticed. But it felt like the Irishman had dragged his palms over every single object and surface of the flat… like he had infected her living space. And he had. He had taken one of the only places she felt truly safe and infiltrated it. Broke the warm barrier of safety Ana had imagined around her home.

"Ana," John stressed, snatching hold of her attention. Her posture shifted, hands sliding to grasp either elbow. She began to cave in on herself, shrinking away from Moriarty's lingering presence. "Are you alright?"

"I…" The words died in her throat. Was she alright? The answer was honestly, and truthfully, 'no.' She was not. She thought she was free of Jim Moriarty; but now that he had invaded her personal space, it felt as though his thumb loomed over her. It loomed and threatened to crush her at any given moment. She wondered if he was toying with her, reminding her of his threat. The threat to keep quiet. Because of that threat, Ana looked to her friend and decided to lie. "I'll be fine."

John's face immediately crinkled into a look of doubt. He might not have been able to deduce what was going on in her head, but he could read her expression and the way her shoulders hunched. "Ana, if you're scared, that's okay."

"I'll be fine, John, really." The tremor in her voice betrayed her emotions. Ana rose to her feet and moved towards the fireplace, trying to come off as unaffected. She bit down on her lower lip harshly, staring at the carpet beneath her feet. She rolled her shoulders back and cleared her throat, forcing herself to unfold her arms and place her hands on her hips. The sting of tears caused her eyes to water. "He, uh… he must have come when we were out of town…" Ana sniffed and placed a hand over her eyes.

The floorboards creaked in the way they did when someone walked across them. Ana turned her head and stole a glance over her shoulder; John had approached her with a hand outstretched. His palm was settled in the middle of her back and the doctor stepped up to her side. He bent his head to the side and managed to catch her glassy-eyed gaze.

"You're a good liar, Ana, I'll give you that; but this time 'round, you aren't doing very well with hiding it," he softly voiced. Ana laughed tearily and looked back down at the floor, she cleared her throat and then blinked back tears, determined not to shed a single one. Forcing a smile, she met John's eyes and nodded to confirm something.

"Yeah. I'm scared," she admitted. "He… invaded our personal space, undoubtedly with the intention of robbing us of our security. John, he…" For a split second, Ana thought about telling him, spilling every shred of information she'd been keeping secret. But she couldn't bring herself to damn the consequences, which would surely result in death. In the back of her head, she could recall the sound of Moriarty's laughter. The confession immediately died in the back of her throat, and she swallowed the words heavily. "He can't do that to us."

"And he won't. We won't let him." John then sighed and shook his head, glancing around the room as Ana had done moments before. "I just can't believe he broke in just to have a look around… what would he have to gain from doing that?"

John trotted down the steps, saying something about mentioning the video to Sherlock. Ana continued to gnaw on her lip, stood directly in the middle of the room. Who was to say why Moriarty broke in? Maybe he thought it was funny, maybe he did want to take away their sense of security… maybe he wanted to remind Ana of what he said back at the Fox––that he controlled more of her life than she realized. That he would always be present in her life, even if he wasn't physically there; his presence would linger in every corner of Baker Street now, stirring and looming in the shadows. Ana glanced over her shoulder to the doorway, through which shadows had started to gather along the stairs. Only Jim Moriarty truly knew why he had gone and broken in, and if they ever encountered him again, she was sure he would take the time to brag about it. Brag about how he had slipped in and out and managed to get his invasion past Sherlock's immediate notice. Ana crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself for comfort. She curled into Sherlock's armchair, breathing in the scent of the flat and the man she knew so well. The curtains were tightly shut, and the lamps shone brightly with a false sense of security. It was all a false sense of security. This time, Ana didn't know if Sherlock could win.

Afterword: A big thank you to my lovely roommate Kate, who helped me with writing the end of this chapter, which proved to be insanely trying. I had intended to get this chapter up last Friday, but then I left to visit Scotland for a couple of days and lost track of time whilst packing. But here it is! The end of the Hounds of Baskervilles and the beginning of an emotional rollercoaster (woo-woo!)!

Review Replies!

The Redshirt who Lived: Ana goes through different stages of being scared, and she went through all of them whilst trapped in that lab. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Skylar Winchester: There will be a lot of cute stuff that comes before Richenbach; but Richenbach will, indeed, be soul ripping and I simultaneously look forward to and dread writing those chapters. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Musical cake: Lestrade finding out will be a moment of pure comedy gold; Sally will probably want to bash her head against a wall; and Anderson will propbably just sneer. Analock is so much fun to write and I love that you enjoy reading it! Thanks again, and I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!

heroherondaletotherescue: I figured that Sherlock, as much as he trusts Ana, wouldn't trust her enough to assist in his little experiment with John. He also probably would have wanted to see how two different subjects would react to one situation. I also just wanted to write her flipping the hell out, 'cause she's kinda funny when she's going into hysterics. That scene with Lestrade… It's one of my favorites. And I really wanted to start throwing in the small little moments Ana and Sherlock will be having. They're small, but I feel like that's appropriate what with Sherlock being Sherlock and all that jazz. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

Rainbow Quartz 14: I am so excited to write the Abominable Bride, and I have so many ideas. Though I do have to figure out how I'm going to write it. As in how I'll insert it seeing as it's all in the mind palace. But I've still got time till I have to solidify all that. Same goes for whether or not I'll change the rating and such. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

datajana: Martin's acting in the lab scene was absolutely amazing; he did panicked and terrified so, so, so well. I loved writing Ana into that scene, too. And Analock in the Abominable Bride will be oh-so-interesting, seeing as it will bring them into a time where the morals and social standards were quite different… but who are Sherlock and Ana to follow the rules, anyway? I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

Gwilwillith: Analock is a blast to write; this is probably my favorite story to write, actually. I've just got the world so solidified in my head. And I'm happy to hear that you're getting back to your writing! Huzzah! I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!

calliopemuse83: Thank you, so much! I am very flattered to hear that this story is one of your top three stories! It also makes me quite chuffed to hear that I've kept Sherlock and John in character this whole time; it's always my fear (especially with Sherlock) that he ends up out of character. I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thanks again!

masoxrista: Sherlock definitely won't change his ways much, if at all. He'll still going to be quite stoic, though he may soften a tad at times. Their affection for one another will be displayed in not-so-typical ways, as one can only expect with dating Sherlock. The dates won't be normal, that's for sure. And public affection probably won't be a big thing, as could be expected. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

88dragon06: I did sign the guest book! I couldn't not, I had to pay my respects to the lovely household for allowing me entrance, ahahah! I had a fleeting thought of signing it as my fanfic penname when I go back again. I had a blast when I went there and got ideas for the Abominable Bride, such as where Ana's rooms would be located and such. I do intend to go back to Speedy's because the food was absolutely amazing. And, like the nerd I am, pinpointed the table I thought Ana would regularly sit that, and chose what her favorite food is. I haven't been to St. Bart's, but my friend has; I'm hoping to walk by when next I'm in that area of London. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

lol: It's definitely interesting writing Sherlock being more emotional, even if it's just a fleeting comment here and a short embrace there. But I feel like that's how he would deal with it. Nothing in his personality would alter itself to make room for new emotions. He wouldn't be the man we see him pretend to be with Jeanine. I'm glad I've been able to balance it, though! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

Guest 1: The woman on the cover, and my faceclaim for Ana, is, indeed Katie McGrath!

CJ/OddBall: I feel like John is rather chuffed with himself, knowing that he was right about how Sherlock and Ana would eventually end up being a thing. I feel like Ana was quietly upset about finding out Sherlock drugged them; she probably had a sneaking suspicion he had something to do with it. When Sherlock returns after his 'death' he's not gonna guess what's coming his way when Ana finds out; there's gonna be a lot of swearing. One of my two roommates went to the museum and thought it was boring. But I think it's more interesting to those who know the original stories, and get why there's, say, a Persian slipper by the fireplace, or why John's rooms are filled with dozens of different medical texts. I'd gladly go again, there's so much to see you can't go just once. The Abominable Bride will be interesting to write! Ana and John's dynamic is going to shift drastically. As is Ana's and Mycroft's. As can be expected, she and Sherlock's relationship will change, as the morals of the time dictate different ways men and women interact. Also, I did have a lovely holiday with my family :-) I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

Artemishuntress88: Thank you! I enjoy writing Sherlock and Ana and their developing realtionship :-) Thank you; and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Guest 2: I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

ILY: Thank you! I'm glad you consider this story bae! It's my fanfic bae, I love writing it. I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

Guest 3: I'm happy you're enjoying the story so much you consider yourself addicted to it! I hope the new chapter was enjoyable! Thanks again!

Pkpopi: I'm super flattered to hear you consider this story your favorite Sherlock story! It really does mean a lot to me! I have no plans to stop updating; life just likes to get in the way sometimes. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

Guest 4: I saw him in the Hamlet Telecast and he was absolutely brilliant. I have seen him in Parade's End, which I have also read; it's beautifully written. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

iPage: Thank you! I hope you enjoyed the new chapter!

And thank you to those who have added this to their follows/favorites; it means a lot to me!

That's it for now! We'll be adventuring into some original content next time; maybe a first date… ;-) But then, after some of that, it's the dreaded Richhenbach Fall episode. Start preparing the tissues, it's gonna be a tough one. I hope that you all enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again; you all rock!

~Mary