Chapter Three: A Case or a Conspiracy Theory?

John had never been more grateful for a client's visit. Sherlock had been so very close. Did he even realize how close? John shook his head, focusing on straightening things up a little. Papers off the floor, his research tucked off to the side.

"Here's another visitor," Mrs. Hudson said at the door opening it.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said. "Should I apologize for Sherlock?"

Mrs. Hudson waved him off. "I'll be popping over to see if he was right. Just make sure he doesn't skewer this poor lamb."

"I will," John said, turning to the "poor lamb." It would appear that "poor lamb" wasn't too far off.

The young man before him looked lost, exhausted, haunted. Terror clung to him like a blanket that refused to be thrown off. Pain, so much pain, from wounds that had yet to heal after remaining open for so many years. His eyes darted about as his hands worried his coat. His ears noticeably spread from his head in a way that both seemed comical and added to the subtly vulnerable expression. "Should I be worried, sir?" he asked, softly a little shakily.

"No," John assured him, guiding him in. "Sherlock has just been impatient for a new case. Being a little snippy as a result. Would you like a cuppa?"

"Yes, please, um . . ."

"Dr. John Watson," John answered. "And you are?"
"Henry Knight."

"A pleasure, I'll get that cuppa for you. Please, have a seat." John went to the kitchen to turn the kettle on. He felt some minor relief that Henry had settled into his chair and not Sherlock's. John didn't want to test Sherlock's limits that way. He took their collection of tea tins over to allow Henry to select his preference.

Henry held up a cd case. "This will help explain why I'm here," he said. Nerves were jumping about like jitter bugs. He wasn't sure how Sherlock and John would react. So, he hoped the DVD would lessen the pressure on him.

John smiled. "I'll get it set up as you choose your tea," he said. Thankfully the tv and player were still uncovered from the double-date movie night last Friday. John slipped the disc in and waited just long enough to pause the film as it immediately started.

He then reclaimed the tea, noting Henry's choice, a calming tea. At least the young man recognized his nerves and the benefits of a good, relaxing cuppa.

At that moment, Sherlock virtually swept out from his bedroom as though his dressing gown was still able to billow behind him.

John rolled his eyes, just barely catching his friend's elbow. "He's a ball of nerves," he said in a low voice. "Don't scare him off."

"When have I ever scared a client off?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Plenty of times," John answered. "Calm down and be good."

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. But he straightened, tugged his suitcoat down to a pristine office look. Then he walked out like a dignified gentleman. "Sherlock Holmes," he introduced himself.

"Henry Knight," Henry answered, standing and offering a handshake.

"We'll go over your case once John is ready," Sherlock said, taking a seat in his customary chair, prompting Henry to sit back down as well. "He enjoys writing up my cases and sharing them on his blog."

"I'll be interested to see how he records this one," Henry said.

John smiled, using just a little time magic, isolated on the tea, in order to give Henry the perfect cup. "Milk or sugar?" he asked.

"Spot of milk, two sugars," Henry answered.

John nodded, mixing the tea as Henry wanted it. He then brought it out. "Here we are."

"Thank you," Henry said.

Sherlock raised a half-expectant brow.

"Sorry, Sherlock, you already had your quota of caffeine for the morning," John said.

"I haven't had any," Sherlock answered.

"Actions of earlier suggested otherwise," John said. "Besides, I am currently very tempted to slip some sleeping agent into whatever I would give you to drink. And with a new case, I'm sure you would rather be fully alert." He had actually gotten away with it a couple times in the past. It was all about making certain it didn't change the taste or texture of what he was serving.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes calculating in the way that meant he had filed something away in his Mind Palace.

John sat at the table, pulling out a notepad. "Henry has something that he would like us to see first," John told Sherlock. "It is ready to go in the player."

Sherlock merely picked up the remote and hit play. Unfortunately, his eyes were already growing distant, his fingers starting to twitch. It would be fortunate if Henry was still here within the next fifteen minutes.

John focused on the screen, keeping a half-eye on Sherlock. It quickly became clear that Henry had brought them a copy of a documentary. He could appreciate the wild, desolate beauty of the moors filmed for aesthetic appeal and to set the scene as the female narrator began.

"Dartmoor. It's always been a place of myth and legend, but is there something else lurking out here – something very real?" The natural beauty was broken by manmade signs warning to "Keep Out." The woman was then revealed on a backcountry road. "Because Dartmoor's also home to one of the government's most secret of operations."

Official government signs stood before a massive collection of buildings. Chain-link fences topped with barbed wire. Soldiers patrolling with specially trained service dogs. Every camera angle conveying mystery and suspicion.

"The chemical and biological research center which is said to be even more sensitive than Porton Down," the woman continued. "Since the end of the Second World War, there've been persistent stories about the Baskerville experiments: genetic mutations, animals grown for the battlefield. There are many who believe that within this compound, in the heart of this ancient wilderness, there are horrors beyond imagining. But the real question is:" the camera again focused on the presenter, "are all of them still inside?"

Lovely, John thought. A conspiracy documentary.

Camera went to an interview with Henry somewhere inside. The introductory title revealed Henry to be a native of Grimpen. A village very close to Dartmoor if John recalled.

"I was just a kid," the on-screen Henry said. "It-it was on the moor." The image changed to a child's drawing, Henry's own when he was nine-years-old as Henry continued speaking. "It was dark, but I know what I saw. I know what killed my father."

Sherlock snapped the tv off. "What did you see?" Naturally, Sherlock would prefer to hear from the actual source instead of something tilted towards one way of thinking.

"Oh," Henry said, pointing to the screen. "I, I was just about to say."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "In a tv interview. I prefer to do my own editing."

Henry barely nodded. "Yes. Sorry, yes, of course. 'Scuse me." He pulled out a paper napkin and wiped his nose. A bit of a stall tactic, but understandable.

"In your time," John encouraged.

"But quite quickly," Sherlock countered.

Finally Henry lowered the napkin before taking a sip of tea. "Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock answered shortly.

"It's an amazing place," Henry said. "It's like nowhere else. It's sort of . . . bleak but beautiful."

"Mm, not interested," Sherlock interrupted. "Moving on."

John glowered at Sherlock. Clearly this was something painful for Henry. It was hurting the man to be sharing this with them. It was a healing hurt, but a hurt all the same.

"We used to go for walks," Henry said, "after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we'd go out onto the moor."

"Yes, good," Sherlock interrupted again. "Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed."

"Sherlock," John growled low.

"Where did it happen?" Sherlock asked, giving no indication if he'd heard John or not.

John sighed, praying for help.

"There's a place," Henry answered. "It's . . . it's sort of a landmark called Dewer's Hollow." He took a slightly shaky breath. "That's an ancient name for the Devil."

John immediately sensed the importance of that fact, even if Sherlock didn't.

"So?" Sherlock asked, clueless.

"Did you see the Devil that night?" John asked, coaxing out the answer.

"Yes," Henry answered.

John fought off a wince as he got strong impressions of horrible darkness, terror, pain. This one event had shaped Henry's entire life. Yet, John also felt as though it was very muddled. Like viewing something through a warping lens. Could Henry shed some light on that?

"It was huge," Henry said, his eyes lost in that distant but vivid memory. "Coal-black fur with red eyes." Tears started to form, just starting to choke his voice. "It got him, tore at him, tore him apart." He shook his head. "I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found."

John tried to make sense of what Henry had shared and what his senses were trying to tell him. "Red eyes, coal-black fur," he murmured, "enormous: dog? Wolf?"

"Or a genetic experiment," Sherlock said. But the slightest amusement tinged his emotions, caused the edges of his lips to twitch up.

"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?" Henry asked.

"Why, are you joking?" Sherlock asked in return.

"My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville," Henry said. "About the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him. At least the tv people took me seriously."

"And, I assume, did wonders for Devon tourism," Sherlock mocked.

John cleared his throat, hoping to silence Sherlock for a moment. "Henry, whatever did happen to your father, it was . . . twenty years ago?" When he got Henry's nod of confirmation, he continued, "Why come to us now?"

Henry straightened a bit, focusing on Sherlock. "I'm not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes," he said, "since you find it all so funny." He stood proceeding to head out.

John bit back a sigh. And there went a client.

"Because of what happened last night," Sherlock said.

John turned to Sherlock. He suspected that he was going to regret this. But he decided to bite. "Why, what happened last night?"

Henry stopped, staring at Sherlock. "How . . . how do you know?"

"I didn't know," Sherlock replied. "I noticed."

John slid back in his chair. Here we go again, he thought, fighting back the groan. Yes, Sherlock was fantastically brilliant. Yes, John would forever be somewhat in awe when Sherlock revealed his heightened levels of observation. But sometimes it just got a little old. Especially when Sherlock acted as though he was the smartest in the room. It may be true, but he didn't have to be so smug about it.

Sherlock started sharing his findings in his typical rapid-fire fashion. "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 anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight, and do please smoke. I'd be delighted."

Henry stared at the two of them, unsure of what to make of the situation.

John just turned to his notes again, nodding his head back to the chair.

Slowly, Henry returned to the chair and sat down, reaching into his jacket pocket. "How on earth did you notice all that?" he asked in awe.

"It's not important," John said, trying to cut it off before it started. He shouldn't have bothered.

Sherlock had already started. "Punched out holes where your ticket's been checked—"

"Not now, Sherlock," John said. He was not in the mood for this.

"Oh, please," Sherlock complained. "I've been cooped up in here for ages."

No, you haven't, John silently countered. Out loud, "You're just showing off."

"Of course," Sherlock answered. "I am a showoff. That's what we do."

"We," Sherlock? John questioned. I don't recall ever showing off.

And the detective was off again. "The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee: the strength of the stain shows that you didn'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."

Henry stared in awe, overwhelmed by everything almost to the point of tears. "How did you know it was disappointing?"

"Is there any other type of breakfast on a train?" Sherlock asked before returning to his observations. "The girl – female handwriting's quite distinctive. Wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sat 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, accidentally 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 one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here." Sherlock paused just long enough to check his watch. "It's just after 9:15. You're desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at 5:46 a.m. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?"

Henry sat in shock a moment before drawing a shaky breath. "No," he said, just feeding Sherlock's ego. "You're right. You're completely, exactly right." He softly swore. "I heard you were quick."

And an utterly egotistical, know-it-all showoff, John added as he sipped his own tea. He slightly scowled at how it had gone cold. He should have fixed himself a fresh cup as he fixed Henry's. Too late now.

"It's my job," Sherlock said in response to Henry's comment. "Now, shut up and smoke."

John frowned in disappointment. But the only person Sherlock was hurting was himself, and as he had shown plenty of times, John was not his handler. So, while Henry moved to light a cigarette, John looked over his notes. "So, um, Henry, your parents died and you were, what, seven years old?"

Henry released his first lungful of smoke, Sherlock swooping in to noisily breathe it in through his nose. "I know," Henry said, before being thoroughly distracted by Sherlock. "That . . . my . . ."

Sherlock finally settled back in his chair again, enjoying his dose of secondhand smoke.

John focused on Henry. "That must be a . . . quite a trauma." To put mildly based on the strong impressions he received. "Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story, this—"

Sherlock interrupted again in order to get another round of Henry's smoke.

John bit back a sigh before finishing, "To account for it?"

Henry turned to look at John again, the nicotine already working in his system. "That's what Doctor Mortimer says."

"Who's that?" John asked.

"His/My therapist," Sherlock and Henry answered overtop each other.

"Obviously," Sherlock concluded.

"Louise Mortimer," Henry said. "She's the reason I came back to Dartmoor. She thinks I have to face my demons."

"And what happened when you went back to Dewer's Hollow last night, Henry?" Sherlock asked, more focused. "You went there on the advice of your therapist and now you're consulting a detective. What did you see that changed everything?"

"It's a strange place, the Hollow," Henry mused, thinking back. "Makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, if I wanted poetry, I'd read John's emails to his girlfriend. Much funnier."

John clenched his fist, releasing an angry breath. What he emailed Kayla was his business. Not Sherlock's. One day he would finally manage to figure out a passcode that Sherlock wouldn't figure out in a hundred years.

"What did you see?" Sherlock insisted.

"Footprints – on the exact spot where I saw my father torn apart," Henry answered.

Sherlock was already giving this case up. The way he leaned back in his seat showed he was beyond bored with this case.

"Man's or a woman's?" John asked, at least attempting to get to the bottom of this for Henry's sake.

"Neither," Henry said. "They were—"

"Is that it?" Sherlock demanded, interrupting. "Nothing else. Footprints. Is that all?"

"Yes," Henry said, "but they were—"

Sherlock interrupted again, making it very tempting for John to punch him in the mouth. "No, sorry. Doctor Mortimer wins. Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring!"

John was almost jolted as he caught a wisp of . . . irony? What was that about?

Sherlock concluded, "Goodbye, Mr. Knight. Thank you for smoking."

"No, but what about the footprints?" Henry protested.

"Oh, they're probably pawprints," Sherlock said dismissively. "Could be anything, therefore nothing." He shooed Henry off with his fingers. "Off to Devon with you; have a cream tea on me."

John was already composing his apology to Henry as Sherlock stood and strode into the kitchen.

Even as Henry twisted round in his chair to appeal once more. "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"

John looked up as he sensed Sherlock's interest catch. A combination of fascination and curiosity that was thoroughly dangerous to the unsuspecting target. What was it that finally caught his interest?

Sherlock turned around, staring at Henry as he stepped back into the living room. "Say that again."

"I found the footprints," Henry said. "They were—"

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

Henry thought a moment, clearly searching for his earlier words. "Mr. Holmes," he slowly repeated, confusion maybe even a hint of fear in his voice, "they were the footprints of a gigantic . . . hound."

Sherlock's interest was definitely piqued now, but John couldn't figure out what had done it. "I'll take the case," Sherlock said.

"Okay, quick turnaround," John said, already getting ready to pack up his notebook. He mentally went over the list of everyone he would need to contact. Sherlock certainly wouldn't be any help in that regard.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Sherlock said, adopting his typical prayer position as he slowly paced. "It's very promising."

"I'm trying to understand," John said, hoping to get answers for himself and Henry. "A minute ago, footprints were boring; now they're very promising?"

Sherlock turned to look at him. Oh, he knew that look. A look that said, "I know that you're not that stupid, but you still don't observe the right details. It will come." It could be so frustrating. But at least it's nothing like the "you are a complete imbecile" expression he regularly bestowed on Anderson. "It's nothing to do with footprints," Sherlock said, offering the vaguest hint. "As ever, John, you weren't listening." Before John could start considering a solution: "Baskerville: ever heard of it?" Sherlock asked.

"Vaguely," John said, the name having been passed around some of the higher ups during his army days. "It's very hush-hush."

Sherlock nodded. "Sounds like a good place to start."

Henry brightened. "Ah! You'll come down then?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I can't leave London at the moment. Far too busy." Oh that was a blatant lie. What was he getting on about? "Don't worry," he continued. "Putting my best man onto it." He clapped a hand on John's shoulder. "Always rely on John to send me the relevant data, as he never understands a word of it himself." Now there was a backwards complement if John ever heard one.

"What are you talking about, you're busy?" John asked, trying to get what was going through his friend's head. "You don't have a case! A minute ago, you were complaining—"

"Bluebell, John!" Sherlock answered. "I've got Bluebell! The case of the vanishing, glow-in-the-dark rabbit!" he turned slightly to Henry. "NATO's in an uproar."

"Oh, sorry, no," Henry said, trying to keep up. "You're not coming then?"

Sherlock shook his head sadly, though it was only a feigned sadness. He was planning something, but wasn't going to be sharing.

"Okay," John said, surrendering. Sherlock could be all mysterious and secretive. Probably going to pull some Private Detective stunt, like follow incognito or something. He could allow Sherlock to have his fun. "Okay." He stood, heading to the mantle. Might as well make sure the man doesn't blow his brains from boredom. Against his better judgement, he retrieved the "secret" supply of cigarettes from under the skull, tossing the pack to Sherlock.

Sherlock shocked him by immediately tossing them over his shoulder. "I don't need those anymore," he said. "I'm going to Dartmoor." He swept out of the room, presumably to get packed. "You go on ahead, Henry. We'll follow later."

Henry hurriedly got to his feet. "Er, sorry, so you are coming?"

"Twenty-year-old disappearance," Sherlock summed up, "a monstrous hound? I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

And John and Henry were left to stare where Sherlock had been standing. "Yeah, he apparently does that," John said. Another thing he never thought he'd say.

"So, he is coming?" Henry checked, standing.

"Unless he changes his mind last minute," John said. "So just go on ahead, and we'll meet you there."

"Right," Henry said. "Uh, what should I do about payment?"

"Wait until after this is all solved," John said, smiling. "Oh, and can I get your address? So we can see you privately after we arrive."

"Of course," Henry said. He gave John the address and phone number as John quickly jotted them down. Then a moment later, Henry had gone.

John sent a text off to Kayla. She would be in the middle of teaching and thus not available to actually talk at least until lunch. He'd give Sherlock a chance to text Molly. Briefly called the clinic to say he couldn't make it for at least a couple days. Greg was off on holiday if he recalled, so no need to contact him.

He paused as he considered sending Stephen a message. Not even a month after Irene left, Stephen had struck out on his own to study medicine and hoping to find a magic user to train under. It had been almost five months since they heard anything from him. Still no answer from the final, half-desperate text John had sent after receiving no answer to the past three. "When you get this, call me."

John sighed. No point in sending yet another message. Stephen was his own person, or rather was growing into his own person. As a Nobody, formed upon Sherlock willingly becoming a Heartless, Stephen had been advancing and doing his best to focus on what made him unique from Sherlock despite them being virtually identical. Maybe he had stumbled upon some Asian monastery that frowned upon the use of modern technology. Maybe he had entered a med school and was constantly swamped by studies.

John shook his head, he had to get packed up. As he trotted up the stairs, he remembered George. He rang the man as he pulled his items together.

"Things going alright, John?" George asked.

"Sherlock has a new case," John answered. "It will be taking us out of town for a few days, so I'm not sure if I'll be able to make Wednesday lunch."

"What is the case about?" George asked.

"Essentially a twenty-year-old murder case with a dash of conspiracy theories," John answered. "But what else can one expect when it's a small town near Baskerville."

"Ah, I believe I saw a documentary about that on the telly," George said. "It's Henry Knight and his demon dog, isn't it?"

"Yes, and whether there was an actual dog or not, whatever happened all those years ago scarred Henry horribly," John said. He shook his head as he considered the dark impressions he'd received. "I sincerely hope that there isn't an outbreak of heartless running about in that area."

"If you get in Baskerville, don't be surprised if they have a couple in there for study," George said.

"Oh, I certainly hope not," John groaned. "At least I shouldn't have to worry about my keyblade getting through. So long as Sherlock and I don't get blown to bits, it's just a summon away."

George chuckled. "I'll be sure to get the prayer chain on this."

"Please, no details. Just a case near Grimpen in Dartmoor," John said, closing his suitcase. He made sure he had his gun and license to carry before heading back down.

"Will do," George promised. "You said earlier that the theories occupied Sherlock for a time. What was his conclusion concerning them?"

"Overall, he concluded that either the resurrection took place or the first century Christians knew how to account for everything to make the story airtight."

"That's a step in the right direction at least."

"Yeah. Although he also gave me permission to tell my colleague exactly what he thinks of him if he continues to believe the swoon theory after being presented with the evidence."

"Being?"

"He has an IQ lower than an acquaintance of ours and hopes that he leaves the medical field before being removed for malpractice."

George chuckled. "That would be just like him, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah," John said. "And I'm going to be calling his girlfriend, just to make sure that he told her that we'd be leaving."

More chuckles. "One of these days, he'll actually land long enough to properly explain things."

"Yes, one of these days," John said. "Thanks for the continuing prayers."

"You're very welcome, John. God keep you," George said.

John then rang Molly, taking a couple rings before she picked up.

"I just saw Sherlock's text," Molly said.

"And it said?" John asked.

"Going out of town, Thursday still on," she quoted. "I suppose you called to make sure I got the details."

"Exactly," John said. "A twenty-year-old murder/conspiracy case is taking us to Grimpen near Dartmoor."

"That's also near Baskerville, right?" Molly asked.

"You've heard of it?" John asked in return.

"I caught a few minutes of a documentary that aired recently," Molly answered. "Honestly as soon as I got the impression it was a lot of conspiracy theories I turned to another station. I also hear enough about it from a couple of my colleagues who thrive on those items as a hobby. That and Area 51 in America makes up a lot of their non-work-related conversations."

"Well, our client's father may or may not have been killed by an escaped experiment," John said. A mad idea popped into his mind. "Would you like to join us? I suspect we would be leaving within the next hour and I'm sure Sherlock would love the opportunity to show off to you."

"I'll have to ask my boss," Molly said. "And I would have to meet up with you there if I were able to."

"Just call me if you're able to make it," John said. "We'll try to surprise him. And if you're not able, maybe you and Kayla could keep Mrs. Hudson company for a bit."

"What did Sherlock do now?"

"He told her about Mr. Chatterjee's wife in Doncaster."

"Oh, no. Maybe we should be sure to gently break it to her about that other wife in . . . Islamabad, did Sherlock say?"

"If you think it's safe," John answered. "Although, we could get lucky and Mr. Chatterjee will oust himself."

"That certainly sounds like a two-woman job," Molly said. "If I can get off on this short notice, I'll try to catch a train to meet you two tomorrow morning."

"Alright," John said. "Hopefully, Kayla will have time to talk around noon."

"Did you receive any definite impressions from your client about what happened?"

"Just that whatever happened left him scarred. Bad enough to have your father die in front of you, but for him to die from a vicious attack is worse."

"Oh, that poor boy," Molly said. "You can be sure that Kayla and I will be praying for him as well as you and Sherlock."

"Thank you," John said. "Well, we're going to be heading out to catch the next train. Again, call me about the results."

"Will do," Molly said.

John hung up just as Sherlock stepped through the kitchen with his own bag.

"Tickets to Exeter within the next fifteen minutes," Sherlock said, apparently hanging up from his own call.

"Alright," John said, pulling on his black coat. "Best get going then."

"I'll catch a cab," Sherlock said, jogging down the stairs . . . leaving his suitcase.

John rolled his eyes. Of course Sherlock would forget his bag. "Be very grateful you cured my bad leg, Sherlock," he muttered. He grabbed Sherlock's bag and his own taking them both down the stairs. Well, John reflected, at least he tends to be the best at hailing cabs.

A moment later, he stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. He could hear Mrs. Hudson in Speedy's, shouting at Mr. Chatterjee. He jumped a bit when something with a good bit of weight hit the door. Thankfully, the door didn't break, nor did the item hit anyone. John couldn't quite make out what it was, but it sounded like something that could have done some real damage to someone.

"Looks like Mrs. Hudson finally got to the wife in Doncaster," John commented to Sherlock as they loaded up into the cab Sherlock had waiting.

"Mmm. Wait 'til she finds out about the one in Islamabad," Sherlock said.

John shook his head with a wry smile. "I asked Molly to come see Mrs. Hudson along with Kayla this evening. Girl bonding."

"Hm, yes, it would be rather fitting, wouldn't it?" Sherlock said, sliding in after John. "Paddington Station, please," he told the cabbie.

About six minutes later, they were weaving into the usual crowds of people to pick up their tickets. John followed after Sherlock as they hurried along. With only five minutes until departure they were cutting a little close. But, come 10:37, John and Sherlock were just sitting down as the train pulled out.

Author's Note: And they are off! And you will see just a little bit of research that I did during "Preptober," namely distance from Baker Street to Paddington, and basic train schedules.

Hm. Might there be another change to the story? No comment at this time. :-)

As mean as it may be, the first thing that struck me about Henry were his ears. Maybe it was the camera angle, maybe it was the entire shot, but I got the vague impression of a human version of Dumbo from Disney. So, I had to draw even just a little bit of attention to them.

So, how did you enjoy my interpretation of events? Any theories of what's to come? I'd love to hear from you.