Chapter Seven: Finding the Pieces
John barely made out Barrymore cursing as he demanded what was going on. John couldn't answer, had no answer that would help.
"It's alright, Major," a new voice entered the fray. "I know exactly who these gentlemen are." Dr. Frankland had joined them, standing partially between John and the major.
"You do?" Barrymore asked, surprised.
"Yeah," Dr. Frankland answered. "I'm getting a little slow on faces, but Mr. Holmes here isn't someone I expected to show up in this place."
"Ah," Sherlock started, "well—"
"Good to see you again, Mycroft," Dr. Frankland said almost overtop Sherlock as he held out a hand.
John fought to keep his face neutral and his breathing even as Sherlock shook Dr. Frankland's hand.
Dr. Frankland continued, "I had the honor of meeting Mr. Holmes at the W.H.O. conference in . . ." he thought a moment, "Brussels, was it?"
"Vienna," Sherlock naturally corrected him.
"Vienna," Dr. Frankland agreed, "that's it." He turned back to Major Barrymore. "This is Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Major. There's obviously been a mistake."
Only after Barrymore nodded to Lyons and Lyons turned the alarms off did John feel as though he could breathe properly again.
As the hall returned to normal, Barrymore glared at Frankland. "On your head be it, Doctor Frankland," he warned.
The white-haired doctor merely chuckled, waving Lyons off. "I'll show them out, Corporal."
"Very well, sir," Lyons said.
John followed close after Sherlock as the door loudly disengaged once again. He wanted to shake himself. Wanted to banish the Darkness that was now lingering on the edges of his consciousness. It was a familiar Darkness. A Darkness that for many years he hadn't recognized until he had been freed from it. Now, it was lingering, waiting to pounce.
But Dr. Frankland was still with them. John couldn't talk it out. He couldn't pull out his phone to text or call someone who could help him. So he forced himself to keep it pulled together as they made their way into the open air.
"Thank you," Sherlock said.
"This is about Henry Knight, isn't it?" Dr. Frankland asked.
How did this man know about Henry? What was his purpose for asking? But John's sensors and nerves were in such a jumble he couldn't get a reading. What had happened? What was the Darkness doing to him?
"I thought so," Dr. Frankland said, apparently taking their silence as confirmation. "I knew he wanted help, but I didn't realize he was going to contact Sherlock Holmes!"
John winced. That was a bit too loud considering how close they still were to the main building.
"Oh, don't worry," Dr. Frankland said, unaffected though quieter. "I know who you really are. I'm never off your website. Thought you'd be wearing the hat, though."
"That wasn't my hat," Sherlock said.
Dr. Frankland turned to John. "I hardly recognize him without the hat."
John fought back a chuckle as Sherlock repeated, a bit sharper now, "It wasn't my hat."
"I love the blog too, Doctor Watson," Dr. Frankland said.
"Oh, cheers," John said, allowing himself to become momentarily distracted.
"The, er, the Pink thing . . . and that one about the aluminum crutch."
Okay, now John was getting the impression that Dr. Frankland was only trying to be polite. And the case of the aluminum crutch was more Sherlock's writing than John's.
"You know Henry Knight?" Sherlock asked, stopping in the middle of the path.
"Well, I knew his dad better," Dr. Frankland answered. "He had all sorts of mad theories about this place. Still, he was a good friend." He looked back, prompting John to do the same.
Major Barrymore was standing just where the straight shot out started. His glare was almost a physical presence sent after them.
John suppressed a shiver. He wanted out of here an hour ago.
"Listen, I can't really talk now," Dr. Frankland said as he pulled out a card. "Here's my, er, cell number. If I could help with Henry, give me a call."
Sherlock accepted the card. "I never did ask, Dr. Frankland," he said. "What exactly is it that you do here?"
"Oh, Mr. Holmes," the scientist said, "I would love to tell you – but then, of course, I'd have to kill you!" He laughed, never knowing the nerve he had struck.
John stiffened. The memory of Sherlock plunging his own keyblade into his chest before dissolving into nothing more than sparks of light regularly visited his nightmares. He still found himself rushing down just to find Sherlock, see for himself that his best friend was still alive. Still whole.
"That would be tremendously ambitious of you," Sherlock noted. "Tell me about Doctor Stapleton."
"Never speak ill of a colleague," Frankland said casually.
"Yet you'd speak well of one," Sherlock observed, "which you're clearly omitting to do."
"I do seem to be, don't I?" Frankland said. So, he didn't think highly of her. Whether it was old-fashioned gender bias, viewpoints, or method differences was impossible to say at this point.
"I'll be in touch," Sherlock promised, indicating the card.
"Anytime," Frankland said as they parted ways.
John waited until they were alone, pulling his various wandering thoughts back together, before he asked, "So?"
"So?" Sherlock returned.
"What was all that about the rabbit?" John asked.
Sherlock smiled in amusement as he tightened his coat and flipped the collar up again.
John groaned. "Please, can you just stop that when you don't have Molly to impress?"
"Stop what?" Sherlock asked confused.
"You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool," John answered annoyed. He opened his car door and was sliding in before Sherlock fully computed it.
"I don't do that," Sherlock protested, following.
"Yeah, you do," John countered.
Silence fell between them as they finally left the grounds of Baskerville. John was shocked to discover they had only been in the facility for roughly a half hour. His nerves had stretched it into an eternity.
As a brief thundershower dropped over the moors, John allowed his mind to go over what he himself knew about the ill-fated Bluebell. They were about halfway through the twenty minute drive to Henry's house when he finally broke the silence. "So, the email from Kirsty," he said. "The, er, missing luminous rabbit."
"Kirsty Stapleton," Sherlock confirmed, "whose mother specializes in genetic manipulation."
"She made her daughter's rabbit glow in the dark," John said, half watching the sun come out again as he pulled it together.
"Probably a fluorescent gene removed and spliced into the specimen," Sherlock theorized. "Simple enough these days."
John wasn't sure if he liked what this could imply, but he preferred to hear it from his best friend. "So . . .?"
"So," Sherlock concluded, "we know that Dr. Stapleton performs secret genetic experiments on animals. The question is: has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?"
In other words, a dog, snake, even spiders. The possibilities were endless. "To be fair, that is quite a wide field," John pointed out. An uneasy feeling was settling into his stomach. Might they have bitten off more than they could chew with this case?
John gazed up at the house in amazement. While the majority of the building was an old stone or brick from at least the Victorian era, there was an add-on that was clearly more within the past decade or so. While the contrast was somewhat stark, it somehow managed to still fit together like a puzzle. The original main house was four stories, while another old building and the add-on were both two story.
John started to wonder if maybe Henry came from old money, possibly some line of nobility that was now no longer recognized. He followed Sherlock through a rundown conservatory to the back door. Sherlock rang the doorbell as they stood before a door that held a doorknob in the center.
Not a minute later, Henry opened the door for them. "Hi," he greeted. "Come in. Come in."
"Hi," John answered as he followed Sherlock inside. He looked about as they moved further into the house. It appeared that furnishings inside continued that mix of old-fashioned and modern tastes. Whoever had supplied and arranged it all had artfully managed to blend it all together without it clashing. It was all further confirming John's theory. "My apologies if rude," he said, "but are you rich?"
"Yeah," Henry answered.
"Old money or early success?" John asked.
"Mostly old money," Henry answered, rubbing his hands together. "Some lower nobility with a few knights thrown in among the line." He gave a slight chuckle as he shrugged. "Probably how we got the family name."
John smiled as he acknowledged Henry's attempt at light-hearted banter.
"I also have a fairly good paying job," Henry continued. "I just asked for some time off while I sorted this out."
"We will help you get to the bottom of this, I promise," John said.
"Thanks," Henry said, never seeing Sherlock roll his eyes. "How'd you like tea?"
"I prefer to go with plain tea," John said, following Henry as the young man stepped into a spacious modern kitchen. Ah, part of the modern add-on.
Close to the far wall was a sofa that occasionally doubled as a bed if the folded, thick coverlet and extra pillow stashed behind it was any indication. Opposite the sofa was a flatscreen tv set atop a low set of drawers. Between was a coffee table and . . . what John could only describe as a cross between a leather chair and a lawn chair. Beyond all that was a wall of windows . . . a window wall. There was probably a panel or two that actually opened in order to access the backyard from this room, but it wasn't immediately visible.
The kitchen itself was lined with smooth, white cupboards. John suspected that some hid examples of the finest kitchen appliances, which was confirmed when Henry opened what appeared to be a tall cupboard to reveal a refrigerator. A kitchen island that also held a stovetop divided the kitchen from the sitting area.
"Want any help?" John asked.
"No, I got it," Henry answered. "I feel like my hands need to do something anyway."
John nodded in understanding.
"Did you find anything at Baskerville?" Henry asked.
"A couple possible leads," John answered, since Sherlock didn't seem interested in joining the small talk. "Nothing conclusive just yet." Sensing the conversation about to flatline, he ventured, "Can you tell me what you do for work?"
"Oh, I'm a contractor," Henry said, going through the calming, methodical actions of making tea. "Not a building contractor. I help companies decide which distributors of products are the best choice to connect with."
"Like what for example?" John asked.
Henry turned a little, "You said on your blog you're a doctor, right?"
"That's right."
"Every hospital needs supplies," Henry said, bringing over three cups and saucers as John and Sherlock sat on the tall chairs. "But they have to make sure that they get the best quality and the most quantity for the best price. It's my job to look at the offers of different suppliers for best options of say syringes or IV materials, most reliable vaccine distributors. I look at the company to make sure they're trustworthy and their reviews to make sure other people have been satisfied with their product. I look at how much they are sending with each package they are selling and how they have priced it, both overall and divided down to each unit. I then present my findings to the hospital and advise them which company would be more beneficial for them to sign a contract with."
John nodded, even as his brain was still attempting to make the connections.
Henry chuckled. "You can be honest," he said. "Very few people can wrap their heads around it, even some of my office coworkers. It took some work and one or two near errors under my temporary mentor before I really got into it. But I find it to be a satisfying job." His smile dropped as he looked at the counter.
"Then this whole mess started to affect my work," Henry said. "The nightmares were getting worse. My boss insisted I get a therapist, and that started to help." He sighed. "But things were still getting worse."
"So you were laid off until you could get it sorted," Sherlock said clinically.
"Sherlock, not good," John said half under his breath.
Henry shakily nodded. "Yeah, more or less," he confirmed reluctantly. His casual, light demeanor was gone again. Replaced by the haunted, lost young man they'd met in Baker Street. The weight of his past that had momentarily lifted crushed down upon his shoulders yet again.
John didn't attempt to break the heavy silence until they all had their tea in front of them. As Sherlock reached for his sugar to claim his usual two lumps, John said, "You mentioned earlier that you had recalled something else." He pulled his notebook out to record it.
"Yeah," Henry answered. "It's, it's a couple of words. It's what I keep seeing. 'Liberty'—"
"Liberty?" John asked.
Henry nodded. "'Liberty' and 'in.' It's just that."
"What sort of 'in' do you see?" John asked. "A 'double-n' inn, or a 'single-n'?"
"Single," Henry answered. He picked up the milk bottle. "Are you finished?" he asked, indicating the bottle.
"Yes, thank you," John said. As Henry turned to put the container away, John turned to Sherlock. "Mean anything to you?" he asked in a low voice.
"'Liberty in death,'" Sherlock ventured, "isn't that the expression? The only true freedom."
Henry came back, his hands absently swinging and lightly tapping the counter without anything to do. He released a breath before asking, "What now, then?"
"Sherlock said he had a plan as we arrived," John said.
"Yes," Sherlock said, putting his tea down.
"Right," Henry said, focusing on Sherlock.
"We take you back out onto the moor," Sherlock started.
Henry's nerves started to dance against John's senses. "Okay," he said with a subtle gulp.
Just before Sherlock concluded, "And see if anything attacks you."
"What?!" John countered whipping round to his friend.
"That should bring things to a head," Sherlock said. Like a man who had not one iota of the psychological hurdle he was placing before Henry. Oh, who was John kidding, Sherlock probably had no idea, emotionally challenged as he was.
"At night?" Henry asked, tremors in his voice. Fear and trepidation rippled out from him, just barely under enough control to not become a tsunami of overwhelming terror. "You want me to go out there at night?"
"That's your plan?" John demanded. He groaned. "Brilliant," he muttered sarcastically.
"Got any better ideas?" Sherlock asked.
"That's not a plan," John countered.
"Listen," Sherlock said, clinically logical, "if there is a monster out there, John, there's only one thing to do: find out where it lives." He then turned to give what he must have considered an encouraging smile to Henry.
Henry looked out the windows, or was he really seeing anything.
John checked the time. "Well, we have about two and a half hours before the sun starts setting," he said. "If this is the only course of action, I suggest we get together what we need and then rest up."
"So, what would you say we need?" Henry asked.
"A torch for each of us," John answered. "Two first aid kits if you have them. It'd do no one any good if we were to actually get attacked and not have the means for at least a basic field dressing."
"Right," Henry said, nodding.
The next ten to twenty minutes were spent gathering the torches and first aid kits, then making sure that everything was sitting by the door. John looked through the linen closet to see if there was anything thin enough yet warm enough to act as a temporary shock blanket. Unfortunately, there was no such blanket. Well, if anything happened, they'd just have to borrow coats from the uninjured members of this little expedition.
That of course left about two more hours before they set off. Sherlock had commandeered a sofa (not the one in the kitchen-sitting area) and was taking a casual stroll through his Mind Palace. No doubt filing away everything they had learned so far. Henry was fidgeting, hardly settling down to something before he would abruptly leave it and go to something else. John snagged the leather chair, moving it beside the window before he settled down in it.
He watched as another thundershower swept through, the clouds playing with the afternoon sun, creating sunbeams. He released a long breath. "Father, I have no idea what Sherlock is thinking," he said quietly. "One does not go begging for trouble." He suddenly chuckled. "Okay, I'm not really one to talk. I practically leaped at the chance for this sort of life after Sherlock texted, 'Could be dangerous.' But I'm an army doctor. I have seen the horrors of war. Henry hasn't."
He breathed deeply, briefly closing his eyes. "Sherlock and I are still trying to figure out what happened all those years ago in Dewer's Hollow. You know, and somewhere in his mind, Henry does too. It has scarred him; he just wants to live a life without this horror hanging over him. We need to find the answers before anyone else gets hurt. We need to find answers so that Henry can start to truly heal.
"Protect us as we head out onto the moors tonight. You know what killed Henry's father, if that monster is still out there. Oh, I may have no idea what really happened, but just from how dark those memories were, it could have been nothing else that stole a beloved father away. Place Your guiding hand upon us. Give us Your wisdom and discernment as we move forward. Guard us with Your own hounds of Heaven from this demon hound."
A sound behind him caused John to turn. Henry stood frozen, a sheepish expression on his face. "Sorry," he said. "I-I didn't mean to listen in. Well, um, maybe a little. I-I'm sorry. I'll just—"
"Henry, Henry, it's okay," John said gently. "A part of me figured I was overdue some payback for eavesdropping. Want to sit with me?"
Henry nodded, grabbing a footstool and settling at John's side. "What do you mean about overdue payback?"
John smiled, looking over the yard again. "I had an army mate that I would occasionally overhear, talking, praying. While I always felt drawn to it, I couldn't help but feel as though I was eavesdropping on a private conversation."
"I'm not sure if I've ever heard prayers, well aside from the odd one on some old tv show," Henry said. "I had almost thought you were on your phone, but then I realized that it wasn't the usual flow of a phone conversation. I also suspect that you wouldn't just share stuff like what you were talking about to just anyone."
"You're right," John said. "It took quite a bit of practice for me to get this conversational with God. I grew up in the Catholic church with all the catechisms, rosary prayers, and confessional boxes."
Henry lightly snorted. "Can't get much stiffer than that."
"There are some good people, some honestly God-fearing people among them," John said. He sighed as he slumped. "I wasn't one of them."
He felt Henry's eyes on him. "What do you mean?"
"I drank, I cursed, I can't tell you how many women I've been with," John said. He lowered his eyes. "I mocked the man who would later become my brother."
Henry sat at rapt attention.
John pulled out his golden empty cross. "Williams was the best man I have ever known. His entire life was pristine. He never touched a bottle, nor a cigarette. He kept his language clean, even of rough slang terms. Every woman we met he treated with the utmost respect, as though they were a beloved family member. When the cards broke out for a gambling game, he would politely sit out. And we all mocked him for it. But he never fought back. He only smiled and told us about his Big Brother and Heavenly Father."
"And the necklace?" Henry asked.
"Williams would always tell us how he loved the empty cross," John answered. "He never failed to share how Jesus had not remained on the cross, nor even in the tomb, but had risen again in glorious triumph. I can't tell you how many times he pulled this cross out to show us his beautiful reminder of his Savior's love and victory."
"How did you come to have it?"
"He died, smiling, saying that he was going home. I took the necklace so that his family would have something of his since we were unable to send his body back. But before I could send it, I was invalided home.
"At first, I barely had the strength to get out of bed each day, to keep from ending it as I sat forgotten and alone in a cramped bedsit. Then I met Sherlock and my world turned upside down and has yet to stop spinning. It wasn't until last year that I actually properly remembered it and recalled Williams."
"Was it about the time that all those monsters invaded London?" Henry asked.
"Mere hours before the invasion started," John answered. "I basically stumbled into a cathedral in the middle of the night. There, I really remembered Williams, and thought about his courage in facing the unknown, whatever darkness lurked in the world. Only then did I truly talk to God and asked Him to forgive me for rejecting His and Jesus' sacrifice for me. I think that part of my motivation at the time was that I knew some form of Darkness was hovering over us, and frankly, I was terrified to fight it. But somehow, I knew Williams wouldn't have been afraid."
"So you turned to the source of his courage," Henry said.
"I did," John said. "I honestly think that it was God alone who brought me safely through the invasion. Actually, I know that it was God alone, considering what I got caught up in."
"You were one of the people fighting those monsters," Henry said. "I can't believe I never made that connection before now."
"We have been doing our best to keep things quiet," John admitted. "I actually never posted about that week because aside from a select few, no one else really needed to know."
"Do you still have the blade you were using?" Henry asked. "I know it would be impossible to actually see it since I'm sure it's not a necessity."
John smirked. "Who's to say it isn't?" he asked. "And, this particular weapon doesn't require the usual packing." A light flick of his left wrist and Healing Warrior appeared in his hand.
The shimmering silver and blue unicorn horn gleamed in the sunlight. The sharp, caricatured snake at the tip held a deep blue jewel in its jaws. The laurel guards glinted gold as the RAMC keychain spun through the air.
Henry's face lit up like a child at a toy store. "A real keyblade," he whispered.
"You're familiar with it?" John asked.
"A couple friends at work have kids who are obsessed with the game series," Henry explained. "At company parties where families are invited, they will regularly make their rounds to see if anyone is willing to try one of the portable games. They roped me into playing a couple." He chuckled. "I could never beat the bosses."
"They didn't let you figure out regular combat within the game, did they?" John guessed.
"I think they more relished seeing us scramble in trying to figure out the mechanics on the fly," Henry said.
"I don't have much knowledge or experience with the games," John said. "I found my real life experience to be enough." He then paused, considering. "Though I may look more into them during my rare downtime. I'd rather have all the information possible if Sherlock and I receive a chance to help them."
"Who?" Henry asked.
"Riku and King Mickey," John answered. "They were instrumental in bringing the invasion to an end."
Henry laughed. "Those kids are going to be jealous when I tell them that I met someone who actually met Riku and Mickey in real life." He sobered, apparently reminded that he was currently separated from that interaction.
"We will get this sorted out," John assured him.
Henry nodded. "So," he said, seemingly shaking himself, "why would you think it could be a necessity?"
"While the number of heartless, or monster, sightings have become nonexistent," John said, "there is the very slimmest possibility that we may run into a stray one. It could even be that the hound is actually one of these monsters, although that would be highly unlikely."
"Why would you say that?" Henry asked, running a finger along the keyblade's twisting shaft.
"For one thing, I can sense concentrations of Darkness," John answered. "I have yet to notice anything big enough or dark enough to be what you described. There is also the fact that we are considering the possibility that whatever is out there is the same thing that killed your father. We would have known if there had been any sort of Darkness activity twenty years ago, I'm pretty sure."
Henry slowly nodded. "And depending on Riku's age, according to what I've heard the kids talk about, Riku and his two best friends wouldn't have even been born by that point. And from what I could gather, the series storyline really starts when Riku and his friends are five and four years old."
John slowly nodded. "Riku would have been lucky to be twenty when we met, more likely seventeen or eighteen, I would think."
"We wouldn't even fit within the timeline," Henry said.
"Precisely," John said. "So, remnants of the invasion is the least likely theory. But, it's handy that I can always have this with me, just in case."
"As strange as it sounds, it makes me feel better to know that you have that with you," Henry said. "What better way to fight against the devil."
"Sherlock also carries a keyblade," John said, hoping the knowledge would ease Henry's fears. "And, I have yet to test out its strengths yet, but." He slipped his cross off, and used it to replace the RAMC keychain.
Henry gasped at the golden light that transformed Healing Warrior into Empty Cross. It wasn't anywhere near as elegant as John's original keyblade. But it held so much more meaning. Eagle wings as the guard to remind John that God would lift him up when he was weary. Red-brown grip and blood-stained shaft of rough wood brought to mind Jesus' suffering and death. And the melded golden crown and thorn crown at the tip, a joint reminder of Jesus' mocking from the soldiers and His eternal victory over death.
"Something tells me that if any keyblade could stand a chance against the Devil," John said, "it would be this one."
Henry nodded, barely touching a finger to the red-brown stains. "I never considered myself a religious or superstitious man, Dr. Watson," he said, "but there is something so very different about this blade. There's something about it that I can't name that puts your other blade to shame."
John nodded in agreement. "I have yet to test this blade. I guess it's partly because by the time I realized I could do this, the invasion was virtually over. There's also a part of me that doesn't want to use it just for any common battle, and its time has not come yet."
"Do you think what we find in Dewer's Hollow might . . .?"
"I don't know," John admitted freely, switching the chains once again. "I'll have to see what God tells me when the time comes." He rested Healing Warrior across his knees as he slipped the cross back over his head.
"So, you really believe in God?" Henry asked.
"I do," John answered. "I've been actively following Him for almost a year now." He chuckled. "I'm nowhere near perfect, no matter what Sherlock may try to claim. I've had some stumbles, but God has been helping."
"What about earlier?" a dark voice whispered. "You had a pint. You lied to authorities. Participated in lies. That makes you a liar. And don't liars have a place reserved for them within the fires of Hell? Who are you to keep claiming God as your Father? Who are you to wield that sacred blade? To even wear that cross about your neck? The chain itself should strangle you where you sit."
John tried to shake the Darkness off and away. But while it may have momentarily silenced, it still clung to him, weighed his spirit down. Who was he make such claims? But that couldn't be true, right? God had cleansed him from his sins, had made him a new creature. But had he fallen back into his old ways? What did that mean for him?
"John."
He jolted a little at Henry's hand on his shoulder and the slightly panicked tone. John looked over to see a worried expression on Henry's face.
"You okay? You zoned out there for a bit," Henry said.
John bowed his head. What should he say? Keep up an illusion of the perfect Christian that everyone expected? Or be brutally honest to someone who never gave God a thought? Frankly he was tired of the fronts and lies he'd had to deal out today. He didn't want to add anymore to that. "I've been having some spiritual struggles lately," he confessed. "Some old habits rearing their heads. Situations tempting me to lose my temper." He sighed. "The Christian life isn't always the leisurely walk other people claim it to be."
"A bit of bad press," Henry noted.
"Not bad, simply honest," John corrected. "Christians are still human. We all have our struggles, make mistakes. Life doesn't just turn into perfect bliss. We just so happen to now have Someone Who will stand beside us through the tough times."
Henry released a breath. "I think I could be using someone like that."
John held out his hand in invitation, "I can pray for the both of us."
Henry only hesitated a moment before catching John's hand.
John then returned to his prayer. "I'm back, Father. This time I have a new friend tagging along. We could really use Your help right now." As John continued, he did his best to be as honest and vulnerable as possible, sensing that Henry needed this just as much as John did.
Sherlock stood in the doorway, having heard everything from the time John had summoned his keyblade to show Henry. The confession John made before offering Henry sometime of shared prayer surprised Sherlock. He never would have guessed that John was struggling at all. He seemed to always be so well put together since he started this Christianity phase.
He continued watching as John prayed, including Henry as though they had both stepped into another room where this spirit existed. He tried to deny the easing tension in Henry's shoulders as John spoke, the warmth of light, no, Light that started to fill the room. His very spirit shuddered at the Light that remained within the room even as evening shadows started creeping in. But whether it shuddered in fear or desire he didn't care to know.
Just a few short minutes before seven, Sherlock backed away from the door. He then timed it perfectly to return to the door precisely at 7:00. "John! Henry!" he called. "We best head for the moor if we're to be there as the sun starts setting."
"We'll be right there, Sherlock," John said, turning and straightening a bit to acknowledge him. He then turned to Henry. "Feel ready?"
Henry nodded. "I think so," he said. "Thank you, John. I never would have guessed I needed that."
"You're welcome," John said. "Now, let's go see if we can figure out this hound of yours."
"Right."
Sherlock swept through to the back door, not even breaking stride as he claimed a torch on his way out. Why did he feel guilty for listening in on John's . . . monologue? That's all it was, wasn't it? God didn't exist aside from as a figment of imagination.
Yet, hadn't he himself told John about a year ago that the doctor wasn't prone to flights of fancy? And why did he feel as though he had just been eavesdropping on a private audience between a great king and his child? He shook it off. It was nothing. Nothing at all.
Author's Note: Hm. May Sherlock be questioning things? Only time will tell.
Admittedly there are one or two points that I can't recall if I managed to Brit-pick them or not. One is deliberate since it was in the show and an important clue, others . . . I am thoroughly American and can't recall British terms or labels.
And yes, I have established a headcanon for Henry's life beyond the events of the episode. And the job Henry described is actually something that my brother used to do in the Air Force. It just struck me as something I think might have fit Henry. And of course, I had to include some rascally kids who enjoy seeing adults scramble during a videogame battle.
Hope you enjoyed my additions. (Part of which makes me think the ones who read the first story will have some advantage over those who didn't.)
So thoughts about this chapter? Any theories about how this first trip to Dewer's Hollow will go? I want to hear. :-)