A/N: Hello there everyone, I have missed you all! I would love to explain why this took me nearly six months to update, but that's not important, the story is, so on to it!

No disclaimer, Public Domain!

Ch. 15- On Being Hounded

2 August, 1894

Even though every instinct within me screams that I should rush straight to Grimpen, logic and a healthy amount of good sense demands that I check points in-between. It is not inconceivable that my Watson may have begun his journey in the direction of that awful moor, but changed routes several times to confuse the trail or chose an entirely different destination altogether. I am coming to realise that he is a much cleverer creature than I ever gave him credit for. How was he able to perform such a feat, I will never be able to understand and since he was able to do so, what else might he have hidden?

3 August, 1894

I was correct! Watson did change trains—five times as far as I am able to ascertain. Today I had the luck of discovering that he resided in a near-by inn—The Walking Tree—where the innkeeper had a most intriguing tale to impart.

"Aye, sir, I know of the man you speak. Most travelers that come through here, they're tired, but he seemed especially so. Paid for the night, asked not to be disturbed and was gone before even I was awake!"

"Did no one see him leave?" I pressed.

The man shrugged, then slapped the bar. "Ratty, the stable boy! He was up all night nursing one of the mares—she was close to foaling, you see."

"And where is Ratty now?"

"In the stable. We've another mare due."

A quick search produced the boy who was cleaning off a new-born foal with a handful of straw. When I mentioned the night in question, the boy's head bobbed in understanding. "Yessir, I seen 'im come in, sir! But twasn't 'im who left, sir, was another chap."

"Describe him please." Another?

"Tall, but bent over like he's carrin' a heavy sack a feed on his back. Black hair, dark clothes, a cane and a green scarf I wouldna minded havin'," the boy declared with no little envy.

I flipped the boy a sovereign. "Perhaps that will help."

My clever, clever Watson. A disguise? Yet another skill within your mighty repertoire I was unaware of. This discovery was fortuitous for my inquires from this point on would have been fruitless indeed without this little trifle. Now I am moving onto Dartmoor with confidence and hope that my Watson lies at the end of this journey.

5 August, 1894

Blast and damnation! I am cursed, there is clearly no other explanation for it! I have been delayed for two days in this wretched hamlet as the train was in need of repair. No other trains run through this station and even if they did, it would be of no consequence—there is only one track! Why is there only one track? The others are also being repaired!

If I must wait much longer I shall set on foot, I cannot abide by this delay!

3:05 p.m.

We are finally underway, but it will be a full day before we reach Dartmoor. I shall attempt to use the remaining time to prepare for what I wish to say to my beloved, for I have thought of nothing but falling to my knees and begging his forgiveness.

Somehow, I do not believe that will be enough.

7 August 1894

So much—too much—has happened. I am now convinced that all the parties involved in this matter have been far too kind to me in regards to both my intelligence—for which they have given me too much credit—and physically—I should have been whipped within an inch of my life. I know that Lestrade was certainly willing but held back for Watson's sake. One must admire his restraint, for Sir Henry could not emulate it. I had always suspected they baronet possessed a substantial temper constrained underneath a thin veneer of adopted English courtesy.

My arrival at Baskerville Hall proved my theory.

But once more I am jumping to the middle and revealing too much. As I have nothing to occupy my time until the ship docks in France, I shall attempt a cohesive account of the events as possible.

After the delay I encountered with the trains, I was more anxious than ever to arrive at my destination. While I was hopeful that Watson would be at the end of my journey, I retained no small amount of worry that he might have moved on. This concern, I must confess, masked an even greater one that continued to lurk in the back of my tortured psyche.

Would Watson be able to forgive me?

There is no doubt that my Watson is the gentlest, kindest man that I know and would, I can imagine, forgive his own murderer.

But what of the murderer of his soul?

That is what I may be branded as if none of the accounts I have listened to are an exaggeration. I do not deserve such a man as a friend, let alone as a partner and a lover, but I want so very much for all of this and more. Should I, by some divine miracle, win back his affection, I shall spend the rest of my life proving just how much a treasure that he is to me. And, should I have my way, in the afterlife as well.

But first I feel the need to address the events of Baskerville Hall for they provided me with the vital clue that Mycroft—and Lestrade I know realise—had hinted as having escaped my attention. With its discovery, the entire matter was illuminated and only a few points still remain in the dark. Perhaps I can persuade my doctor to clear those matters for me, but first, Baskerville Hall.

I am afraid that when I disembarked from the train, I made haste to find a trap that would take me to Hall only to find that for various reasons, none were available for hire. Undeterred, I set out on foot, my agitation making my steps quick and clipped. I had not gone more than three miles when I heard my name being called.

It was Dr. Mortimer.

I paused long enough for the man and his trap to reach my side before climbing inside, graciously accepting the offered ride once I learned our destinations were the same. The young doctor was just as I remembered him though he had gained a few grey hairs at his temple. By the state of his clothing he had been to his dig site that day though had not tarried there long for there was a minimal amount of mud encrusted on his shoes and pant cuffs. Perhaps he had returned to retrieve his walking stick which I had noted had fresh teeth marks even if that spaniel of his was not present. The man was in good spirits and remarked that he was attending dinner with Sir Henry who was in need of cheering up.

"Why would the man as affable as the baronet need such a service?" I asked by way of making conversation. Doing so served two purposes. I would be allowed to gauge the atmosphere I was about to enter and to pass the seemingly endless interval until our arrival.

"Some weeks back I had the privilege to escort a friend of Sir Henry's—one, I gathered, made during his travels in the wildernesses of the world. He had only just discovered the baronet's location and sought him out. By means of escape, if you want my opinion. Poor chap was in dismal health but refused politely every time I offered to treat him."

My mouth might have contained all the deserts of the world for all the moisture that was present. Still, despite the hindrance, I was able to summon a perfectly curious tone with my inquisitive, "Oh?"

Mortimer continued, astonishingly oblivious to my state. "Yes indeed! I tell you, Mr. Holmes, I would have been most curious to hear your deductions in the matter of his life story!"

"Can you describe him?" I doubt that the good doctor could have mistaken my tone for anything other than what it was: pure, unadulterated eagerness. I suppose that I might be forgiven for that for I had long passed my wit's end. I just wanted Watson. Now. Right beside me. In my arms. But he was and is not.

Yet.

The other man nodded. "Oh most certainly! Shorter than either you or me, but that was likely due to the curving of his spine. In age I would place him at no more than fifty years though he moved as a man with fifteen more. Black hair, white at the temples. He always wore tinted glasses and I rather suspected he was slightly photophobic—or, more accurately, light sensitive. I suspect as well that he was a good two stone underweight if not more despite the baronet's attempt to fatten him up. I also believe that he had recently been very ill and in my medical opinion should not have been travelling at all. As it stands…what the devil?" The country doctor's morbidly accurate assessment of my Watson's condition—for I have little doubt that it was him—was brought to an abrupt halt when we both heard a distant shout behind us. Halting the trap the doctor turned just in time to see a lone rider skid to a halt beside us.

It was an urgent matter of a child who had fallen into a creek and taken ill after. With profuse apologies, Mortimer pled the need to attend to the matter immediately and having some experience in such instances through tales told by my doctor, I did not begrudge him the need to depart. Soon a compromise was reached as the worried father offered me the use of his horse while they employed the trap. Before long I was on my way once more with plenty of time to contemplate the new information I had been given.

It was a wretched portrait of a broken man Mortimer had painted. The man was correct in the one matter of his assessment; Watson had suffered a sickness, but one that ravaged his mind as well as his body. I had witnessed first-hand how grief had decimated the once hale and hardy man I had known and left a ghost in its wake. I, in all my glorious stupidity, hastened to bring about the final blow. I did not know if my Watson would be able to recover from this but I vow now to make it my mission in life to see that he does.

Thoughts of this nature chased themselves in ever-widening circles within my mind even as I viewed with some relief the gate to the estate grounds. I stable boy rushed to take the reins as I dismounted and I left him with instructions as to who the horse truly belonged to. The butler, not Barrymore as I remember from Watson that they had left the baronet's service, greeted me with a professional air and offered to escort me to the baronet. I waved him aside, believing this would be best without an audience.

Drawing in a fortifying breath, I crossed the threshold into the spacious study. I observed the baronet to be seated at an impressive mahogany desk altogether too massive for my personal tastes but nonetheless, if the amount of paperwork that covered it was any indicator, it was put to good use. The transplanted American also made for an intriguing sight. During his case I noticed a propensity towards tidiness (even though he held no fear of getting dirty), but it seemed his attention to such matters had been lacking of late—note the stubble upon his cheek, loosed cravat, and his hair which seemed inclined to stand on end. What was most alarming about the sight was the darkness that lingered under those rather blue eyes. I had not had cause to notice before, but the lack of sleep evident upon his face made them all the more prominent. His head was supported by his arm and he did not bother to glance in my direction when he heard my entrance.

"I'm sorry, Mortimer, I'll be no longer than ten minutes, I promise." The tone was heavy and low, laced with a lingering defeat that turned my stomach.

"I am afraid that Dr. Mortimer has been called away on an urgent matter," I replied, containing a flinch when the baronet's head snapped up, "but he was kind enough to see to my transportation."

For a moment it seemed that I had shocked the man beyond all conscious thought and just as I was about to begin my interrogation on the whereabouts of my Watson, Sir Henry performed a feat I had not thought possible. He leapt over the monstrous desk, and, before I could begin to react, his fist made a resounding connection with my jaw. I stumbled back into the door and he followed with a left haymaker to my eye.

"You bastard!" He growled. I managed to block the next blow and shove him away, falling into a defensive stance. My astonishment only momentarily slowed my response to the situation, but I will freely admit that the sight of the snarling American was most disturbing. It was as though I had released a ravenous wolf-hound that could only be sated with a pound of my flesh.

"Control yourself, man!" I barked when it seemed as though he was not going to calm down. "I am here in search of Watson!"

My poor choice of words only seemed to enrage the man further judging by the flaming of his cheeks. "Control!" he bellowed, clearly restraining himself from lashing out at me again now that I was prepared. "Who are you to speak of control after what you have done! And as for John, given the choice, I would see you dead before I allow you to harm him again!"

It is a peculiar sensation, feeling the blood drain from your face, but I have suffered it throughout this affair more often than I would ever have cared to. His words shocked and enraged me. Who was he to speak of Watson in such a manner? He had no right! Watson belonged at my side; he was my friend, my companion—mine! And intent on murder or not, I would not allow some overgrown school boy to separate us!

"This business is between Watson and myself—you cannot know the true measure of it and you certainly have no place within it." My anger had firmly taken control and the words spilled from me before I could examine their full impact. It seemed, however, I would be given first-hand experience.

"No place? I am bloody well making one! John made one form me when he chose to run here to escape from you. You, Mr. Holmes, the man of tolerance and understanding. Even if the emotional playground is a place we lesser humans are forced to romp through, you are above it! Do you know what you have done to him—truly? Were you here to force him to eat, to sleep? Did you watch him stare off into space, wondering where his mind had wandered and if he would wander back?

"Tell me how, man, because I do not understand it. How could you do this to the one man who has chosen you above all others, even me, over a mere trifle of how he felt about you?"

Chose me? What was the man blathering on about and where was my Watson? He would not keep me from him, I would not allow it! Despite my desperation over needing to find Watson, I could not keep these words from spilling from my lips.

"Chose me?"

I could clearly hear the man grinding his teeth from half-way across the room. "Are you truly that thick? Has it honestly escaped you? How has it escaped you?" He whirled around and I was gifted with a view of his back. Even through the well-tailored tweed I could discern the tense hunch of the shoulders. "I suppose I shall explain it since he did not deem it necessary to do so but considering your action, I can understand why he would choose to withhold it." Spinning on his heel once more he paced his side of the room, clearly building towards a murderous state once more.

"It began during the case with that accursed hound. As time went on I noticed John tending more and more to melancholy. I knew why of course, it was all obvious to any man with half a brain. He missed you." He paused a moment and sighed, his head dropping to his breast. "I tried to comfort him, but only succeeded in eating my own boot."

He turned a thin, twisted smile in my direction. "I made the near fatal error of assuming that you two were lovers. John set me to rights, though I never met a man who wished his words were untrue more. He believed you to be entirely above the realm of such matters and to allow you to know of his affliction would spell the death for you friendship which he cherished above all else." The baronet straightened his shoulders proudly. "Since he believed you were forever out of his reach, I asked permission to win his heart for myself."

My mind was reeling with every word that left the American's mouth, simply refusing to comprehend the information. Watson—Watson loved me? Watson loved me? But, how? And for God's sake why? After all that I had put him through over the years, how in God's creation could a man such as Watson love me? He could have had so much better—deserved so much better, but so help me I wanted him!

It was this clue that I was missing—this is what Mycroft was hinting at. My God—how could I have been so blind? I did not deserve the love of a man of John Watson's caliber, and I doubt that I ever could-

-Did Baskerville just say he attempted to wind Watson for himself?

End Ch. 15

A/N: *peeks out from hiding place and waves* Hi? Er…sorry this took so long? I promise that I am going to finish because the next three chapters are done and I am starting on the last chapter today. I told myself that I can't work on anything else until this is done. All I can say is that real life sucked pretty bad there for a bit and then just kept me plain busy, but now I am back!

Reviews from you guys are the best encouragement I can get!