Dartmoor was bleak, to say the least. The roads stretched for miles over the hilly landscape, and as Sherlock drove them through it in a car that was built for worse terrain than a mildly muddy Devon, Florence rested her head on window of the back seat. She felt out of place, like she shouldn't have been there, and she found the silence between all three of them uncomfortable.
The way she saw it, and despite John's words a few weeks before, the two men at the head of the car were a duo. There was no place for someone like her – an ex-drug addict, however many years she had been clean, used to life on the run. But then, maybe this was exactly the type of person they were. She was sure that sometimes, they had to keep low. More often than not, she presumed. So maybe this was the perfect place for her.
She disliked her thought processes, so recited poetry in her head until they arrived.
Some time later, Sherlock randomly pulled off onto the side of the road, and got out of the car without voicing his intentions. John and Florence exchanged enquiring glances before following him.
'Get the map, John!' they heard from in front of them, the breeze carrying his voice away from them.
He climbed an outcrop of stone whilst John consulted the map.
'There's Baskerville,' he said, pointing in the direction the map showed. Sherlock turned to look, and Florence squinted into the distance. Her fringe was annoying her, getting caught in the wind. 'That's Grimpen Village.' he pointed somewhere else. 'So that must be... yeah, it's Dewer's Hollow.'
Sherlock stepped forward, as if that was supposed to aid his vision. 'What's that?' He asked, pointing.
John looked through his binoculars. 'Minefield?' he brought the binoculars down and turned to look at Sherlock. 'Technically Baskerville's an army base, so I guess they've always been keen to keep people out.'
Sherlock grimaced. 'Clearly.'
Grimpen Village lived up to it's name, as grim it was. It was mainly just meandering streets with small cottages which were probably ridden with rodents. In around the centre, Florence wasn't really concentrating, was a sweet little pub, named, as a lot of other pubs were named, the Cross Keys.
A sign outside it boasted 'Boutique Rooms and Vegetarian Cuisine'. Outside, a tour guide was whittling on about 'The Hound'. Florence raised her eyebrow as he talked about not going onto the moor at night. It sounded like a lot of bullshit to her, but they were here for that exact reason.
Despite the fact that it was early Summer, Sherlock was pulling his coat on. He flipped the collar swiftly, causing John to glance at him pointedly and Florence to giggle.
'I'm cold.' he said unconvincingly, stalking into the pub.
John decided that he would do the talking, since Sherlock obviously lacked the social skills. He booked three rooms for two nights, since he was aware this could all be over very soon. He figured he would be able to book some more time if it was required.
Whilst he was at the till, trying uselessly to convince the barman, Gary, that he and Sherlock were not together, causing Florence to laugh, he spied a pile of receipts next to the till. He noticed with a frown that there was a large one at the bottom labelled 'Undershaw Meat Supplies'. Whilst Gary's back was turned, he quickly swiped it from the pile. Florence frowned, watching him, but her facial expression immediately turned back to normal as he turned back around.
'There you go,' he said cheerfully, placing three drinks and a key on the counter.
'Ah, I couldn't help noticing on the map of the moor – a skull and crossbones.' John said, trying not to make it obvious that he had taken the receipt.
'Oh, that, aye.' Gary said, his smile unfading.
'Pirates?'
Gary snickered. 'No, no. The Great Grimpen Minefield, they call it.'
'Oh, right.'
'It's not what you think. It's the Baskerville testing site. It's been going for eighty-odd years. I'm not sure anyone really knows what's there any more.'
'Explosives?'
'Not just explosives. Break into that place and – if you're lucky – you just get blown up, so they say...' he winced through his teeth and laughed. '… incase you're planning on a nice wee stroll.'
'Ta.' John said aimlessly, 'I'll remember.'
'Aye. No, it buggers up tourism a bit, so thank God for the demon hound.' he laughed slightly, moving away from behind the counter to the front of it. He moved over to a table and moved some glasses. 'Did you see that show, the documentary?'
'Yes, quite recently, actually.' John said, recalling the documentary Henry Knight – their client – had shown them when he came to Baker Street.
'Aye. God bless Henry Knight and his monster from Hell.' Gary muttered, coming back round to face John.
'Ever seen it?' John said without really thinking, earning a slight look from Sherlock. 'The hound.'
'Me? No.' Gary said, but he pointed out the door where the tour guide was standing on his phone. 'Fletcher has. He runs the walks – the Monster Walks for the tourists. He's seen it.'
Sherlock turned and walked out of the pub, towards Fletcher. Behind him he could still hear the bartender talking, along with a new voice who said something about twitter, then muttered: 'We're out of WKD.'
He surveyed the tables around him and, picking up a half-drunk beer from a table, walked up behind Fletcher in a manner that one would expect from a pub garden.
'Mind if I join you?' He asked. Fletcher shrugged and used his arm to gesture towards the table. 'It's not true, is it? You haven't actually seen this... hound thing.' he said, smiling in a way he probably thought was friendly, but was almost definitely more menacing. It was quite obvious he was pretending, to anyone that knew him well.
'You from the papers?' Fletcher said, his expression suspicious.
Sherlock smiled again. 'No, nothing like that. I'm just curious – have you seen it?'
'Maybe.'
'Got any proof?'
'Why would I tell you if I did?' he got up, quite obviously annoyed with Sherlock. 'Excuse me.'
John appeared then, drink in hand. Florence came up behind him, with her own drink untouched. They both sat opposite Fletcher, who gave Florence a smile. She turned away, cringing. 'I called Henry-' John began.
'Bet's off, John. Sorry.' Sherlock said, earning a frown from John. If Fletcher was a dog, his ears would have perked up at Sherlock's words.
'What?' John replied, taking a sip of his drink.
'Bet?' Fletcher said, sitting back down again.
'My plan needs darkness.' Sherlock said, ignoring them both. He looked at his watch, then up at the sky. 'Reckon we've got another half an our of light...'
'What bet?' the tour guide interrupted.
'Oh, I bet John here fifty quid that you couldn't prove you had seen the hound.'
It was apparent that John knew exactly what Sherlock was doing. 'Yeah, the guys in the pub said you could.'
Fletcher smiled cunningly. He pointed at Sherlock. 'You're gonna lose your money, mate.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah. I've seen it. About a month ago, up at the Hollow. It was foggy mind – couldn't make much out.'
Sherlock pretended to be disappointed. 'No witnesses, I suppose.'
'No, but...'
'Never are.' he continued. His eyebrow, however, raised when a phone screen was thrust in his face. It depicted a dark, furry animal somewhere in the distance, but without a scale to show the size.
'There.'
Sherlock snorted. 'Is that it? Not exactly proof, is it?' The photo was passed around the small group. 'Sorry John. I win.' He goes to take a drink from the glass, before remembering it wasn't his.
Fletcher then said something about the Hollow being haunted, stating it gave people a 'bad sort of feeling'.
Sherlock grinned mockingly. 'Is it haunted? Is that supposed to convince me?'
'Nah, don't be stupid. Nothing like that. But I reckon there is something out there, something from Baskerville. Escaped.'
Sherlock snickered, but pretended to hide it. 'A clone? A super dog?'
The conversation drivelled on, but Florence soon lost interest. She realised with some annoyance that she was beginning to lost interest in a lot of things. She didn't like that feeling.
Eventually, she tuned in just as Fletcher was pulling out a concrete cast from his bag. The cast was of a large dog's paw print, which probably measured six inches big. The three stared in shock, until John spoke up.
'Did we say fifty?'
'So is that how you investigate?' Florence asked, once more emphasising the last word. She still, after nearly two years, didn't like how it sounded – it seemed too childish to fit what Sherlock did.
Sherlock snickered. 'In a way.'
They were sitting in the pub, having left Fletcher – much to all of their relief. He was annoying, to say the least. Sherlock had switched to the drink John had bought, rather than the second-hand one he had stolen. Florence was still elegantly sipping hers, not really enjoying it. She didn't have a taste for sugary drinks.
'What are we going to do now? I presume we're not done for the evening..?' John said, hopefully.
'Baskerville.' Sherlock answered. He looked at his watch again. 'We should get there now.'
Florence had decided she wanted to stay at the Cross Keys, which John agreed with. Sherlock, on the other hand, was sceptical – he didn't really want to leave her on her own. She had argued that, for the sake of the case, an hour or so wouldn't hurt. She was getting far better, her mental state not nearly as bad as it was a few weeks ago.
She had even got quite heated about it.
So, as it was, she stayed.
They were just nearing the gates of Baskerville when two security guards and a sniffer dog stopped them.
'Pass, please.' one of them said.
Sherlock quickly brought out what must have been a pass from his pocket. He handed it to the guard, who went to check it.
'You've got ID for Baskerville. How?' John asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
'It's not specific to here. It's Mycroft's. Access all areas. I...' he cleared his throat awkwardly. 'acquired it ages ago, just in case.'
'Brilliant.' John said, his voice sarcastic.
'What's the matter?'
'We'll get caught.'
'No we won't. Not just yet.'
John laughed a breathy laugh. 'Fine. Caught in five minutes. "Oh, hi, we just thought we'd come in and have a wander round your top secret weapons base. Really? Great! Come in, kettle's just boiled." That's if we don't get shot.'
The security guard waved them through, and Sherlock drove through the opening gates.
'Mycroft's name literally opens doors.' John muttered
'He practically is the British government,' Sherlock said, his voice tired. He looked at his watch. 'I reckon we've got about twenty minutes before they realise something's wrong.'
Okay. Sorry. I am alive. I'm also sorry that all the chapters are so short, and the wait period to read them is so long. I am ashamed.
As it happens, there should be one more of this disagreeable length before I can start making them longer. I hope. Here's to that idea...
Please do feel free to give me some constructive criticism, or just criticism if you want. We've got a way to go yet, and if you're not enjoying it but also want to read it (I'm sure you know the feeling) I'd hate for you to keep reading something you're not enthusiastic about.
Thank you, 'till (hopefully) e
