The sun was setting slowly over the hilly landscape. Florence gazed with wide eyes - she had never seen anything so beautiful. The way the colours entwined with each other, creating this one idyllic scene - something she'd rarely had the pleasure of seeing.

The journey was short, especially over the moor, but it got her thinking about everything and nothing.

Sherlock had said earlier that she wasn't his friend, which surprised her – she knew he probably didn't mean it like that, but if he counted John as a friend, what was she?

She saw the Hollow appear from nowhere, and Lestrade grabbed his gun from the dashboard. She wondered idly why he had a gun on the dashboard - it was only Dartmoor - before she got out after him. They ran down the sides of the Hollow, tripping several times over the roots, but regaining their composure before falling. She couldn't see anything but the beams of the torches in the near distance, and she could hear voices – distressed voices.

'Sherlock!' Lestrade called, clasping his gun in his hand and a torch in the other.

Florence got down in time to hear John mutter something soothingly to Henry Knight, and to see the latter man, to her surprise, lower a gun from his mouth and hand it to John.

'But we saw it,' Henry said, and his voice was shaking in a way that made him stutter. 'The hound, last night. We s... we-we-we did, we saw...'

'Yeah,' Sherlock interrupted. 'But there was a dog, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We both saw it, as our own drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus, that's how it works.'

Henry's expression turned from fear to confusion, and Florence looked at Sherlock curiously. 'I'll explain later,' he said to her, and, turning back to Henry; 'there never was any monster.'

However, as if just on cue, the same howl they heard before rung out over the hollow. 'If there is no hound,' Florence said, her voice surprisingly level and calm. 'what in Heaven's name was that?'

Two torch beams – Florence didn't know whose torches they belonged to – found an ungodly looking mutt that one would expect to find in a horror B-movie.

'Sherlock...' John said, just as Henry began to cry out in panic.

'No, no, no, no, no!' He was backing away, as if that would help at all, and Florence moved over to him slowly, holding out her hand in an attempt to calm him down.

'Henry,' she said, 'Henry, it's okay.'

It was apparent he wasn't listening, and as the hound moved around the rim of the Hollow, he began to scream. 'Henry!' Florence cried, gripping his shoulder. He lashed out at her in terror, hitting her in the eye, his nail catching just below her eyebrow before sinking to his knees. Ignoring the sudden pain that was emanating from her left eye socket and the blood from the cut trickling into it, she bent down to his level in an attempt to comfort him. She made a mental note to stop getting hurt all the time. It wasn't particularly impressive.

'Shit,' Lestrade said, his torch catching the glowing eyes of the beast.

John turned to face him, his torch shining in his face. 'Greg, are you seeing this?'

Lestrade didn't answer, but his facial expression said it all.

'Right. He's not drugged, Sherlock, so what's that? What the fuck is it?!' John's voice was panicked.

'All right!' Sherlock yelled in frustration, screwing his eyes shut to order his brain. 'It's still here.' his voice sounded betrayed, as if his whole entire life was a lie. 'but it's just a dog, Henry! Nothing more than an ordinary dog!'

The "dog" seemed offended by Sherlock's statement, and it threw its head back in a long, low howl that sent shivers through Florence's spine. She wiped the blood from her throbbing eye.

'Oh, my God.' Lestrade exclaimed as the hound jumped from the rim to the bottom of the pit, it's eyes a blaring red. 'Oh Christ!'

It was just as the beast opened its snarling mouth to reveal a row of deadly, pointed teeth that definitely did not belong to a dog that a movement from behind them made Sherlock tear his eyes from the monstrosity before him.

A figure in a freaky gas mask waltzed through the mist, and Sherlock ran over to them, grabbing them by the mask and tearing it off their face. Florence couldn't see the face from that distance, but Sherlock was reacting badly to it, so she patted Henry's shoulder and jogged over to him just as he headbutted them hard, causing them to crumple slightly. She caught up to him, taking hold of his arm before looking up at the figure before her.

She didn't recognise him, but his hand was covering half of his face. Sherlock looked around them at the mist, and Florence saw something in his mind click.

'The fog,' he said quietly.

'What?' John asked, his torch beam still on the hound.

'It's the fog! The drug, it's in the fog! Aerosol dispersal – that's what it said in those records. Project HOUND – it's the fog! A chemical minefield!'

Florence spun around, turning herself away from the mist. She saw Lestrade throw his arm across his face, to block the mist from diffusing into his system. The hound growled, making it's way slowly towards them all.

The man in the mask started yelling. 'Kill it! For god's sake, kill the damned thing!'

Lestrade tried as it prepared for a pounce. He shot three times, futilely, but when John tried his bullets struck the animal, causing it to cry out in pain before keeling over, as dead as it should have been in the first place.

Sherlock ran to Henry, and shoved him forward, towards the dead creature. 'Look at it, Henry!'

'No, no,' Henry wailed, trying desperately not to look at it.

'Come on, look at it!' Sherlock growled, pushing him closer towards it.

'Sherlock!' Florence protested, her feminine voice sounding odd amongst the wails. Sherlock, however, had pushed him enough – and they both could see that it was merely a large dog.

Suddenly, Henry lunged at the man in the mask, screaming with rage. 'You bastard! Twenty years of my life making no sense! Why didn't you just kill me?!' at this point, the man was on the floor, and John and Lestrade were trying desperately to prise Henry off him.

'Because dead men get listened to. He needed to do more than kill you, he had to discredit every word you'd 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.' he gestured widely at the Hollow. 'Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once!' he cried, laughing. 'Oh, this case, Henry! Thank you, it's been brilliant.'

Florence rolled her eyes, and John glared at him. 'Sherlock,'

'What?'

'Timing.'

'Not good?'

'No, no,' Henry answered, nodding in acceptance. 'It's fine, because this means... this means that my dad was right.' he started moving towards the man, who Florence had realised was probably the man they were both talking about yesterday – Bob Frankland. 'He found something out, didn't he, and that's why you killed him, because he was right – and he'd found you right in the middle of an experiment.' Henry was beginning to tear up, but they heard a snarl from behind them.

John shot the hound twice more as it whined in pain before it stopped, but by the time they had all turned around again, Frankland was making his way quickly up the slope.

'Frankland!' Sherlock yelled, and started racing after him. Florence began to follow him, but every step she took hurt her eye, so she had to slow down slightly, letting John and Lestrade run past her. The latter man turned around to both her and Henry, yelling at them to keep up. Florence didn't think it the right time to complain, so she tried.

'It's no use, Frankland!' Sherlock cried, just as the other man jumped the barbed wire surrounding the minefield. Florence winced, thinking about how dangerous it would be if they all followed him, before a huge explosion tore through the air. She let out a small scream as she ducked, covering her head with her hands. As the explosion fizzled into the air, she saw Henry lean against a nearby tree. Her hand covered her mouth as she realised what had just happened, and all they could do for a few minutes was stare.


The next morning, Florence awoke in a cold sweat. She had had a nightmare about her mother, for the first time in three years. It was all clear to her – her walking towards the balcony, her sitting with her back to the girl, her turning around to face her, Florence's scream and the crack as the woman hit the ground.

She shuddered, and got out of bed. She decided that, because she was filthy, which is as good a reason as any, she would have a shower.

Twenty minutes later, she was in the pub garden, watching John eat his all-vegetarian "full English". Sherlock walked over to them, holding two mugs and a glass of water on a tray.

'They didn't have it put down, then – the dog.' Sherlock asked, placing one mug on the table next to John, and the water before Florence, giving her a look that said obviously.

'Suppose they just couldn't bring themselves to do it.'

'I see.'

Florence grinned, earning a new look from Sherlock.

'No you don't.'

'No, I don't. Sentiment?'

'Sentiment!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Florence widened her grin. 'Oh.'

He sat next to John, his eyes suddenly narrow. 'Were you punched?' he said to Florence.

'Yes. Henry hit me by accident last night. He didn't even notice, bless him. He was fucking terrified.'

Sherlock frowned, then raised his eyebrows in a 'meh'.

John's expression suddenly turned serious. 'Listen, what happened to me in the lab?'

Sherlock looked at him, his face suddenly slightly worried. Florence frowned in confusion. 'What happened in the lab?' she asked.

'I mean, I hadn't been to the Hollow, so how come I heard those things in there? Fear and stimulus, you said.'

Florence raised her eyebrow at Sherlock in realisation. What John was saying as well as how Sherlock was reacting said it all – he had tricked him.

'You must have been dosed with it elsewhere. When you went to the lab, maybe. You saw those pipes – pretty ancient, leaky as a sieve – and they were carrying the gas, so...' he then offered a variety of sauces.

'Hold up; you thought it was in the sugar.' John said. 'You were convinced it was in the sugar.'

Sherlock looked away. 'Better get going, actually.' he looked down at his watch, thought for a moment, then said, 'there's a train that leaves in half an hour, so if you want-'

'Oh God. It was you. You locked me in that bloody lab.'

Sherlock sighed. 'I had to. It was an experiment.'

John raised his eyebrows in disbelief. 'An experiment?' he said, furious.

'Shh.'

'I was terrified, Sherlock. I was scared to death.' Florence leaned forward in interest.

'I thought that the drug was in the sugar, so I put sugar in your coffee, then arranged everything with Major Barrymore. Plus, I couldn't very well do it with Florence, in her state, she'd have a heart attack.' John sighed, exasperated, as Florence frowned. 'It was all totally scientific, laboratory conditions – well, literally. I was watching you, and had you on the phone. At regular intervals I played growling sounds into the microphone. I knew what effect it had on a superior mind, so I needed to try it on an average one.'

John looked up at him, his eyebrows raised.

'You know what I mean.'

'But it wasn't in the sugar.' Florence said, half listening.

'No, well. I wasn't to know he had already been exposed to the gas.'

'So,' Florence said, a smile beginning to creep on her face. 'You got it wrong.' John grinned, mid-mouthful.

'No.'

'Yes. You were wrong about the sugar. You,' she said, pointing at him mockingly. 'got it wrong.'

'A bit. It won't happen again.' Florence snickered, and John sighed.

'Any long term effects?'

'None at all. You'll be fine once you've excreted it. We all will.'

Florence grimaced. 'I think I might have taken care of that already,' John said, and Sherlock snorted. He then stood. 'Where are you going?'

'Won't be a minute. Gotta see a man about a dog.' he smiled – actually friendly this time – at both of them before walking away.


Florence woke abruptly, like being pulled from cold water. All the pain she remembered from before she fell asleep was gone, and she wondered how long she'd been gone. Her head pounded in pain, and she closed her eyes to think.

She suddenly realised that where she was sleeping was completely unfamiliar. She looked around frantically, to try and see where she was. She knew the men last night – Arthur, one of them, the one who'd taken her, had said his name was – had taken her into this room, and given her some sort of pill to send her to sleep. It was a nice pill, and made her forget the torments of the day. She had fallen asleep easily.

But now that pill had worn off, and she felt like her brain had been run over with a bus.

She heard someone walk in, and opened her eyes, panicking. The man looked terrifying. He must have been six foot four, and strong-looking. His hair was slicked back against his head, and it was dark. There was a menacing scar on his face, one that could only have been acquired through man-inflicting pain. She shuddered as they locked eyes.

'Hello.' he said. Florence remained silent, and he frowned. 'Bonjour?'

Florence tried to search for words. Instead of replying in her own English tongue, she resorted to the French he had just spoken. 'Salut.'

The man's eyes widened in realisation. 'Ah. Je m'appelle James, James Myers. Je suis Francais, aussi. Comment t'appelle tu?'

Florence smiled as she realised what she'd done. 'Je ne suis pas Francaise. Je suis Anglaise. Mais- ah. Sorry. I couldn't find real words and French was easier.'

'Easier, eh? I know a fair few people who'd say otherwise.' his voice was deep, but kind. There was no accent, despite him saying he was French.

'Yeah, well. Pain can do that sort of thing to you.' as she spoke, she wondered idly how she was so calm. This was unfamiliar. She was eighteen, in a strange room, talking to a stranger. A nice stranger, but still a stranger.

'Are you in pain?' James asked, his brow furrowing. He seemed confused.

'No. Not at all, actually. Why is that? I was hurting yesterday.'

'I'm sure Arthur'll tell you about it, when he wants to. You're lucky - he's not in a bad mood today.'

'Is that the man who...'

'Picked you up? Yeah. That's Arthur. Arthur Jackson. Seems a bit scary at first, just a forewarning, but he's actually quite soft once you get to know him.'

'Ah.' she frowned suddenly. 'I don't know where I am.'

'Don't worry, you've not been kidnapped. We're in an old warehouse, in the South of London. Outskirts of the city.'

Florence nodded. The movement felt stiff, but there was still no pain. 'Why am I not frightened?'

James pulled a face. 'I don't know. Perhaps I've got a trustworthy face.'

'Mm. I bet whatever gave you that scar trusted you, too.' Florence closed her eyes in frustration. That joke was entirely out of order - she didn't even know this man.

Luckily, James grinned, amused. 'I think I asked you a question.'

'Oh. I'm Florence.'

'Hello, Florence.'

'Hello, James.'


Florence was relieved to be back at home, and she thought Sherlock was too. His posture was far more relaxed, now that he had this familiar setting enveloping him.

She had also noticed how his mood had changed, for the better – as he said he'd try to do. It was a welcome change, and both her and John were treating him with less caution – John even threw a joke at his expense at him, and he didn't react in a way that would make someone want to crawl into a hole and die there.

The next few days were almost jolly, and everyone felt more comfortable with each other. There were far more laughs, far less snarky comments.

It was on one of days, in the morning, when it was all three of them sitting together, that they got talking, about real things.

'We...' John began. He shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, and Florence was glaring at him from his armchair for taking her spot on the sofa. She turned her gaze to John when he started talking. 'I feel like we all need to talk about what happens now.'

'What do you mean?' came Sherlock's muffled response from the sofa.

'Well, we can't solve crimes forever.'

Sherlock turned around quite suddenly, pulling a face. 'Why not?'

'Because it's not bringing in a stable income, Sherlock. If we are to keep living here – in central London-'

'I agree.' Florence began carefully. 'You let me in here, let me stay. I haven't given anything back. I want to.'

'I didn't mean it like that-' John said quickly, and Florence grinned.

'No, I know you didn't – but I did.'

'But-' Sherlock began, standing up. 'You both... are completely...'

'Brilliant?' John asked, just as Florence said 'incredible?'. They laughed.

'No. Well. Yes, but that's not what I'm saying. You're useful, and I'm not sure if I could do anything anymore without you.'

John looked at Florence. 'I do believe he's trying to tell us something.'

'He doesn't want us to get a job and leave him alone – do you, Sherlock?' Florence smiled kindly. Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration, then shook his head.

'Fine. But we can't live off Mycroft forever.' John repeated. Sherlock nodded again, awkwardly, and escaped into the kitchen.

'Hold onto that, Flo.' John muttered, 'he'll never say anything like that again.'

'Oh, he will. Give him a few years. His compliment-o-meter will fill up again.'

John snickered, and picked up the newspaper beside him.


'I know something's bothering you, Florence. Spit it out.' Sherlock said. He was stood at the window, violin in hand, and she was reading a book on the couch. John was on another date. Florence was beginning to think he was a player.

'What do you mean?'

'You've been out of it for a long time. Never quite zoning in on a conversation, not really concentrating on much. It's beginning to frustrate me.'

'Oh, really? I hadn't noticed.' Florence tried to remember what was on her mind. There were several things, one of which she knew she couldn't tell him, about him not looking hard enough for her. There was something she couldn't remember, and:

'When you and John were having your little quarrel in the graveyard-' Sherlock sighed – he knew what was coming. '-you said I wasn't your friend. What did you mean?'

'I didn't mean it like that.'

'Clearly, so what did you mean?'

'I never really considered you my friend.' Sherlock said eventually, his voice sad. He turned away from her, back towards the window, replacing his violin in its stand. 'You were always more than that. I never cried, but if I did, you were my shoulder to cry on, and I tried to be that in return. You meant more to me than that. I could never just call you my friend, that never did it any justice. I...' he trailed off, and turned back to her. 'Is that all? Seems a bit... silly.'

She shook her head, her brow furrowed. She didn't know what to think about what he had said, or the way he said it, so she brushed it off. 'No. I just... can't remember anything.'

'Can't be that important, then.'

She shook her head again, but something deep, deep down told her that that wasn't true.

Then it hit her.

'James!' she exclaimed, and Sherlock looked at her, his brow furrowed. 'Do you remember when we were in the Warehouse, and before you came, I was chased by someone in a mask with an American accent?'

'You didn't tell me about the mask or the accent, but I remember, yes.' Sherlock said, closing his laptop so he could focus on what she was saying.

'Well, when I met James a few weeks ago, we were talking... and I don't know what happened or what caused it, but he slipped into an American accent, for a single word. It was the most harrowing thing I've ever heard.' she shuddered as she remembered their conversation about Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned again. 'But why would he...'

'I don't know. But that would make sense, because Michael was in on it, too.' she said, and her voice cracked with emotion as she thought about it. All that time with those men, and they were not who they said they were. At all.

'You would have noticed.' Sherlock said.

'The voice was familiar, yes – but I was running at full speed on a wet, iron roof. My mind may have been preoccupied.' she gasped. 'Also, when he came in saying the intruder or whatever had got away, he was soaking wet! He had been outside!' She said, her voice becoming increasingly more distressed as she carried on. It rose several pitches.

Sherlock's face clouded for a second. 'It would also explain why he knocked me out. He must have seen me as a threat.'

'Shit. Oh shit. Oh my god.' it was clear to Sherlock that she was spiralling.

'Maybe you should talk to someone. Michael, or Arthur. I wouldn't ask James.'

'But if it is James, Michael is in on it.' she thought for a second. 'I'm going to call Arthur.'

'Okay.' Sherlock replied. As she walked out of the room, he opened his laptop, and quickly began typing. He had full access to the government's top-secret files on everyone in Britain.

He typed James' name into the search bar. It turned out there were several James Myers' in London alone. He scrolled until he found the familiar scar.

As he read, he felt the horror creeping up on him. This was most certainly not good.


Okaaaaay. Thank God Baskerville is over - it drags on a bit, doesn't it? I keep getting confused between all the visits to the lab... doesn't really help that this was the first "episode" I wrote before starting the whole thing, and he had just found her at that point - the things I had to change! Exhausting!

Please do say if none of it seems... believable. I get it, she keeps getting hurt, but it's REALLLLLLLLY difficult not to let someone you enjoy writing get hurt...

Hope I'm curing your quarantine blues, even just a little bit.

:)