AN: Sorry for being late yet again! I think with this whole pandemic mess going on, my schedule is going to be more than a little bit messy but I still hope to write chapters for this, because gosh dangit, I'm going to finish this with y'all. Consider this chapter to be a prequel to the previous chapter, as it will be set during 'The Hound of the Baskervilles', thirteen years prior to the events of 'The Thing that Lurks at 221B'.

Think of this chapter as me offering my thoughts on what exactly happened on the moor, because admittedly, some of the transitions in the chapter were incredibly fast. An expansion on a small moment, if you will.

The scenes with the hound, and some of the lines will be taken directly from 'The Hound of the Baskervilles'. I do not claim to own any of them.

Day 4(Prompt 12): From V Tsuion-Fairy Tale

Warning: Since this is 'The Hound of the Baskervilles', mentions of death/injury/etc

Tales and Truths


3rd Person POV

The sun had long set over the lush moorlands of Dartmoor and Grimpen Mire, casting the greenery into a strange, silvery sea of fog. It was a perfect night otherwise, for anyone looking to take a late-night stroll, provided that person wasn't a part of the Baskerville family. Legend had long instilled in the hearts of those who lived nearby and in the family that something prowled the moor this time at night, waiting for some hapless Baskerville or peasant to be naive enough to step onto its territory.

However, for Sherlock Holmes and his companions, Doctor John Watson, and Inspector Lestrade, who were pressed into a gulley behind the boulders outcropping the moor, they had no such fear wandering across the land. The only thing that was amiss?

For catching such a creature, all was too still. Not a sound, not a whisper, not even the haunting snarls that would indicate the Hound's approach. The trio had been ensconced behind the boulders for what seemed like veritable hours, and it was starting to wear away at Lestrade. It had been too long since he could see anything but hazy outlines in front of him. As an Inspector, and trying to keep with Sherlock Holmes, having his field of vision slowly being smothered by the fog was akin to being tossed into the ocean.

And it was infuriating.

The little Inspector sighed, rolling into a prone position as he stared into the clear night sky above. "You know, Mr. Holmes-" He began, before lowering his voice into a whisper, "-I've seen you work plenty of cases in my career, aided you in several others, and yet, I daresay I would never have pegged you to be a believer in something seemingly out of a Fairy Tale." Said he.

A light bark of laughter came from Holmes, who glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade, his grey eyes twinkling with amusement in the Inspector's dim field of view. "What you may see as me believing is not the case, Lestrade. I do not believe in superstitions, apparitions, or the idea that this Hound is anything but of the mortal coil. This is a case that leaves me not devoid of interest, as it seems the more Watson and I try to find the missing links in the chain, the more clues arise. It is a challenge I welcome." Said he, as he turned to resume his position in the gulley. "And there is another thing, Lestrade, my lack of belief in these things does not make me a man who dislikes fairy tales."

Lestrade blinked, almost immediately flipping back over onto his stomach in surprise. "You enjoy fairy tales, Mr. Holmes? Things meant for small children?" He asked, trying to stifle his laughter in amusement at the face of such a revelation. What would half of Scotland Yard think about the fact that he enjoyed something so innocently simple as a fairy tale?

"Indeed, Lestrade. It is the first step into developing one's logical mind by teaching them things that their parents can not yet find the time to explain to them." Holmes responded, shrugging his wiry shoulders.

Of course, his enjoyment in something meant for children was based on cold logic, Lestrade mused. While it was surprising to hear it from the Detective, the Inspector could not exactly call it an original behavior from such a supremely logical man, who was currently perched in such a way to make him look akin to that of an owl twisting its head.

"I keep the new collection of fairy tales that Wilde wrote for my patient's children, Lestrade; they are quite popular." Watson piped up with a chuckle. "Though I must confess, I am just as surprised as you are." He said, fixing Holmes with a playfully hard stare. "Holmes, when did you start enjoying fairy tales? If I remember from our case with Munro, you loathed to attach yourself to such frivolities, in your words when Munro believed it to be a phantom that stalked him."

All fell silent, as Holmes's cheeks flushed slightly, perhaps from the weight of his admission, or the cold, neither Lestrade nor Watson could tell. Then, he wrung his hands in front of him in agitation as he glanced away from both men.

"Mycroft used to read fairy tales to me when I was a boy. If I acted in a behavior he deemed to be my youthful mischief, he would fill my mind with the thought that perhaps the monsters in the tales would take me in the night." Said he, his voice a whisper. "When my mind started moving to the point I needed puzzles, ciphers, and the most obtuse cryptogram to sustain me, I began to enjoy them as evolutions of logic over time. That is all."

Lestrade snorted, his shoulders shaking in barely contained laughter. "Your brother, Mr. Holmes, sounds an awful lot like mine when I was a boy." He chuckled. "In my youth, my brother would bring me up on Pourquoi tales of his own making to frighten me. His favorite was to tell me that the reason dogs bark is due to them being able to tell when I was not listening to Mother. If I continued to be a menace, they would arrive at night to devour my toes." He chuckled, as Holmes drew a finger to his lips, hoping that the Inspector would quiet down, lest the Hound, or their lean jawed pike behind it, could find them.

Lestrade silently obliged, lowering his voice to a hush, "Though, I always thought you were the perfect reasoning machine Watson made you to be from the beginning."

Watson sighed, rubbing the back of his head as a sting of guilt prickled through him. Perhaps this one indeed was his fault for being overly colorful, he mused, glancing between Lestrade and Holmes. "That was a dramatic license on my part." He admitted, sounding as though he were a schoolboy sneaking sweets. "Holmes has never been a perfect man." Said he, as Holmes tutted, crossing his arms.

"I try to achieve high levels of perfection in my profession, Watson. Besides, even I know that my mind was not as finely tuned as it is now when I was a child." Holmes muttered. Now it was the Detective's turn to sound indignant, as he glanced at Watson and Lestrade. "Nevermind that, now, name one time I have not been perfect in this case."

Watson immediately knew the answer, offering Holmes an amused smile. "My finding of you silhouetted on the moor during the hunt for the convict says otherwise, Holmes, even you admitted to it." Said he.

Holmes could not help but let out another short bark of laughter at that. If his brother had been there, he would have been chewed out for his certain lack of ability to stay hidden…!

"I suppose my presence could have added to a new fairy tale across Dartmoor, Watson," Holmes remarked, before stretching out his spindly limbs one at a time, his shoulders gently popping at the action. "You have certainly evolved in your prowess in observation, friend Watson, as much as I need to be aware of the moon round me." He added. Watson flushed with pride, much akin to how Holmes would when praised, as Lestrade propped himself up on his elbows.

"While that's all well and good, gentlemen, I still must say-you have yet to tell me all of what this fairy tale is, and what it has to do with this-" The Inspector gestured between Holmes, Watson, and the moor around them. "And this 'lean jawed pike' you two seem eager to catch?" He inquired.

Watson leaned against the boulder, feeling that it fell on him to tell the tale, as he had been living in the Baskerville estate for several weeks now. Holmes nodded, gesturing for him to go on. "Perhaps this needs your particular color, my dear Watson." Said he.

"Well, as you may know, Lestrade, the death of Sir Charles Baskerville is what brought us here." Watson began, as the Inspector silently nodded. "He had a member of his family, Sir Hugo Baskerville, who was quite the vile man, who would stop at absolutely nothing to get what he wanted. One night, he kidnapped a young maiden, and in her flight for him, swore he'd give anything to overtake her. It has been said that since that utterance, a gigantic hound appeared and killed Sir Hugo, like something out of the depths of hell, and stalks the moor waiting for any more of the family." He said.

"Indeed, we two were called upon to shed light into the situation by Doctor Mortimer, as Sir Henry's arrival to his ancestral home preyed upon the slightest hint that there might be something outside of his knowledge pursuing the young heir." Holmes agreed, as he glanced back to the house of their foe, then back to Lestrade. "Though there is some human hand guiding the fairy tale along." He said.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "So are we waiting to arrest a man, or a creature, Mister Holmes?" Asked he, his tone dripping with light mirth.

"A man, Inspector, one Watson and I know as Stapelton. Despite that, I do not think your cuffs would be enough to fit around the Hound's paws." Holmes chuckled, causing the other two to let out soft snorts of laughter, of which pealed out at the notice of the still-growing uncomfortable darkness that blanketed all three.

"I suppose we could fit them around its tail, Holmes." Watson pointed out playfully, as Holmes peered over the boulder.

"Perhaps, friend Watson." He murmured, before glancing up at the horizon, on alert once more. The fog had long since grown thicker, making the house that illuminated a half-mile behind them stand out like a ship on some strange sea. None of the three men could admit the fact that with each feature steadily swallowed up by the fog, their collective worry grew for the young heir, who still failed to appear from the fog.

Had they been too late?

"We are going too far," said Holmes. "We dare not take the chance of his being overtaken before he reaches us. At all costs, we must hold our ground where we are." With the warning ringing in their ears, Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade took up position, crouching amongst the stones as they waited with bated breath.

None of the three men could guess how much time had passed when Holmes suddenly dropped to his knees, clapping his ear against the ground. "Thank God, I think that I hear him coming." He muttered.

A quick smattering of steps broke through the silence of the moor as the trio stared intently at the silver-tipped bank, growing louder and louder until out from the fog came the form of Sir Henry Baskerville as if he had merely pushed through a curtain.

"The hound should be at his heels, then?" Lestrade whispered as Watson gave a terse nod to the Inspector, as Holmes was transfixed on Sir Henry Baskerville, who looked around in surprise at the clear night around him. "The poor devil." Lestrade added, watching as Sir Henry walked swiftly along the path and up the slope behind where the three lay, continuously looking over his shoulders, like a man who is ill at ease.

"Hist!" Holmes cried suddenly as Sir Henry went further down the lonely path, cocking his pistol. "Look out! It's coming!"

A cloud about fifty yards away from the trio was disturbed by a crisp, continuous patter from somewhere within its heart. While they glared at the cloud and what it might hide, Watson could not help but chance a look at Holmes's face, as he was perched at the Detective's elbow.

It was typical of him to look excited at the prospect of facing down something that would make other people evacuate from their skin, Watson had often noticed when working with his friend, whose eyes were shining in the moonlight. However, that expression only lasted for as long as Watson had glanced at him, as Holmes's lips parted in amazement.

Beside Watson, Lestrade gave a yell of terror at the same moment, throwing himself face down in the ground, while Watson sprang to his feet. Out of the fog bounded an enormous, coal-black hound, perhaps molded from the depths of hell itself. Fire burst out of its open mouth, lighting up two smoldering eyes that burst with intense ferocity and hatred. Every inch of the creature seemed to be shackled in the flickering flame, from the muzzle to the saliva and dewlap that surrounded its jaws.

It seemed that nothing that they could have ever thought up in their most delirious dreams could conceive something more savage, more appalling, more hellish than the creature that had burst from the fog.

"Holmes!" Lestrade hissed from where he covered his face. "What is that hellish thing? And how do we get rid of it?"

As much as they had wanted to do something, say something, they stood, Holmes and Watson at each other's shoulders, rooted to the ground. This hesitance let the Hound bound on the track and after their friend, hard at his heels.

"You've let your nerves overtake you, Watson! Are you with me?" Holmes cried, grabbing Watson by the shoulder to snap him out of his stupor.

"I apologize, Holmes." Watson could only get out before both men fired upon the Hound, who was closing the gap between it and Sir Henry in unnatural leaps and bounds. It let out a hideous howl that crawled upon the spines of the three men, but the veritable hit did not slow it down. If anything, it only seemed to make the Hound thunder up the trail at Sir Henry faster.

Sir Henry glanced over his shoulder farther down at the path, frozen on the spot and utterly helpless to the thing that was hunting him down. For all he knew, and all he cared to know as a Baskerville, this was it. Even if he had no such beliefs in what he had been taught since arriving from Canada, the creature that gained on him was real, here and now.

Perhaps this was his fate, for trying to defy what had shackled his family for so long. After all, what could kill the malevolent fairy tale?

The howl of pain, while it brought the terrified attention of Sir Henry onto the Hound, bore good news for Holmes and Watson, who had aided Lestrade out of his position in the gulley. If the Hound was vulnerable, he was mortal, and if they could wound him, they could kill him.

As if in some silent agreement, all three sprinted across the moor as if their feet could suddenly make them fly up the track. Scream after terrified scream erupted from Sir Henry as the Hound reached the heir, pouncing upon him and knocking him on the ground, teeth tearing close to his throat. The next instant, Holmes emptied five barrels of his revolver into the creature's flank before either Watson or Lestrade could get there and discharge their firearms.

The barrage of shots had done the trick. With a last guttural howl of agony and a vicious snap at the air, the Hound rolled on its back, four feet pawing furiously to claw at any scrap of life, before going completely limp. Watson had arrived, stooping over the fallen monster to press his revolver against its shimmering head, but it was useless.

The Hound, the monster, the fairy tale for all on the moor, was finally dead.

"My God!" Sir Henry whispered after having been brought back into the conscious world with the help of Lestrade's brandy flask thrust between his teeth. "What in heaven's name was it?"

Holmes glanced back at the Hound, a flash of intrigue passing through his eyes. "It's dead, whatever it is. We've laid the family ghost, once and forever." He said.

"I used to hear tales when I was a boy visiting my family about creatures akin to this." Watson piped up, kneeling down beside the dead animal. "The older children would gather us all and tell us stories of the black dogs that preyed upon people all over the world." Said he, before placing his hand on the glowing muzzle of the creature, who was about the size of a small lioness. When he pulled his hand back, flame danced across his fingers, flickering in and out in the moonlight.

"Phosphorus." Watson declared as Holmes joined him in kneeling beside the creature. "A cunning preparation of it." He said before sniffing at the animal. "And in more ways than the physical, it seems." He muttered.

Lestrade blinked at that in surprise, still on his knees from where he was tending to Sir Henry with the brandy flask. "How can you tell all of that from smelling the creature, Mister Holmes?" He asked.

"I can tell the physical by its scent, Lestrade: there is no smell that would have interfered with its power of scent. As for the other ways, it is the very idea and collective belief in the fairy tale that made such a creature effective." Holmes declared. "Watson, how often did you hear the story of the black dogs as a boy?" He asked.

"Well, quite often, actually. It seems whatever region of England I might have visited had their own version of the tale. Why there's a version of it called a cu-sith for the remaining Celts." Watson replied before his eyes widened at the revelation that Holmes was getting at. "Holmes, are you suggesting that Stapelton purposefully preyed upon a collective childhood fear of anyone's version of the fairy tale?"

"Indeed, friend Watson. I enjoy fairy tales because I know there must be some element of truth behind them that will be discovered when they grow older. And with that, there is always an element of truth behind sightings of things beyond human's mental acceptance. While this may be unusually large for a hound, it was still that, a hound." Holmes said. "The truth is closer to us than we know, gentlemen."

"Didn't you say in your wire that the man you call Stapleton is in the house that we've been hiding by this entire time?" Lestrade asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the flickering gold lamplight.

"Indeed, Inspector. And now, Sir Henry, we owe you a deep apology for having exposed you to this fright. We were prepared for a hound, but not a creature such as this." Holmes said as Sir Henry shook his head.

"You have saved my life, Holmes." Sir Henry said.

"Yes, by first endangering it. Are you strong enough to stand?" The Detective asked as Sir Henry attempted to get to his still trembling feet.

"Give me another mouthful of that brandy, and I shall be ready! So! Now, if you will help me up, what do you propose to do?" The heir asked as Holmes and Lestrade hauled the man to his feet.

"Leave you here while we find the truth to put this fairy tale to rest," Holmes said, scanning Sir Henry. "You are not fit for further adventures." He added soothingly. Sir Henry attempted to stagger to his feet, still trembling at every limb. With a silent exchange between the three of them, the trio of Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade helped him over to a rock, where he sat down, burying his face in his hands.

"We must leave you now. But when we come back, we will have set things right." Holmes said as Sir Henry gave a vague nod. He turned to his companions, his mood as excitedly determined as ever.

"We have our case, gentlemen! Now we only want our man." The Detective declared.


AN: So, I wanted to do something a little simpler than my previous entries, but still relatively interesting, and paying homage to certain things that shaped the series as a whole. The texts of ACD that are referenced here include 'The Adventure of the Yellow Face" and 'The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.' Admittedly, I did struggle a little bit with this prompt towards the end, what with wifi issues when I wanted to finish, IRL issues, wifi issues, power outages, and an even busier schedule before the holiday break, so it got away from me a little. Apologies!

The reference to a new collection of fairy tales written by Wilde is about Oscar Wilde's 'The Happy Prince and Other Tales,' which was published in 1888, one year before The Hound of the Baskervilles, set in 1889. Many of Oscar Wilde's tales are still famous. Still, I also wanted to pay homage to Oscar Wilde's hand in inspiring Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to continue the series that we all know and love.

Third, a Pourquoi tale is a form of fairy tale that gives a 'why' to something, with Pourquoi being French for 'why.' It is relatively popular(see texts such as The Epic of Gilgamesh and many cultural folktales), so I saw it fitting for Lestrade, who has no overt French ties, yet a French last name, to have at least that connection to France as a whole.

Fourth, the Hound from the story is inspired by legends of Black Dogs, but since this prompt was about 'fairy tales,' I wanted to touch base with that route and weave it into the characters. The cu-sith, for example, are legendary creatures from Celtic fairy tales and mythology, said to be much larger than a normal hound. It is said that if you hear a cu-sith bark, you must seek shelter before it barks three times, or else you die from sheer fright.

And that's it! The next two chapters will be a two-parter because my following two prompts line up perfectly for me!

Apologies again for being so late! Thank you all for the reviews!

-A Very Holmesian Christmas