A/N: You will find the prompt for this one at the end. I must say I had more than my usual amount of fun.


I have spent many hours on watch with Sherlock Holmes, yet none so terrible as that night we spent on Grimpen Mire. A dense, white fog hung heavy over the moor, and the shining of the moon upon it transformed it into something like a great and shimmering ice-field, interrupted every now and then by the ghostly crest of a distant hill. Tendrils of fog surrounded us as we retreated in hopes of finding clearer ground, until we were some half mile from the house. And still the fog-bank rolled on.

All at once, the sound of quick steps broke the silence of the moor. The footsteps grew louder, and then Sir Henry burst from the fog-bank, terror on his face, running for his life along the path. We stared back the way he had come, Holmes' face pale and exultant in the moonlight. Then suddenly his eyes widened in amazement and a terror of his own. Never had I seen such an expression on Holmes' face.

"Watson," he shouted, "Run!"

It was too late. Out of the fog burst a horde of angry cats. Housecats they were, yet not such housecats as mortal eyes have ever seen. Sparks sprang up from their extended claws, while the hissing and terrible shrieks they made seemed drawn from Hell itself.

I blinked. Surely this was not as it had happened?

Yet even as I watched, Holmes was overcome by the wave of furious felines. I heard the crack of his revolver as he sought to defend himself, not once, but five times in quick succession. Yet it was not enough. The last I heard of my friend was his panicked, agonized cry: "Watson!"

"Watson!"

I jolted awake. Holmes was leaning over me. "Are you alright, old fellow? You gave a rather violent start just now."

I looked around. I sat in my usual armchair before the fire. My manuscript, The Hound of the Baskervilles, was on my lap, proofed and ready to be sent to the publisher's tomorrow. I took a deep steadying breath as I brought myself once more into the here and now.

"I'm alright, Holmes," I said, for my friend was still watching me with a hint of concern behind his usual reserve. "I have just had the strangest dream…"


From Michael JG Meathook: The Cats of the Baskervilles.