I'm back! :) Thank you all for reviews, follows and favs, and just for reading this! On to the Hound we go.

Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

# #

Joan eyed warily the plate in front of her. The food smelled delicious and was arranged in a beautiful shape, but she couldn't for the life of her say what was in it. Fish? Crabs? Am I allergic to anything? "You're not" Mycroft informed her without looking away from his own plate.

"Pardon?"

"You do not have an allergy to any of the ingredients" he elaborated.

How… Never mind. "Thank you" she said instead, picking the tableware and pocking at the dish. "Just… what is it?"

"Ratatouille aux fruits de mer."

"That explains everything" she commented with the ease of someone used to not understanding, and bravely tried a bite. It was surprisingly good. "Are you going to tell me what's the occasion?"

"Just a chat." The older Holmes offered a tight smile, slowly sipping the white wine. "I thought you'd prefer a good meal to another warehouse."

"Definitely." Though I am surprised by the private room in a three-stars restaurant…

They continued to eat in silence, Mycroft manoeuvring the utensils with much more grace than Joan. Once the main dish was cleared, the conversation resumed. "How is Sherlock?"

Joan shrugged, having expected the customary question. "There is a lull in cases, so he's taken to haunting the morgue again. Molly is delighted. But you know that."

"Indeed" Mycroft nodded, taking another sip of the wine. Joan started to consider her own glass. "Anything I can assist with?"

"No, it's all good. He didn't burn anything yet."

"Have you considered my offer?" After Irene's case, he had taken to sending Joan a contract once or twice a week, the proposed yearly salary increasing every time. It was getting rather annoying.

Joan sighed, trying very hard to remain polite. "I don't want the job."

His pale eyes zeroed in on her with a calculating glint. "How about a 15% raise?"

"It's not about money, Mycroft."

"It always is."

"Well, it isn't for me. I haven't accepted your offer the first time around, what makes you think I will now?"

"This time, I can really see the benefits of our collaboration, John." She blinked at the sincerity in his voice. However, she lived with Sherlock. She knew how convincing a Holmes could be.

God, he's persistent. "There are far more skilled individuals out there. I did my duty. Can't I just rest?"

Mycroft crossed his arms. "Is your current lifestyle what you consider resting?" he asked sarcastically.

Joan responded with a mock-glare. "Very much so."

"I see."

He was clearly having fun at her expense. The doctor sighed again. "Have you read my file? I had quite enough of action. I just want to do something… more concrete, more tangible, you know?"

There was a flash of something akin to compassion in his gaze as he leaned forward, hooking his fingers under the chin in a manner reminiscent of his younger brother. "I understand. I suppose it is my loss this time."

Joan scoffed at that. "Me, winning against Mycroft Holmes? Where's my medal?"

"I shall arrange that" he deadpanned. The ex-soldier gaped in disbelief, until the man started to chuckle. Even more stunned (isn't it the first time I've seen him laugh?), Joan followed suite.

# #

"You've been with Mycroft" Sherlock glared from the kitchen.

"At least, there is one Holmes who feeds me" she replied calmly while toeing off the shoes.

"What did he want?" the detective stomped towards her with a scowl to end all scowls on his face.

"Recruit me" Joan said without much care. "For the last time." Sherlock froze in his tracks, looking suspiciously like someone dropped a brick on his head. "I convinced him that it was a bad idea." He blinked, his expression quickly morphing into a study of smug.

"Well done, John" he finally announced and marched back into the kitchen where something green was fizzling in a glass vial.

# #

"He's married" Sherlock breathed into her ear. Joan practically jumped out of her skin.

"Jesus!" the doctor exclaimed, almost falling from the chair. Her first reflex had been to throw her phone at the perceived threat, but luckily Holmes caught it mid-air without missing a beat. Joan tried to calm her heart down to a normal rate by taking a huge gulp of air. "Sherlock, don't do that."

The man stared down at her without a hint of shame. "You realize that, don't you?" he continued as if nothing happened.

"Realize what?" Joan grumbled, scrambling back into the chair.

"That he's married" he frowned at the forced repetition.

She followed his gaze to her phone where a conversation with a potential match from a dating app had been displayed. Oooh, that's why he's not available on the weekends... "Uhm…" It was her first attempt at dating since the discharge and it was already failing miserably. "No."

"You should" came the critical assessment.

"Well…" Wait, why am looking for excuses? "You shouldn't be reading over my shoulder" she counterattacked.

Sherlock looked surprised at the comeback and cocked his head in question. "Why not?"

"Because it is my private business."

"I just saved you precious time!"

They glared at each for a moment, until Joan reluctantly looked away. It's like I'm raising a teenager… "Thank you for the help, really, but next time, please ask first if I'm looking for advice."

It seemed to confuse the detective. "Why would I add an additional constraint, if the result would be the same?"

"Perhaps I'd like to figure things out on my own, once in a while?"

Silver eyes narrowed in silent consideration. "I see. It is agreeable" he finally drawled out, handing back the phone.

A very pompous teenager. "Thank you." He nodded briskly, unkempt curls flying everywhere, and retreated to the sofa.

# #

"This is not healthy, Sherlock!"

"I don't care, John!"

Joan crossed her arms, determined to get her point across. "Your failing health would have a negative impact on your work."

"We'll see when it comes to that" the man retorted arrogantly and focused back on his violin, plucking strings in a repetitive three-notes pattern.

Time for the big guns then. "Chicken" she fake-coughed.

If his eyes shot laser-beams, she would have been instantly reduced to ash. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're afraid that you wouldn't be able to stop smoking."

"Preposterous" Sherlock huffed with as much dignity as one could muster while being dressed in pyjama pants and an old dressing gown. "I can stop cold turkey whenever I want."

And we got a winner! "Prove it."

# #

Greg wondered how the hell did his life came to this. Instead of going out to a nice restaurant with wife and kids, he was sitting in the living room of 221B Baker Street, in company of Dr Hooper and Lt Murray, watching Joan Watson patiently explain to Sherlock Holmes the rules of Cluedo.

"What do they have on you then?" he ended up whispering to Murray, who seemed to enjoy the show.

"I served with Watson. This was not a battle I could win" the man replied with a small grin. "What about you?"

"She said it was game-night or Sherlock breaking into forensics lab" DI Lestrade sighed heavily. The consultant had a history of 'visiting' various departments of the Yard to supposedly help out (Anderson was this close to murdering the git last time). Every time, the fall-out was spectacular and bloody brutal in terms of paperwork. If it could keep the menace from driving his colleagues up the walls again, Greg was ready to sell a limb, let alone play board games.

"I think it's nice" Molly chimed in, but she was always ready to hang out with Sherlock, regardless of his attitude towards her.

By that time, Joan almost finished explaining. "… alright?"

"It's a board game, John. I can manage" Sherlock huffed condescendingly.

The doctor looked unconvinced, making Greg wonder if she knew something they didn't. After all, Cluedo seemed like a game made for Sherlock. "Let's try it then."

The guilty cards were hidden, the rest was distributed, and they all shuffled to different corners of the room to write down their hand. Somehow, they fitted around the coffee table (Molly, Bill and Greg on the couch, Joan cross-legged on the floor and Sherlock on a chair he dragged away from the dining table).

Molly, playing Miss Scarlett, rolled the dice. "Ten!" She silently counted her way up to the Lounge. "So, I say… Mrs White, in the lounge with a wrench?" Bill showed her a card and they both scribbled down something.

The turn went on normally, and Greg even started to get an idea about the murderer, then Sherlock rolled the dice and moved his blue figurine to the Conservatory. "Dr Black in the conservatory with the lead pipe" the detective demanded.

"Uhm…" Joan looked tense. "Dr Black is the victim."

"I know."

She sighed heavily. "He is not an option, Sherlock."

"Why not?"

"He had been killed."

"As a detective, I should consider all the theories, no matter their likelihood."

"This is not a real case."

"Fine." Sherlock glared. "Miss Scarlett in the conservatory with the lead pipe, if you insist." Molly cheerfully showed him a card, but the man did not write anything down. In fact, he had not written anything on his notepad.

They played two uneventful turns, if one didn't count Sherlock's darkening expression as he moved Mrs Peacock further on the board. As he rolled the dice for the third time, Holmes moved to the Ballroom and announced: "Dr Black, in the Ballroom, revolver."

Joan groaned. "No, Sherlock! Dr Black is not a suspect."

"You are being ridiculous. It could be a suicide."

"Well, it is not."

"How can you be so sure?"

"It's…!" She ran a hand through her hair, suddenly looking absolutely miserable. "Let's say the police already ruled it as murder."

Sherlock frowned even deeper. "You should know better than rely on police, John."

"Hey!" Greg protested.

"No offense" the consulting git offered as an afterthought.

"Anyway!" Molly butted in, trying to diffuse the situation. "Here, Sherlock." She handed him a card that was either the room or the weapon. He took a disdainful look at it and nodded briskly, seemingly still convinced that the victim killed himself.

Molly's roll gave a three, so she couldn't move anywhere. Bill, however, rolled a twelve and hurried into the Ballroom. After a suggestion, he jolted down a note and grinned. "I accuse Professor Plum in the Ballroom with a dagger."

Sherlock huffed indignantly while Joan handed over the envelope. A couple seconds were enough to confirm Murray's win. "I was almost there" Greg said good-naturedly while the ladies collected the cards for another game.

"It doesn't make sense!" Sherlock protested, gesturing wildly. "Look at the victim! With his built, he'd have no trouble disarming this Professor."

From the corner of his eyes, Lestrade saw Joan roll her eyes but swallow back any further comments, clearly giving up on this strange fixation. He decided to take a shot at it. "It's just a game, Sherlock."

"A game is a representation of reality dulled down for children's understanding."

"Don't be a sour loser, mate" Bill grinned again. "Better luck next time."

But in the next game, Sherlock still insisted on Dr Black, even going as far as making an accusation (and failing of course). This seemed to be the last straw for Joan, and the resulting argument started to get louder and louder while the guests watched on, bemused.

"Fine!" the ex-soldier finally snapped and stood up, throwing her cards on the table. "Since you know better, you play the host! I'm outta here." And she stormed out of the flat without another word.

Molly and Greg, who had never seen Watson's legendary temper before, exchanged a shocked glance. "Yep, that's my Captain" Murray quipped, all too used to it and secretly delighted that retirement didn't dull the infamous short-fuse. "Good luck getting her to talk to you again" he added for Holmes' benefit, who looked briefly bothered by the last remark.

The consulting detective finally deigned to turn his calculating gaze upon the guests. "Another game?" he asked hopefully.

# #

"Well, that was tedious."

Joan openly stared at the (literally) bloody git that showed up after having spent the night gallivanting somewhere all by his lonesome. "You went on the Tube like that?!" she finally managed.

Sherlock glared petulantly. "None of the cabs would take me." He threw the harpoon at the blogger, who caught it with a disgusted grimace, and disappeared into the bathroom.

# #

Joan curled on her chair, feeling like it was the eye of a hurricane. The chaos currently being unleashed by the nicotine-deprived detective had reached epic proportions, with papers flying everywhere, boxes being shuffled, and books being thrown around. I'm not cleaning this. Nope.

"Tell me where they are." And he'd better put these papers back in the same order as before. "Please. Tell me." My, my… She offered an apologetic smile instead of falling for the obvious ruse. "Please." Puppy-eyes, wow. How low have we fallen.

"Can't help, sorry."

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers."

She couldn't help but chuckle. "Nice try." Clearly exasperated, the man twirled in place, before throwing himself face down on the floor by the fireplace. "Not there" she called out to him. The valiant effort to spare him another disappointment was rewarded by an unintelligible growl.

"Ooh-ooh" Martha announced her arrival, eyes going wide at the flat's state of disarray.

Before Joan could greet their landlady, Sherlock re-emerged from the floor, flocks of dust clinging to his damp hair and a slipper in hand. "My secret supply. What have you done with my secret supply?" Mrs Hudson's surprised "Eh?" prompted another explosion. "Cigarettes! What have you done with them? Where are they?"

"You know you never let me touch your things!" the older woman protested, the gaze flickering over the ambient mess with clear disapproval. "Ooh, chance would be a fine thing."

The resident nicotine addict deigned to finally face her properly. "I thought you weren't my housekeeper."

"I'm not." Clearly frustrated, Sherlock stomped towards the harpoon, that had been abandoned against the window after a thorough, bleach-filled cleaning. Martha looked questioningly at Joan, who shrugged helplessly in return. "Maybe a drink?" she mouthed, accompanying her silent suggestion with an attempt at miming.

Fortunately, Mrs Hudson understood. "How about a nice cuppa, and perhaps you could put away your harpoon."

The detective stopped his frantic activity for a moment, sending a wistful glare through the window. "I need something stronger than tea. Seven per cent stronger." Joan frowned and unfurled into a more conventional sitting position. I hope he doesn't know what he's saying, because otherwise, bringing up drugs is a dirty manipulation tactic, and we are going to talk about it. Before she could breach the subject though, Holmes brusquely turned around and pointed the harpoon at their landlady. "You've been to see Mr Chatterjee again."

The older lady crossed her arms in surprise. "Pardon?"

The man went on a rant, using the harpoon as the world's most demented pointer. "Sandwich shop. That's a new dress, but there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking."

I know where it's going. Joan attempted to prevent another train wreck. "Sherlock…" He just has to lash out every damn time.

It didn't work. "Thumbnail: tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads, don't we?"

"Sherlock" she tried more forcefully.

He deigned to lower the harpoon, but made a big, loud inhale instead. "Mmm: 'Kasbah Nights.' Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, wouldn't you agree? I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on the website – you should look it up."

Mrs Hudson looked like a deer in the headlights, and Joan felt a sharp pang of pity for her. The poor woman just tried to help. "Sherlock, would you stop already?"

He blissfully ignored her again. "I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr Chatterjee. He's got a wife in Doncaster that nobody knows about."

Godammit! "Sherlock!"

"Well, nobody except me."

Poor Martha was all flustered and upset by that point. "I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't" she said and stormed off, slamming the door for good measure.

Joan eyed wistfully the dust falling from the ceiling. And I had vacuumed yesterday. Sherlock sighed heavily and jumped over furniture to land on his chair. The doctor had had enough. "So, we are setting new records of insufferable today, aren't we?"

The detective dared to glare in her general direction. "Don't be tedious."

"You are going to apologize to Mrs H."

"Apologize?" The concept sounded completely foreign to the man.

"Yes. You were mean, and that was uncalled for. You are going to apologize."

Sherlock, who had been unsuccessfully trying to curl himself into a perfect ball, started rocking back and forth with a frustrated groan. "Oh, John, I envy you so much."

That makes one of us. The blogger ran a hand through her hair, feeling more tired by the second. "If it is another way to insult my intelli…"

He didn't let her finish, as he unfurled his long limbs in a swift movement, apparently dead set on saying his piece. "Your mind: it's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad."

"Cool." It was not the first time she heard a variant of this statement.

"I need a case!" Sherlock shouted, jumping up and starting to pace again.

For god's sake… "You've just solved one! By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!"

Sherlock whirled back towards the chair and fell across it, head and legs dangling from the armrests. "That was this morning!" His feet started to beat against the nearby box of something unidentified, making a dull thumping noise that immediately started to get on Joan's nerves. "When's the next one?"

Patience, Watson… "Nothing on the website?"

It made him roll on the carpet, just to spring up again (at least he's getting exercise out of this) and almost throw his laptop at her. Joan stared at the comments section of Science of Deduction, feeling torn between laughter and confusion. Meanwhile, Sherlock took on a high-pitched voice. "Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes. I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please please please can you help?"

"Aw, that's cute" Joan offered with a smile.

"Is it, John? Is it?" He looked particularly wounded by the innocent message and kept on gesticulating wildly between the mess in the living room, the laptop and himself. "The mysterious disappearance of a pet rabbit! Is this the entirety of my options now?"

"Your reputation has reached the elementary schools, though" she snickered to his great offense. "We can get a steady flow of clients there. Pets just keep on mysteriously disappearing nowadays."

"Ah, but it's more than just a runaway rabbit, see? Before Bluebell" – Joan glanced at the screen to make sure it was the poor animal's name – "disappeared, it turned luminous, "like a fairy" according to little Kirsty; then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry…" He stopped mid-sentence, and the unmistakable look of I just found a new way to make chaos reign bloomed on his face. "What am I saying? This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."

The blogger shut the laptop with a resounding click. "Seriously? You're dragging yet another person into your bored tantrum?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in silent warning. "It's this, or Cluedo."

The already settled anger flared up at the memory of the disastrous game-night. "Ah no." She got up to vent some of the accumulating tension. "We are never playing that again!"

"Why not?" came the surprised question.

"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why."

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, it was the only possible solution."

I am quite certain it wasn't. "It's not in the rules."

They were still in perfect disagreement over it, as confirmed by the furious shout of "Then the rules are wrong!". And they would have kept going on what was shaping out to be another epic row, if not for the doorbell.

# #

Joan realized Sherlock's plot a bit too late, after he had taken the poor Henry on an emotional rollercoaster and creeped him out by trying to sniff out the smoke practically out of the man's mouth. The detective had taken great care to display his 'best qualities' – hyper-perceptive, rude, eccentric, easily bored – and it was a miracle Mr Knight did not run away within a minute of the documentary being paused. She tried to mitigate the disaster, of course, but Mr Nicotine Addict was on the roll. Again.

"Off to Devon with you; have a cream tea on me" he threw casually over his shoulder, heading to the kitchen.

Henry tried to stop him. "Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"

And surprisingly, it worked. Holmes was clearly interested, even if the doctor couldn't figure out the reason for a sudden change of mind. Then finally (unforgivingly late) she noticed the mischievous glint in his eyes. Oh, that tosser.

"No, I can't leave London at the moment. Far too busy. Don't worry – putting my best man onto it." He moved to Joan's side to pat her shoulder. "Well, woman." She glared. "Always rely on John to send me the relevant data, as she never understands a word of it herself."

She continued to glare, trying to silently communicate the I know what you're doing and you're a prat message to him. "Busy, huh?" she added in the most sceptical voice she could manage.

"Bluebell, John!" the git exclaimed. "I've got Bluebell! The case of the vanishing, glow-in-the-dark rabbit!" Henry was hopelessly gaping at them. "NATO's in uproar."

"Oh, sorry, no, you're not coming, then?"

That poor man, Joan thought before getting up with a groan. "Okay. You win." She went to fetch the last pack of cigarettes from their hiding place inside Yorick. "You absolute git." She tried to aim at Sherlock's face (yes, I'm petty), but he gleefully caught the pack mid-air and immediately tossed it over his head on the couch.

"I don't need those any more. I'm going to Dartmoor." One day, I'm going to murder him. And the Yard will give me a medal for it. Meanwhile, Sherlock took the direction of his room with a cheerful: "You go on ahead, Henry. We'll follow later."

Henry looked so confused, Joan had to force herself not to give him a hug. "Er, sorry, so you are coming?" he asked while awkwardly getting up.

Sherlock popped back into the living room like a devil from a box. "Twenty-year-old disappearance; a monstrous hound? I wouldn't miss this for the world!"

# #

They had spent all but three minutes in the moving train (somehow Sherlock managed to secure first-class tickets at the last minute, thank God for Holmes magic) when the detective started complaining. "How long until we arrive?"

"It's a two-hours ride till Exeter" Joan offered, eyeing thoughtfully the menu for the on-board cafeteria. The prices were astronomical, but it was a long ride. And Sherlock grabbed the window seat.

"This is forever!"

The doctor sighed. "Wanna talk?"

Sherlock opened one eye to glare. "You should know me better than that, John."

"About the case?" she smirked in return.

"Oh." He straightened up. "Alright. Let's talk."

"What exactly caught your attention there?" she asked, genuinely interested. Sherlock made a thinking grimace that fooled no one. "Com'on. Why the mention of some dog pawprints changed your mind?"

There was a fleeting smile that could be interpreted as pride, before the detective took on what Joan called The Face of Mysterious Mystery (the Yarders rather called it bloody annoying).

"Nothing shocked you in Henry's words?" he asked, looking like he was bursting at the seams with the desire to tell but holding it in for a bigger, flashier reveal.

"And you don't mean the whole story about the night his father vanished?" she felt the need to clarify. At the affirmative nod, the blogger scratched her neck in thought. "I guess his choice of words is a bit odd." Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. "That's it? Because he said 'hound'?"

"Why a hound, John?" He made to stand up, as he always did at home when explaining his reasoning, but the train suddenly braked, and he fell back on the seat with an undignified 'oomph'. Joan wisely did not giggle at the predicament (she was dying of laughter inside), and Sherlock continued on as if nothing happened. "There are literally dozens of other words – and things it could have been, based on his description. So, why a hound?"

"I don't know" she admitted easily.

The excitement quickly soured. "Me neither."

A couple of minutes passed in silence, before Sherlock started furtively glancing at her from his corner. Joan was busy plotting the route towards Grimpen village on google maps and chose to ignore him at first. Then the glances became accompanied by loud huffs and sighs. Finally, she pocketed her phone and rolled her eyes. "What?"

The question was shot immediately. "What do you know about Baskerville?"

"Not much" the ex-soldier replied. "Some kind of biological weapon research. Not really my area of expertise."

"Know anyone there?"

"Not personally, no, but some of my contacts might."

"Hmm."

Joan elbowed the secretive git in the ribs. "Do I need to start making calls now?"

The detective briefly glared at the attack before answering: "Hold it for now. I need to assess the field first."

"Yes, sir" she sniggered.

# #

At some point of the train ride, Joan was lulled to sleep by the slow rocking of the wagon and the murmur of conversations three rows away. Years of catching naps whenever possible, wherever possible, also helped. When the train took a soft turn to the left, her head fell to the side, resting on Sherlock's shoulder. The detective, who had been lost in thought but fully awake, tensed and looked down at the doctor, uncertain about his own opinion on the unexpected physical contact. Noticing the dark circles under his friend's eyes and the relaxed breathing pattern of a rem sleep, he sighed and manoeuvred to make their position more comfortable for the sleeping blogger. He pondered at length whether or not mention the drooling on his coat when Joan woke up and decided to keep it as an argument for future disputes.

He was very surprised to jerk awake in Exeter as the train came to a halt, having fallen asleep about twenty minutes after Joan, but hid it well enough from the yawning doctor.

Neither of them noticed a group of teenage girls giggling while getting off the train and exchanging on their phones the photos of the sleeping pair. They fully planned to post them in the comments section of Dr Watson's blog.

# #

The car rental went smoothly, even if Joan was a little miffed when she couldn't find her driver's license. She started to have her suspicions when the license reappeared in its original place in the wallet after they entered the car. Sherlock looked rather smug as well, pickpocketing genius that he was. Jolting down a mental note to hide his chemistry set once they get back, Joan smiled sweetly at her flatmate, whose smug look melted into one of worry.

# #

Once they neared their destination, Sherlock started to look for a good viewpoint. He found one several miles away from Grimpen, a small parking space on top of a hill, with three Spanish tourists grouping around their SUV, trying to get hiking backpacks out of the trunk. Ignoring the company, Sherlock flew (at least, that's what it looked like) over nearby rocks and stopped only at the top, coat flailing dramatically in the wind. Unwilling to try rock hopping with her occasionally uncooperative leg, Joan made her way around the small piece of ancient mountains, opening the paper map found in the glove compartment and tightening the strap of the binoculars around her neck.

As no comment was forthcoming from the detective, she took upon herself to identify the landmarks. "There's Baskerville" she pointed towards the buildings clustered near the treeline. After a check on the map, she turned around. "That's Grimpen village." Sherlock followed her directions and looked around. So, according to the map… "So that must be… yeah, it's Dewer's Hollow."

Before she could address it, Holmes pointed at the suspiciously empty space between Baskerville and the forest. "What's that?"

The ex-soldier adjusted the binoculars to get a better look. Well, that's ominous. "Minefield?" she offered, basing her assumption on the warning signs around the area. "Technically Baskerville's an army base, so I guess they've always been keen to keep people out."

Sherlock replied with a thoughtful "Clearly" before making his way down to earth (I wish I was so light on my feet). "Shall we?"

# #

After the slightly uncomfortable but surprisingly informative conversation with the inn-keepers, Joan meandered outside, only to be met with a falsely smug "Bet's off, John, sorry!"

"What?" she plopped at the table near Sherlock.

"Bet?" asked the local monster tour guide.

Sherlock pretended to be thoroughly disinterested. "My plan needs darkness." Though his act didn't fool Joan, who started to catch on the ruse. "Reckon we've got another half an hour of light..."

The guide (Fletcher, was it) insisted: "Wait, wait. What bet?"

Holmes made an innocent face before 'explaining': "Oh, I bet John here fifty quid that you couldn't prove you'd seen the hound."

"Yeah, the guys in the pub said you could" she threw some oil into the fire.

After that, Sherlock played the lad like the violin into revealing his supposed proof. The result, however, had been quite different from what the man expected. As the detective stared at the cast of a giant paw print, Joan took the opportunity to get reimbursement for some cab fares. "Did we say fifty?" Her flatmate's glare was not very convincing as he handed over the money. "Ta" she grinned, as he stood up and stomped away.

"Sceptic, ain't he?" Fletcher asked snidely.

"Yeah" Joan easily agreed. "That he is." She gulped down her drink before nodding to the guide and going back to the hotel.

# #

Once they dropped the bags in their room (twin beds, thank heavens), Sherlock started to drag her towards the car. "Wait a moment! Are we going to Baskerville?" she hissed to avoid alerting other patrons.

"Obviously" the git huffed.

"And how are we getting in?" she insisted. Getting into a secure military base of that grade was not easy, nor without risks.

"I'll figure it out" Sherlock shrugged carelessly.

"Sherlock!" Joan finally managed to liberate her elbow from his iron grip and crossed her arms in stern warning. "I want to know exactly what you're planning to do, because I'll be the one court-martialled for this."

"Nonsense" he tried to down-play, but his confidence started to fade.

"Yes-sense. You have your brother to pull you out, I'll get stuck in a cell forever."

"He'll get you out too" the detective shrugged again, less and less convincing in his bravado.

Joan narrowed her eyes, having thought of something very much in character for Holmes. "You're going to use his ID, aren't you?" The deer-in-the-headlights look on his face was very telling. "Goddammit, Sherlock!"

"You have better ideas?" he challenged petulantly.

"I actually do. Give me a minute." She went to sit at an outdoor table again, sending occasional glares in the detective's direction. The phone rang three times before it was picked up. "Heya, Liam."

"I'm not tracking a serial killer again, Watson" he greeted her with the usual (lack of) cheer.

"Oh, don't worry, nothing of the sort" she chuckled fondly. "I need a temporary security upgrade."

"I beg your pardon?" Apparently, she finally managed to surprise him.

"I need to get into Baskerville and not get caught. Can you upgrade my clearance, just for a couple of days, so we can use my official ID?" Sherlock's eyebrows disappeared under his hairline at this point.

"Can't you use your other ID?" Liam whined while typing already.

Joan shrugged for the detective's benefit and skirted around the question. "We have a working ID for Mycroft Holmes, but it won't hold long enough."

"Your detective is going to get you in serious trouble one day, Watson."

"Please. I've been born into trouble."

"Can't argue with that." There was a loud beep on the line and Hendricks sighed. "All good. But I warn you, it is for 48 hours only, and I will not re-do it."

"You're a peach, mate" Joan laughed openly. "I owe you one."

"One very expensive bottle of whiskey, yes."

"Consider your wish granted, ô mighty one!"

"Piss of, John. Just… piss off." The grumpy technician disconnected the call to Joan's delight. Sherlock was staring at her wide-eyed. "Well, now we have a two-days legitimate ID!" she announced with a grin.

"Who was that?" he asked cautiously, following her to the car.

"An old friend. One should always be nice with IT techs, you know? They can be very helpful for this type of situations."

He took the time to process the information, and they were already driving towards the base when he spoke up again. "Did your friend just hack into the high-security military records?"

Joan smirked triumphantly. "He doesn't need to. He is the record-keeper."

# #

Her little stint with the upgraded clearance gave them unlimited amount of time at the base, bar the interference of angry officers. Not wanting to extend their visit for too long (they might just check with the HQ, after all), she smothered all the initiative out of the poor Corporal Lyons by pulling serious rank on him. However, it would be only polite to personally placate the Major.

As Lyons showed the way inside, Joan leaned closer to her friend. "Go on the tour, do what you need to do. I'll talk with Major, keep him off our backs."

"Meet me upstairs in 30 minutes?" he suggested quietly.

She nodded in agreement and slipped him her pass. "Corporal. I will see Major Barrymore. Meanwhile, accompany Mr Holmes here on his visit." Lyons stiffened but nodded briskly.

When they finally got into the building, he called another guard on the interphone. They patiently waited in silence until a young private arrived. "Private Philips, you are to accompany Captain Watson to see Major Barrymore" Lyons ordered.

The young man, suitably impressed by his important mission, saluted. "At ease" Joan smiled crisply. "Lead on, Private." They parted ways with a restrained nod.

Joan followed her personal guide through dreadful concrete corridors to the security monitors area, where she was met by an extremely irate Major. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Sir" she saluted him with practiced ease. "Permission to speak in private."

Barrymore looked like he wanted nothing less than talking with her. However, he could not just throw out a 'priority ultra' visitor. "Granted" he bit out and marched into his office, that was strategically placed in the farthest corner. Joan wisely waited for him to be seated before pulling the guest chair and settling comfortably in it. "There'd better be a bloody good reason for this, Captain. The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense."

"Rest assured, sir, I am as thrilled as you are about this. We were sent to attend a small matter falling under article 48. I had been assigned to ensure the safety of the civvy expert, or rather make sure he doesn't mess with anything."

Barrymore narrowed his eyes. "You had been in active service?"

"RAMC, Afghanistan, two tours."

Major's glare did not soften, but his words became less biting. "Why the baby-sitting duty then?"

Joan offered a self-depreciating smile. "Got a bullet in my shoulder. Nowadays, my assignments stay close to home."

The officer huffed and leaned back in his chair, picking up a pen, finally accepting the outside interference on his base. "Who?"

"I am not at liberty to disclose the details." Seeing his growing frown, Joan amended: "In all likelihood, this does not concern your subordinates, Major. We are following a lead that should soon reach London." As the officer remained silent, she pressed on. "However, if any of the civilian personnel is involved, we do not want to scare them off, hence the pretence of an inspection. We will bother you for two days, three at most."

Barrymore continued to watch her sombrely for a moment before pointing the pen at her. "I'm going to hold you to that, Captain Watson."

"My word's good as gold" she quipped, remembering the phrase being often used by training officers at Sandhurst. Given Major's age, she assumed he had probably crossed the same old geezers.

This made him bark a short laugh. "Haven't heard that in a while. Where did you pick it up?"

"Sandhurst" she grinned, feeling more comfortable in the conversation now that there was no need to lie. "Our training officer was Colonel Bryant."

"Hmph. That old crone" Barrymore grumbled to himself.

At this point, Joan's phone chimed with an incoming text. "Excuse me for a moment." It was Sherlock, warning that he was going up. "Ah, my charge is done for today" she informed Barrymore. "Can I have your number in case we need to return?"

He nodded and scribbled something down on a yellow post-it. "Let me know either way" he said, handing it over.

"Of course." She took the note and hoisted herself up. "Pleasure, Major Barrymore."

He stood up as well, accompanying her to the office's door. "Philips." The private quickly ended the lively conversation with the boys on guard duty and hurried to their side. "Escort Captain Watson to the entrance."

"Yes, sir."

Without another word, Barrymore returned to his work, leaving Joan with the kid. They returned to the main entrance in silence, Philips being either shy with new officers or just not in a talking mood. It did not bother Watson, who had other things to think about.

They arrived just as Corporal Lyons and Sherlock exited the lift, along with an older man in a white lab-coat. Lyons dismissed her escort with a curt "Thank you, private. Back to your duties."

"Yes, sir" Philips acquiesced and walked down the hallway they just came from.

Before anyone could add anything, the older man piped in. "If you don't mind, Corporal, I'll show them out."

Lyons gave him a cryptic look. "As you wish, sir."

Sherlock and Joan discreetly exchanged a mystified look but followed their new guide outside. Once they were at a relatively safe distance from the entrance, the scientist rounded up on them, eyes gleaming with excitement. "This is about Henry Knight, isn't it?" They both stared at him in silence, which didn't seem to deter the man. "I thought so. I knew he wanted help, but I didn't realise he was going to contact Sherlock Holmes!" The continuing lack of verbal response still didn't bother him. "Oh, don't worry. I know who you really are. I'm never off your website. Thought you'd be wearing the hat, though."

"That wasn't my hat" Sherlock finally grumbled. Joan stifled a chuckle, wondering who the guy was.

"I hardly recognise him without the hat!" the scientist addressed her directly.

"It wasn't my hat!"

"I love the blog too, Dr Watson."

Great, a fan. "Oh, cheers! And you are?"

"Oh, sorry, we haven't been introduced, have we? Bob Frankland."

"Pleasure" Joan smiled politely, shaking the offered hand.

"You know Henry Knight?" Sherlock cut in, clearly in a foul mood.

Frankland shrugged. "Well, I knew his dad better. He had all sorts of mad theories about this place. Still, he was a good friend." He looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. "Listen, I can't really talk now." Oooh, we got ourselves another drama queen, Joan smirked internally. She had already assessed the surroundings and there was absolutely no one listening in, aside from some hypothetical super powerful bugs but this kind of military base usually didn't spy on its personnel on the parking lot. The background checks and the security at the entrance usually mitigated the risk. Meanwhile, Frankland handed over a business card. "Here's my, er, cell number. If I could help with Henry, give me a call."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly when he took it. "I never did ask, Doctor Frankland. What exactly is it that you do here?"

Bob already stepped away and quipped back cheerfully: "Oh, Mr Holmes, I would love to tell you – but then, of course, I'd have to kill you!"

Holmes' dry "That would be tremendously ambitious of you" seemed to finally spoil his good mood. "Tell me about Doctor Stapleton."

"Never speak ill of a colleague."

"Yet you'd speak well of one, which you're clearly omitting to do."

"I do seem to be, don't I?"

Joan followed the dialogue with a raised eyebrow, hoping she'd get some explanation later on. "I'll be in touch" Sherlock said, and turned away as Frankland called "Any time."

As they got closer to the rental Land Rover, Joan couldn't bear the unknown anymore. "So?"

"So?" Sherlock parroted back at her.

"Are you going to keep me in the dark? Who's Stapleton anyway?"

The Face of Mysterious Mystery was back on, to her great dismay. "The mother of little Kirsty and the murderer of Bluebell."

"Bl… the rabbit?!" She even stopped walking. "Did I coerce someone to falsify military records to investigate a kid's pet?" Sherlock smiled in silence and flipped his collar up. "Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?"

"Do what?" the detective asked, looking genuinely surprised.

"You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool." She waved a hand at him to indicate the general annoying behaviour and climbed into the car.

"I don't do that" he said with a confused frown, joining her inside the vehicle.

Joan rolled her eyes. "Yeah you do." As they drove past the guards and onto the main road, she couldn't help but grumble. "All this for a luminous rabbit."

Sherlock had apparently been waiting for any kind of prompt and happily obliged with a detailed account of his thought process: "Kirsty Stapleton, whose mother specialises in genetic manipulation. The rabbit was a specimen, probably with a fluorescent gene removed from the original carrier and spliced into it. Simple enough these days." He trailed off, two fingers of the left hand tapping a silent rhythm on the wheel.

"So…" Joan got quickly tired of waiting for the follow-up.

"So, we know that Doctor Stapleton performs secret genetic experiments on animals. The question is: has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?"

He sounded rather excited by the possibility, and the doctor looked at him with a small smile. "To be fair, that is quite a wide field." The surprised glance she got in return was quite satisfying.

# #

A/N: I love Cluedo :)