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.
Warning: It is getting... triggery at some point. Sorry. Also, language.
# #
Henry looked worse than in the morning, pale and shaky. Joan considered prescribing him a sleeping pill right then and there. This level of stress was not good on anybody. Unfortunately, Sherlock's genius plan of Let's bait the man-eating monster to come out and then stalk it to its lair didn't make the things more relaxing for their client.
"Don't worry" she said quietly to Henry while they climbed into the car. "It is unlikely that an animal would attack a group of people, and even if it does, we'll be able to subdue it."
"Yeah" the man agreed but didn't look any less anxious about their little expedition.
The dusk settled quickly, and they lit up their flashlights almost from the get-go. The forest was alive with its usual suspects (foxes, owls, mouses…) and Joan got momentarily distracted by a noise to the side of the trail. The moment was all the two men needed to disappear out of sight. Oh, come on… She tried to call out, but there was always a risk of spooking their monster by being too loud.
Joan flicked off the flashlight with a sigh, hoping to see Sherlock's or Henry's light between the trees. Nothing. Now what?
A light flickering in the distance caught her attention. Huh? Is it Morse? Here? She quickly fished out her notebook and switched on the torch. "U ... M ... Q ... R ... A." Huuuh? "Umqra." The hell? The doctor stared at the letters for the longest moment before snapping the notebook shut. Maybe Sherlock will get something out of this nonsense.
A quick look around reminded her that she was currently alone in the middle of the woods. If I find him, that is.
The trail led deeper into the forest, crafty roots and muddy puddles threatening to make the late hikers fall on their noses. Charming, just charming, Joan complained internally while dodging a branch. Where did they go anyway?
Her somewhat slow progress was halted by an eerie metallic thrumming sound. Now what? With the help of the flashlight, Joan managed to advance between the trees, the thrumming intensifying as she drew closer, soon joined by sharp metallic clinking. Watson's hand twitched towards the concealed gun. Then the rusty side of container appeared in the narrow tunnel of light produced by her torch, and she sighed in relief.
It was very short-lived, as something big rushed behind the trees, heading towards the trail. What the… Then an ominous howl rang through the forest, and Joan's heart skipped a beat. Damn, and I'm the only one with a gun. She took off running.
# #
After dropping Henry off at his house and settling him for the night, Joan drove back to the inn. She figured Sherlock would be in a thinking mode in their room, but he was snuggled in a chair in front of the fireplace instead. He didn't look like he was thinking either.
"Well, he is in a pretty bad way" she said, sitting in the second chair. "He's manic, totally convinced there's some mutant super-dog roaming the moors." Sherlock did not respond, which was nothing unusual, too many things were deemed too 'dull' for a verbal reaction nowadays, so she carried on, about the sale value of mutant dogs and the strange Morse code she picked up on the moor. When even the mysterious Umqra didn't warrant a comment, she finally noticed how pale and unsettled he looked. "Are you alright?" That didn't get a response either. Joan frowned. "Okay… We got pawprints, we all heard something. Maybe we should just look for whoever's got a big dog."
"Henry's right" Sherlock finally deigned to talk.
"About what?"
"I saw it too."
Oh gods, Joan's thoughts took a distinctively worried turn, I've never heard him so vulnerable. Momentarily startled by his intonation, Joan stumbled over the words. "You… what?"
"I saw it too, John." His eyes didn't leave the fire.
"Just… a minute." That doesn't make any sense. "You saw what?"
The absolute self-loathing in Sherlock's eyes as he met her gaze was staggering. "A hound, out there in the Hollow" he hissed. "A gigantic hound."
This… what?! Joan sat back in shock, not quite ready to say anything to that statement. Sherlock of all people can't be serious about a monster roaming the moors. Can he? "It… Alright. Right." He's really upset. He thinks he saw something, and there was something out there, I know that. "I believe you might have seen something, but let's stick to the facts."
"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true" the detective muttered in guise of an answer.
"What does it mean?" the doctor asked softly.
Sherlock leaned forward to pick up a half-empty glass of whisky. Has he been drinking? Sherlock?! I haven't seen him consume anything stronger than a beer yet! Joan frowned, the concern for her friend's health growing by the second. "Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid." The glass was shaking in his hand, painfully reminding Joan of her own experience with intermittent tremors. He took a sip of the liquid and held the glass towards the fire, observing the highlights shimmering through it.
"Sherlock?"
"Always been able to keep myself distant ..." he continued in an unsteady voice and took another drink from the glass. "Divorce myself from ... feelings. But look, you see ..." – the glass was held up again, with a disgusted grimace – "... body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions." The long-suffering glass was slammed on the table. "The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."
"Yeah, alright, just… take it easy." Sherlock was breathing heavily. He is terrified. Oh my god, how do I even start to help? He's like a fortress on a good day! She leaned forward and tried to choose the right words. "You will be alright. It happens to everyone. It was dark and scary, and you might have gotten yourself a bit worked up." She placed a calming hand on his elbow.
"Worked… up?" he repeated, unbelieving.
"It is perfectly understandable…"
"Me?!" Sherlock bit out a sarcastic laugh, shaking off her hand. "There's nothing wrong with me." His gaze flickered back to the fire, and something made him cringe, as if from a serious headache, bringing his hands to his temples.
"Sherlock…" He didn't react, blowing out breaths to steady himself. Joan started to consider bringing the sleeping pills into the conversation. "Sher…"
Suddenly, the man snapped. "THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"
In the ringing silence, Joan straightened up, wide-eyed. "You want me to prove it, yes?" her friend hissed angrily, before lapsing in a semblance of his usual quick deduction speech pattern. "We're looking for a dog, yes, a great big dog, that's your brilliant theory. Cherchez le chien. Good, excellent, yes, where shall we start?" His voice quickly became too harsh for a simple round of observations. "How about them?" he pointed to a couple sitting in the corner. "The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman. The answer's yes."
"Yes?" Joan echoed faintly.
"She's got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we're looking for."
"Oh, for god's sake…" Her disbelief prompted a quick-fire tirade, detailing his deductions in an increasingly frantic but quiet voice, both asking questions and replying to them. It would have been amazing if he wasn't in such a state. The monologue ended with: "I use my senses, John, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I've never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone."
The rant ended abruptly, and Joan realized she had never seen such fury in Sherlock's eyes directed at her. "Alright" she breathed out, shell-shocked. "Alright." She leaned back in the chair, gaze straying towards the fire in a desperate attempt to process what just happened. She didn't think she could handle to look at his face right now without yelling anyway. He's just out of it. Obviously. He's just lashing out, like always, right? "I mean, why would you listen to me. I'm just your friend."
The next words out of the detective's mouth were at a new level of vicious. "I don't have friends" he spat in disgust.
It hurt much more than she had expected. Of course, Sherlock had always made it perfectly clear that he was above such things as social niceties and normal relationships but hearing it spelled out was painful, especially after all the trouble they'd been through together. Just for him to declare that it was nothing more than a way to pass time. For a few seconds, Joan forgot how to breathe. "Naah" she managed to say quietly, eyes locked on his profile. "Wonder why?"
He didn't react at all, and Joan didn't wait for him to do so. She just got up and walked away, without causing a bigger fuss. Once outside, she stopped in the deserted parking lot, breathing heavily and trying to stem off the unbidden tears. God, it hurts to hear. Why am I reacting like this? She meandered towards the picnic tables set in the illuminated area, and fell on the bench, propping her head on her hands. She felt terrifyingly empty. Had I actually grown co-dependent on Sherlock? Is it why it hurts so bad? It was such a minor thing, compared to what happened in the last year or so, just words. But they were said in such way, that Watson could not just dismiss them.
Her thoughts kept running on tangents, not letting her come to a clear conclusion, or at least work out a plan. I need space, she finally decided. Being in Holmes' physical vicinity became painful. But I can't leave him alone like that, the better part of her thought.
"How do you feel about Devon?" she texted Lestrade.
It was nearing midnight, and he was probably asleep, but Greg was the only person she could think of that would actually understand. "Never been. Why?" he texted back within a minute.
"Grimpen village. Can you come?"
The DI called back immediately. "What's going on?" he started without preamble.
"We have a case, and… I'm not sure I can stay" she admitted in an uptight voice.
"What has he done now?" Greg sounded exasperated.
"It's not really… We went on recon in a dark forest at night, and he saw or heard something, and now he's worked up like you wouldn't believe."
"I've seen him high as a kite. Try me."
"Oh. Well…" She stumbled for words, suddenly feeling quite ridiculous with her woes. "He's angry, aggressive and frankly cruel. He said things that I can't just accept right now." Joan sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "Maybe I'm too wired up as well. But… If I end up snapping and leaving, can you come watch his back?"
There was a rustle of papers being moved to the side. "I'll go catch some sleep and start driving at 4 in the morning."
"Thank you" the doctor sighed in relief.
"You stuck with him for longer than anyone expected, John" the DI said gently. "I don't think you'll abandon ship now, but if Sherlock got you in that state, I want to personally punch him in the face."
That made her chuckle through her depressed haze. "Just a scolding would be enough. He cares for your opinion."
"Does he now?" Lestrade scoffed in disbelief.
"You'd be surprised" she smiled into the night.
"Fine. Let's test that theory." The background noise indicated that Greg was going through the open space, where several officers were pulling all-nighters. "See you in the morning, John."
"Drive safely, Greg."
The call disconnected, and Joan slumped over the table. Now that I called for back-up, I don't feel so gutted. Am I just making things needlessly complicated? Something caught her attention in the dark landscape – the flashing light she had seen earlier. Huh.
She glanced around. No one in sight. Oh well. Doesn't hurt to check. I can't just mop on a picnic table all night.
# #
Standing in the moor near a dogging site, watching the car rocking back and forth, Joan felt incredibly stupid. Why did I even… The moans in the car got louder. Oh geez. The former soldier quickly turned heels and marched back towards the inn. This is ridiculous.
Once she got out of the earshot of the vehicle, she slowed down her pace. I don't need to be anywhere anyway. Her phone disagreed with an incoming text. "Henry's therapist currently in Cross Keys Pub. SH" Oh, so now you need me? Whatever the world thought, Joan still had her pride. She wasn't going to drop everything at the first call of a man who just dismissed their whole friendship with a few words. Irritated, she stuffed the phone back in her pocket. It beeped two more times, but she didn't deign to look at the messages.
The walk was nice and long, and the nightly breeze was refreshing. Joan forced herself to enjoy the moment. She felt slightly better once she reached the inn and saw a man smoking at the picnic table she had vacated earlier.
She did not smoke, and frowned upon people who did, but tonight, Joan wanted to break habits. "Can I borrow one?" she asked.
The man blinked at her in surprise. "Sure." He held out a pack of Pall Mall.
"Thanks." He helped her lit it up, and they sat in silence for a moment. Joan managed not to choke on the bitter taste. She had tried smoking in high school, which was a faint memory at this point, and now remembered why she hadn't takenn to it.
"Louis. Louis Mortimer" he finally said, holding out a hand.
Oh. "Dr Joan Watson" she shook his hand with a smile. "You're Henry Knight's therapist, aren't you?"
Louis stared at her, bemused. "How do you…"
"I've met Henry this morning" she explained easily. "He came looking for help with a friend of mine, and here we are."
"Help? What kind of help?" he asked dubiously.
"Detective kind. I'm just a tag-along though."
They chatted for some time about Henry and Baskerville, without going into details, and Joan never mentioned Sherlock by name. "Are you staying at the inn then?" Louis ended up asking.
"Technically, yes." Joan put out the cigarette in the dirty ashtray. "But I got into a fight with my friend, so I think I'll just hang out here for the night."
"That's not right" the therapist frowned. "How big was your fight anyway?"
"Huge." She really didn't want to go into specifics.
"Why don't you come to my place? Better than sleeping in a parking lot."
Surprised by the offer, Joan looked at the man in a new light. He is attractive. And actually nice. And he is looking at me like that. Oh, to hell with it, who am I kidding? No over-thinking. Just cut loose for once. "That'd be incredibly nice. Let me grab a change of clothes."
She ducked into the inn, catching a glimpse of Sherlock still sulking by the fireplace. Grabbing some underwear and a shirt was a quick affair, and the doctor was out within five minutes. "Shall we?" she smiled at the man waiting for her by a grey sedan. Louis grinned happily in return.
While they were pulling away from Cross Keys, Joan saw Dr Frankland exiting the pub.
# #
Sherlock went to the room around two in the morning. His thoughts were in complete disarray, and neither alcohol or breathing exercises helped. He hoped Joan's sleeping pills would solve the problem. He was unpleasantly surprised to find the room empty. There were signs that Watson had been there since their return from the moors, but she left in a hurry. Having more pressing matters to attend, namely trying to get some order into the mind palace, Sherlock dismissed the curious absence of his blogger and darted to the bathroom, where the toiletry bag had been left.
He popped a Zimovane with a glass of tap water, changed into his pyjamas and climbed into one of the beds. The inexplicable terror brought by the creature in the Hollow kept clinging to every articulate thought and prevented him from actually thinking about what happened. Sherlock tried to separate from the thrice-damned emotion, but it was like trying to fully excise a cancer that had metastasized. After much effort, he managed to clean up enough mental space to firmly conclude that Joan had been right, a mutant super-dog could not be real. But I saw it. Therefore, his eyes had been tricked.
With the reassuring thought, the medicine finally worked, and the detective slipped into a restless slumber.
The dawn woke him up, since he didn't bother to draw the curtains. While taking a hot shower, his mind cleared up enough to actually formulate a plan. Content with the conclusions, Sherlock dressed up and left the inn, in the direction of Henry Knight's house. His client was haggard and clearly distressed, but it was all going to be solved soon enough, so why bother? Holmes grabbed what he came for and left like a whirlwind.
Now, all he needed was Joan… And his brain chose that moment to finally process what had been said the night before. Ah, shit. Fact: I had been aggressively rejecting all contact. Fact: It is not unusual. Fact: John tried to alleviate my troubled state. Fact: I had been harsh. Fact: It is not unusual. Fact: John did not return to the room all night. Hypothesis: She had taken offense.
Extracting audio file: "I don't have friends." Extracting visual files.
"Agh." Sherlock stopped short in his tracks, finally remembering the devasted look on Joan's face before she left. He even remembered that she stopped breathing for about seven seconds in shock at his outburst. He resumed his walk, battling a growing sense of guilt. Hypothesis confirmed. Estimating chances of John leaving for London last night. Fact: She had not replied to my messages. Fact: Most of her things are still in the room. Conclusion: She is still in Grimpen. Hypothesis: She had spent the night outside. Fact: John took a change of clothes with her. Hypothesis rejected. Conclusion: John spent the night with one of the residents. (Unexpected input detected, investigation pending). Fact: John was not at Henry's house. Conclusion: John spent the night with an unidentified person.
He had just rounded the small church when he noticed a welcome sight. Joan was sitting under a war memorial in the graveyard, jolting down something in her notepad. Secretly relieved that Watson was not, in fact, at an unknown location, Sherlock changed his route. The gravelled footpath announced his cautious approach.
Joan looked up from her notes with an unreadable expression and started to tuck the notebook in her pocket. There was no sign of actual anger on her face, which Sherlock took as a good sign. However, words did not come easily to him as he came to a halt in front of his blogger.
"Did you, er, get anywhere with that Morse code?" he asked, trying to prove that he had at least listened despite his messed-up state last night.
"No" Joan said curtly and got up. She didn't even look at him.
Fact: She changed her shirt. Conclusion: She had not spent the night outside.
Meanwhile, the doctor was already walking away. Starting to feel a little panicky (what if she doesn't forgive me this time?), Sherlock hurried after her. "U, M, Q, R, A, wasn't it? UMQRA."
"Nothing." Her voice grew more biting. Wrong move? The detective wondered absently, as his mind tried to analyse the strange combination of letters.
"U.M.Q…"
"Drop it" Joan ordered more firmly, glancing over her shoulder. "I thought I was on to something. I wasn't."
She explains. That's good, right? "Sure?"
"Yes." Watson had stopped near the gate, watching him with an affected indifference.
"How about Louis Mortimer? Did you get anywhere with him?"
To his great surprise, Joan's cheeks reddened up. "None of your business."
Sherlock's eyebrows went up against his best judgement. "Nice" he commented on autopilot. "Did you get any information?"
She narrowed her eyes and turned away. "You being funny now?"
Disregarding his mixed feeling about Watson's night-time adventures for the moment, Sherlock sincerely admitted: "Thought it might break the ice a bit."
Her response was cold and to the point. "Funny doesn't suit you. I'd stick to ice."
It made him stop breathing for a second, and he wondered if Joan had felt the same way last night. "John…"
"It's fine." She didn't stop walking away though.
"No, wait. What happened last night ..." – words were flying away, and Sherlock desperately tried to grasp them – "Something happened to me; something I've not really experienced before ..." I need to explain this, I need her to understand 'why'.
"Yes, you said: fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said."
She doesn't understand! In another attempt to prevent the doctor from walking away, the detective caught up to her and grabbed her arm. She looked back at him blankly, not even glaring as she usually would when he got bossy. "No-no-no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night."
Joan frowned. "You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of monster."
"No, I can't believe that." He grimaced at the thought of how long it took him to come to this conclusion. "But I did see it, so the question is: how? How?"
Her expression was one of polite disbelief. "Yes. Yeah, right, good. So, you've got something to go on, then? Good luck with that." With a shrug, she managed to liberate her arm and resumed her walk.
What? No, no, come on! "Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it." Joan froze in her tracks and half-turned to actually glare at him. "I don't have friends." She gritted her teeth, apparently restraining herself from responding. Was it really that cruel? I didn't know. "I've just got one." And just like that the hurt melted into a soft surprise as Joan processed the statement.
The blogger looked away with a confused frown. "Right." She nodded and started to walk away again, and the detective sighed in relief. Thank god, she'll forgive me.
It was in this moment the analysis he had running in the background found a new lead. Aha! "John? John!" The endorphins associated with an interesting development in a case kicked in, and Sherlock almost ran after the retreating doctor. "You are amazing! You are fantastic!"
She glanced at him with an uncertain smile. "Yeah, don't overdo it."
The lukewarm reception of his compliments didn't deter Holmes from continuing with the outburst of honest appreciation. "You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable."
"Uhm… What?"
The detective took out his own notebook and started writing in it while walking. "Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others."
"I just knew it wouldn't last" Joan grumbled, sounding more amused than upset. "Go on: what have I done that's so bloody stimulating?" Instead of answering directly, he held out the notebook, with HOUND scribbled in all caps. "Yeah?" Joan looked sceptical.
Time to enlighten her then, Sherlock decided gleefully, adding the dots on the page. "But what if it's not a word? What if it is individual letters?"
"You think it's an acronym?" She sounded interested at last.
Perfectly pleased with the mystery at this point of the investigation, Holmes grinned. "Absolutely no idea but…" Fact: Lestrade is in the pub. Fact: We're not in London. Fact: He is sun-tanned (conclusion: holidays, beach, boring). Fact: Lestrade is in the pub! The grin slipped from his face as quickly as it came.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
# #
In retrospect, Sherlock's attempts at an apology and his absolute inability to stay focused on one thing for longer than five minutes, were rather hilarious.
Lestrade tilted his head in question at seeing them talking amicably, and Joan shrugged in reply, in a What can I do way. The whole exchange was unnoticed by Mr I-observe-everything, who was too busy fuming about the presumed Mycroft's meddling. He got himself worked up to the epic: "Is that why you're calling yourself Greg?"
"That's his name" Joan pointed out, torn between laughing and facepalming.
"Is it?" The frown told her that the memory slip was actually genuine. He deleted it, didn't he?
"Yes – if you'd ever bothered to find out." Greg sounded salty. "Look, I'm not your handler ..." – he took a moment to pick up his beer. "And I don't just do what your brother tells me."
"Especially since we didn't go with your brilliant plan of using Mycroft's ID yesterday" the doctor chimed in.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "That still doesn't answer my question."
Oh, let's get it over with. "I called him" the doctor sighed. The suspicion morphed into a confused surprise. "Last night. Just in case." The surprise got a distinct flavour of hurt now. "Anyway" she pressed on, already feeling guilty for the kicked puppy look on Sherlock's face. "A nice scary inspector from Scotland Yard who can put in a few calls might come in very handy." She fished out the Undershaw Meat Supplies receipt out of her notebook. "Here. Didn't know if it was relevant; starting to look like it might be. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant." To Lestrade's credit, he easily agreed to some intimidation tactics, even if he didn't know shite about what was going on. Sherlock made a dramatic pause before reluctantly acquiescing to the plan. "Great. Now I have to swing by the room. Sherlock, maybe bring Greg up to speed on the case?"
# #
When Joan disappeared upstairs, Lestrade rounded up on the consultant. "What the hell have you done?"
Startled by the sharp tone of his voice, Sherlock took a cautious step back. "What do you mean?"
"We all know that you can be a prick, but even I can't imagine what you could have said to make Watson consider getting the hell out."
Getti… What?! "What" he blinked owlishly at the irate DI.
"No, you know what, I don't care. Have you apologized?"
"Yes" Sherlock gulped. "Yes, I did."
"Good, there is some common sense in that head." Lestrade seemed a little less angry. "Next time she calls in the middle of the night because you've acted like an idiot, I will punch you."
The younger man attempted to shrug it off as he always did, but it came out subdued. "Duly noted." John was going to leave. He didn't quite realize how close they had been to a total disaster.
"Hm. Let's see about that meat then." Greg slapped the small bell on top of the bar. "Shop!"
# #
By the time Joan got down, Sherlock and Greg had already started on the inn-keepers. Technically, Lestrade was leading the 'interrogation', and Holmes hovered in the background, preparing coffee of all things. Deciding to ignore the unusual behaviour, she stopped at the door, listening in.
"These records go back nearly two months" Lestrade said with a very convincing frown.
She missed the couple's answer, as Sherlock presented her with a cup. "What's this?" she took it out of surprise.
"Coffee" he replied quietly. "I made coffee."
That's new. "You never make coffee."
The man glanced warily at the DI's back, then back at her with a remnant of 'kicked puppy' look. "I just did. Don't you want it?"
"Alright" Joan drawled slowly. "Thanks." The smile he offered looked slightly shy and forced. She took a sip and grimaced. "I don't take sugar…" Sherlock looked away with such a hurt expression that she had no choice than to continue drinking. "But it's fine. Thanks", she repeated, forcing herself to swallow down the too sweet beverage.
Meanwhile, Greg was getting somewhere with the terrified inn-keepers. "Where do you keep it?"
"There's an old mineshaft. It's not too far. It was all right there."
Sherlock immediately picked up on the clue and swept towards them like a hawk. "Was?"
Gary the manager sighed heavily. "We couldn't control the bloody thing. It was vicious. And then, a month ago, Billy took him to the vet and, er ... you know."
After thoroughly reprimanding of the two 'businessmen', they all stomped out of the bar, Sherlock hanging back for whatever reason. "Thanks for coming" Joan offered, blinking at the sudden sunlight outside.
"You're welcome. Did you sort it out?"
"Kinda. He was praising and insulting me at the same time when you showed up."
"Did he apologize?" Greg asked with strange insistence.
"He actually did" Joan smiled a bit.
The conversation cut short when the man himself strode out of the bar. "So, you believe him about having the dog destroyed?"
"No reason not to" Sherlock replied airily.
"Well, hopefully there's no harm done" Lestrade shrugged. "Not quite sure what I'd charge him with anyway. I'll have a word with the local Force." He then nodded and pressed on the car key in his hand. The red vehicle a couple parking spots away beeped in greeting. "Right, that's that, then. Catch you later." He grinned. "I'm enjoying this! It's nice to get London out of your lungs!"
Once he drove off, Joan turned towards Sherlock, who had been staring into space. "So, it was probably their dog people saw out on the moor. A normal dog. But that wasn't what you saw."
"No" he agreed absently before re-focusing on the present. "It was immense, had burning red eyes and it was glowing, John. Its whole body was glowing." The memory seemed to disturb him more than he let out, as an involuntary shudder ran through the lanky frame.
"Right" she frowned in concern. "What now?"
"I've got a theory, but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it."
"Alright" Joan nodded. "Let me call Major Barrymore then. He wasn't too thrilled about us snooping around, but he might be a bit nicer after sleeping on it."
# #
Joan stepped into the lab without much worries. She was politely curious, having missed the tour last time, but not overly so. Genetic experimentation always creeped her out a little, and she tried to avoid any mention of these research topics as much as possible. She advanced slowly inside the large space, spotting two scientists gathering their notes and heading for a side door. Before she could call out to them, one had turned off the main lights and both disappeared behind the door. Friendly fellows, the inner voice huffed, unimpressed. The tamed lights and the silence became rather oppressive. I am an adult, I won't be spooked. But where is everyone anyway? They're supposed to work by shifts.
Putting that mystery aside, Watson carefully looked around. But there was nothing of particular notice. So… Sherlock wants me to investigate. This is never a good sign for me, but maybe – just maybe – he expects some insight from my military experience. The former soldier sighed and marched to the door at the far end of the lab. If I remember correctly, this is where the sensitive machines are supposed to be. The security pass beeped gleefully, and the door clicked open. Joan ignored completely the hand-written warning about the cold, assuming it was just one of inside jokes among the lab personnel.
The smallish lab was empty as well. Seriously, where is everyone? She snooped around without much conviction, eyeing sceptically the leaking pipe (come on, you're a top-grade base, call a plumber) before returning back to the main lab.
Just as the door shut behind her, all lights and some more suddenly flared alive. "Ow! Fuck!" Joan ducked to the left, trying to avoid the projector light, but her vision was already severely impaired. "What the hell?" At that moment, a fire alarm decided to join the party. "Agh!" Not normal. Need to get out. Moving blindly, the doctor somehow reached the door leading to the lifts and swiped the card.
Wee. "ACCESS DENIED." Whaaat?! Starting to get a slimy feeling of dread in her gut, Joan swiped the card again, with the same result. It worked perfectly fine just now!
Before she could decide to smash the bloody pad into pieces, the lights and the noise suddenly cut, plunging her into an artificial dusk coupled with deafening silence. "Aw, shit…" Her ears were ringing, and her vision still swam. Blinking didn't help much with the after-images. The shadows appeared to move around the corners. I am not freaking out, Joan tried to convince herself.
That determination held for about five seconds, until something rattled to her right. Calm down, Watson. Maybe the scientists came back. "Hello?" No one responded. Ok, maybe not. Having recovered most of the vision back, she moved slowly towards the noise, not daring to switch on the flashlight to avoid detection by unidentified threats. The red emergency lights gave enough light to move around without fearing to hit a wall.
Feeling more and more restless, Joan cautiously inspected the draped cages near the exit. One was empty and open, the second contained a very angry monkey that scared the life out of her. Breathing heavily now, she pulled off the sheet from the third cage. It was empty, but the sight of metal bars being pulled aside by something was not reassuring at all. Then another something (or the same one, who knew) decided to make a noise behind her back. It's a monkey, it's just a monkey… she tried to persuade herself while half-running towards the door two scientists had used. Her brain was getting all panicky, far more than it should be, and she stopped noticing that it was abnormal at some point during the run.
The second door refused to open. Twice. "Come ooon." The feeling of dread grew, smothering all other thoughts. She pulled out her phone and speed dialled Sherlock. The rings appeared unacceptably loud in the silent space. And useless, since the man didn't pick up. "Damn!"
Joan tried to control her breathing (I will not hyperventilate, I will not…). Something invisible pawed around, claws clinkering against the tiles, and her breath hitched. Switching gears into survival mode, Captain Watson ducked behind a counter and pulled out the gun. I will not be maimed by a genetic experiment.
Her thought process derailed when the thing growled, a low, menacing rumble, that made her think of helicopters. The unsettling feeling of danger grew stronger, never associated with white labs in her mind. Other images, distorted memories were being summoned by the feverish imagination. Another growl. Helices in the hot air.
Suddenly, there was the taste of sand on her teeth, and the warm breeze on her skin. What… No, can't be real. The noise intensified, and Joan instinctively looked up, expecting to see the med-evac. What the… Loud steps outside of her field of vision. They're coming, her brain supplied, dead certain of its conclusions. You're surrounded.
The remnants of rational thinking abandoned ship, and Joan found herself in one of her nightmares, stuck behind enemy lines, alone. Gotta get out. The gun in her hand was a familiar, reassuring weight. Straining her ears, she tried to triangulate the patrol's position. They just turned a corner. Go!
There was a thin layer of dust on the ground, and moss was growing from the once pristine counters. Red emergency lights became the setting sun. The reality tried to peak through the bad dream, but Joan didn't notice. She just needed to get out.
The soldier darted towards the best cover she could find, the empty cage, and pulled the sheet back to conceal her presence. There were angry shouts outside, and flashes of bonfires, or shots fired, she couldn't tell anymore. Farsi, they're talking Farsi. They found someone. They just killed someone, someone from the squad. Gods, who? How? She leaned against the far wall, trying to breathe quietly.
Then a shrill sound cut through the nightmare, startling her. Phone. Joan quickly fished it out of the pocket, terrified it would give up her hiding spot. Wait, phone? Here?!
"Where are you?"
She first thought that Sherlock's voice was a hallucination. "Sherlock…?"
"John? Where are you?"
The angry shouts continued behind the sheet, shadows getting closer and closer. Sherlock shouldn't be able to reach me in the desert. "Something's wrong…" she whispered. "Get me out, Sherlock. You have to get me out. Please."
"All right. I'll find you" he said calmly. "Keep talking."
"I can't." Joan readjusted her grip on the gun. "They'll find me."
"Keep talking" he insisted. "What can you see?" The noise, the steps, someone's crying, who, where… "John?"
"Yeah?" she whispered back, just as her knees gave out and she slid down the wall, gun laying uselessly by her side. Cage, lab, desert, sand, something's wrong, wrong…
"What can you see?"
I… why… "I don't know. I don't know anymore, get me out, please…" The helicopter approached, and suddenly the Taliban were inside the cage, white clothes, faces hidden in dancing shadows, and she couldn't find the stregth to shoot at them. "No…"
"Stay calm, stay calm. Can you see it?" Sherlock's voice was urgent, expecting something.
Now there was a small girl, no older than six, green eyes, blond hair in two messy ponytails, tears painting strange patterns on her dirty face. One of the enemies put hand on the child's shoulder. Joan kept staring in these precious eyes, silently pleading the kid to be strong. "Get me out…" she begged one last time before her hand slipped down, phone clattering to the ground.
"John?" Sherlock's distant voice didn't keep at bay the unfurling horror anymore.
She tried to whisper the child's name, but only her dry lips moved, no sound came out.
There was one blinding moment in which she couldn't see, couldn't hear, and then Joan was left alone with the child's corpse, the noise of combat swirling and rumbling around them. As she looked into the green eyes, dead, dead, dead, she could not bear it.
Joan screamed.
# #
A/N: Yeah, well... I am evil.