Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. Obviously.
John follows, automatically taking the rearguard. Not that it should be necessary – the brilliant playacting of minutes ago should ensure that they'll get out of here safe. But he can't help the urge of having his (what? They defy explanation)…his Sherlock's back. At least not until they'll be safely out of base. Back to the village, if not London.
The sleuth keeps investigating to the last second, trying to get Frankland to open up about his colleagues. The man is a jokester, why shouldn't he have a quip about everyone? But finally the researcher behaves like someone employed in a secret base, and refuses to say anything at all – though implying he doesn't like the scientist they've met. The one who is, apparently, involved in the mysterious case of the fairy bunny, rather than the one of the hell hound. It wouldn't surprise John entirely if he'd discover that the NATO is really upset about Bluebell. Well, it would surprise him, but things would start making sense.
What do you make with a luminescent bunny anyway? Beyond having the cutest table lamp in the world, he supposes, if you persuade him to stay still. People are using public funds…basically to prove that the splicing can be done? If the little Kirsty contacted them recently, her mum shouldn't have had time to engineer a murder hound yet, should she? Is this their prof that Henry is insane, after all? Or why is the detective insisting about Stapleton?
When their escort has finally left them alone, at the car, John asks. The more he knows, the more he'll be able to act accordingly. After all, not everyone is born with BAFTA-winning talents that need absolutely no honing. He doesn't even want to offer his input. He just wants to be able to comply better with whatever his partner's plan is. And hopefully not cause them all to be jailed with an accidental mistake, in case Sherlock – now with the cover of Frankland's avowal – decides to plunge back into Baskerville's depths.
Of course he receives no answer. Far it be from the world's only consulting detective to explain himself to any ordinary human, much less his not-good-enough soulmate. Well, unless Irene lied, but… the hypothesis does make a scary amount of sense. All John's worth is a smug smirk and a – purposeful, he'd bet his whole pension on it – popping of the collar. Does the sleuth really think it would work to distract him from the answers he seeks by flaunting what he could have, if only he weren't…stupid? Damaged goods? All of the above?
The blogger snaps, accidentally praising the detective's beauty in a way that will leave any eavesdroppers persuaded that all his not-gay declarations are utter balderdash… but there's no need to hide that from Sherlock, is there? Not when his…soulmate is using the bloody gorgeousness he's blessed with on purpose. (He denies it, of course. He plays clueless beauty to a t. But he's just proven what a perfect liar he is, so it's not like John is forced to believe him.)
Which is why he insists on it later, in the car. If Sherlock was afraid of someone accidentally eavesdropping on them, here should be safe. Unless he suspects that someone bugged their car while it was parked? But with their cover holding for most of the time, they wouldn't dare to counter-bug their supervisors' car, would they? Not if they don't have such dark secrets that they should be afraid of something much worse than being overheard. More of a 'misplaced' mine to keep their practice safe.
But the Major sounded arrogant and annoyed, not afraid or threatened… unless Barrymore is in the dark, too… Christ, John needs to stop working himself into a nervous breakdown before they even reach Grimpen. Whether they've created a hell hound or not (and common sense would say no), their client being terrified is enough. This is the UK military, not doctor Mengele's camp.
The detective does reply, so at least he doesn't share John's concerns…he just confirms his private ponderings about Stapleton's possible endeavours. Now, how are they supposed to discover how far her research has gone…and how long ago? They shouldn't forget the timeline. This is not just a 'murder dogs have been created'. Their theory – well, Henry's theory – is 'murder dogs have been created and unleashed upon the defenceless public decades ago'. If they were ready so long ago, John should have seen some in Afghanistan, shouldn't he? Unless they really proved themselves untrainable…in which case more stupid tourists would have fallen prey to the wild beasts in the moor, after the death of Henry's dad.
About Henry, they'll have to go see him and admit that they've not made much progress still. Though Sherlock's outlandish excuse about the NATO might be useful now, since they've accidentally stumbled on Bluebell…well, his "mum".
Once they get at the address their client has given them, John breathes in and thanks God that Sherlock is as posh as they come. He would never have guessed that the trembling wreck Henry was could buy their flat and possibly the street, too. In his experience, money brought self-confidence, even arrogance. The consulting detective certainly confirms that pattern. John is still wondering why someone with his wardrobe looked for a flatmate at all…but honestly, probably Mycroft is behind it all.
The doctor has learned not to let himself be cowed by anyone, but he can't help being ill at ease. Oh well. He'll just let the sleuth do the talking. Sherlock certainly doesn't get the urge to wonder if he's even allowed past the main door.
The fact that Henry still looks up to them, as if they're his saviours, and behaves as if his money is something that just didn't enter his brain…not even an afterthought, just a fact of life, like the sky being blue, is helpful too to settle John's nerves. The blogger really hopes they will manage to help, not because they will probably receive a huge recompense, but because there's still something youthful in Henry – despite him being not that younger than them – that makes him want to fix him, like he would a lost kid.
Sherlock, apparently, does not share his urge to care for the young man. Possibly because he can be plenty childish himself? The sleuth has definitely never seemed a parental figure. If anything, he seems to delight in shocking poor Henry further. Seriously, the poor man scrounged another shadow of a clue out of his nightmares, and the consulting detective needs to offer the darkest interpretation of them all? True, they're possibly discussing a murder, but…well, if Sherlock worked in a hospital, John would rip him a new one about his bedside manner.
He should be used to this, of course. It's not the first time that Sherlock shocks clients. Heck, it's probably the very reason the sleuth allows him to tag along at all – that and his gun, of course. Still, his attitude is particularly irksome. Because he's recently discovered that his flat/soul…mate is as dismissive of him as of boring clients? If he was honest with himself, very probably.
Still, he does not question the detective's interpretation, like he wouldn't want anyone doubting a diagnosis of his. Instead, in an attempt to reassure their client – the man looks like he needs it – he declares, "Sherlock has a plan." As if it were fact. He really believes it is fact. If anything is given, it's that the detective's brain never rests, especially on a case. That surely would hatch some idea of what moves are needed to solve this mystery, wouldn't it?
It turns out that the world's only consulting detective does indeed have a plan. One that makes John want to scream. He should have expected it, really. The sleuth has never been anything but insanely reckless, ignoring basic safety precautions. Some people would say that is what John is for…to make sure his mad ideas do not result in the detective's premature burial.
Offering human bait to a possible murderous wild beast (though John can't help but hope that it there is an alternative explanation) is not a plan for anyone but Sherlock. Offering already traumatised bait should be so obviously wrong – Henry looks about ready to pass out – that no one in their right mind would suggest it. If John had mentioned such a plan to his superiors to flush out the enemy – despite all his brothers in arms being as sane as soldiers went – he would have got the dressing down of his life, and rightly so!
Sometimes, he can't help but wish that Sherlock had, at any point in his life, received some sort of structure by an authority or another. It would have taught him a bit of self-preservation…and hopefully other people's, too. His spiteful soulmate's brain – as much as it is a blessing for so many – made him able to run circles around anyone who should have been tasked with his education.
Which leaves his blogger trying to reason with the consulting detective. As if that's a thing that can ever happen. John doesn't yell, and he gives himself points for that. He tries to be firm and put boundaries…He has experiences with training – his men, and he's practically been the one to housebreak the pup that Mike Stamford has smuggled into their dormitory at uni – and he knows that raging does not work.
Unsurprisingly, he fails in the end. There's a huge problem with making Sherlock see sense. He cannot undermine him in front of their client. And the detective can talk circles around anyone, making the most rash plans seem perfectly reasonable. Tragically, while John maintains that this is not a good idea, not at all, he can't deny that it is the most expedient one. Not that one would say that there's a rush to solve a twenty years old murder, but if that will help Henry's sanity…
The sleuth brings up the shrink's suggestion to revisit the crime scene, too. John wants to snap that no mental health professional would endorse inviting an attack, and they're still not certain that nothing is roaming the moors, but he can't. Because of course the detective reads it off him before he can open his mouth, and adds, "You'll be with us, won't you? You have a gun, and the best aim I've ever seen. We'll be perfectly safe."
John can only nod at that. Damn it. They're going to play sitting…no, moving ducks. Let's hope for the best. And of course, to make mattes more frustrating, their outing is planned for twilight – and with the season it is, dark will fall quickly. Wandering in the dark with an hyper-excitable, traumatised young man and a consulting detective that has no idea at all about the more elementary safety precautions. With the chance of a genetically modified dog created for the army sniffing them out – though hopefully that is all Henry's fevered imagination.
Even if nothing of the sort is real, this is not the sort of leisurely stroll John would normally look forward to…but the other option is to leave two not entirely normal men out there. That is a recipe for disaster if the doctor knows one. He silently scolds himself for thinking two not entirely sane menat first. Sherlock might be…peculiar, certainly, but not batshit crazy. Though honestly, if the sleuth was less suspicious towards the whole medical category, John would be very tempted to have him assessed. But he can't blame him for not wanting anyone messing around with that brilliant brain of his.
Which is how they end up walking around the moor –in the dark – with John faithfully following the other two, illegal gun in his pocket, for every eventuality. Hyper-aware himself, army training demanding him to check his surroundings obsessively…while the detective seems more interested in getting as deep into the place as it's possible in the least possible time, these long legs of his carrying him on the uneven terrain. Their flashlights seem to make things worse, awakening shadows that seem to want to pounce on them. But it's nothing. He knows the difference between a rock or a branch's shadow and a monster's. He's not a kid anymore.
Sudden light, though…that stops him. Who is there? Other monster hunters?...Or someone from the base who decided to conduct experiments outside of it? If so, it could solve their case…and it's also not something you want to accidentally stumble upon. Definitely not.
So John observes the inconstant flashes, trying to figure out what it means. Heck, they could also be a form of communication. Not that now – with mobile phones and all – it would be necessary, but maybe someone is nostalgic. Or they're afraid of the electronic communication being intercepted, and think that nobody will notice a random light that could be brought by tourists instead. If it is Morse, though, it's not any acronym he recognises. He turns to ask the detective if he can figure anything out, or maybe Mycroft shared some code…and that's when he notices that he's the only one who stopped. His companions are God knows where. Fuck. He's not much of a bodyguard, is he?
For his part, Sherlock is really wishing that the killer dog would end up not being a mere hallucination. Yep, it would make for a rather mad night, being chased by the bloodthirsty mutt. But it would also a)finish the case (he has full confidence in John's perfect aim…the former captain has proven it too many times to count from their first day on); b)interrupt the awkward conversation that is going on.
He's trying to gather more clues, should he ever need to go back to the Baskerville base…which, for his sanity and the manageability of his libido, he really hopes will not be necessary. But apparently his client has mistaken a questioning for a light-hearted conversation…possibly even to take his mind off the anxiety evoked by the ghastly scenery. As if his goal was not to solve a murder, but to cheer the boy up. Henry is definitely too used to people catering to his wellbeing. It reminds the sleuth of some of the more obnoxious of Mycroft's…acquaintances, because friends would be definitely too strong a word, and that does not help his disposition towards his client.
Henry's blindness to his own life events – especially when he's obsessing over his past so much – is also beyond frustrating. Sherlock would be tempted to cut him down with a few choice words, but the last thing he needs is the young man having a mental breakdown and scaring away all wildlife all the way to London, which he seems perfectly capable to do.
Not questioning a friendship between a conspiracy nut and a researcher of the base the other denounced as the root of all evil? Especially when one of the two was killed? True, Henry maintains that it was an escaped experiment…but he should at least have considered the option that it was not. That – if it was some sort of dog being enhanced for the army – and, frankly, even more so if the hellhound was a fake memory, a child's attempt to make sense of events too big for him, it happened on purpose.
What united the two men, despite their position on opposing fronts? Did they really never 'talk shop'? Frankland seems all too happy to joke around – had he accidentally revealed something he shouldn't have? And how can anyone with a brain not ponder these questions?
Instead of being ashamed of accepting the most suspicious things as given facts of life, Henry dares to turn the tables on him. Likening his dad and Frankland's far-fetched relationship to the one the detective has with his blogger. As if he knew anything at all about them. He's seen them for…what? Half an hour in all? And yet, the man feels entitled to judge them.
Is it so obvious that they are mismatched? That John should be anywhere far, far from him? Sherlock gives himself points for not screaming at his client that he really, really doubts that his dad and Frankland were actually soulmates but decided to ignore it because of an obvious incompatibility that should not have existed.
After all, this is their own private issue, which they are…well, not working on, how do you do with him being a freak, but dealing their own way. Ignoring the fact is totally a way of dealing with it. The sleuth hightly doubts that John would be happy with him exposing their actual relationship to all and sundry.
The only points his client's gets are for not calling the consulting detective a freak out loud, even if he's undoubtedly thought so. Not that his voice trailing off in embarrassed silence is much better. Though, it's no surprise that the man is completely dumb to everything going on around him, if he deems John 'straightforward'. His blogger has so many layers carefully wrapped under his jumpers that Sherlock doesn't think he will ever be able to figure him out completely.
When so much stupid is in the air, you can't blame the detective to wish for anything to interrupt them, hungry, lethal genetic experiments included. He's this close to giving it all up as a bad job. Being bored out of his skull would be better than having perfect strangers smile and judge his relationship with John. As if the smile made the implied, "You shouldn't be together in a sensible world," any better. The sudden turn of the conversation is making Sherlock taste bile and – what's worse – distracting him from the case. He's supposed to be finding clues. Instead, he's obsessing – once again – about John. The hellhound might well sneak on him now, so distracted he is.
…Well, the good thing is that the hound is not feeling sneaky today. Not at all. But Henry suddenly gasps, and it sounds like he would be whimpering if only he had enough breath left in his lungs. As for Sherlock…he's starkly reminded of when he was ten, yelling at his brother, "I hate you! I wish that you'd just be hit by a truck and die, or something." It was about Mycroft curbing his experiments entailing flames…which were, frankly, most of them. Instead of getting angry, yelling back, or even threatening punishment, he got out and came back with a copy of the Labyrinth, which Sherlock was required to sit through. The lesson was supposed to be 'careful what you wish for'. What the young boy got from it was that girls were stupid and David Bowie looked kind of awesome. To this day, he hasn't entirely changed opinion about either issue, though of course he has adjusted it.
But careful what you wish for would definitely be a good tagline for this whole case. Even the best moments are ruined by his own bitterness, and now…now there's this thing in front of him. Only it's not there. It can't be there. No matter how much Baskerville's scientists play around, mixing genes from this and that, there's simply no way they have managed to create that. Yep, sure, the body could easily be obtained. It looks like a Plott Hound on steroids. Possibly mixed with a Great Dane…and a horse. And God knows what. It's the head that makes the sleuth's wide open eyes narrow in distrust. Not because of the yellow, predator eyes, or the bloody saliva dripping from its maw. Not even because it's obviously wolfish.
No, because it's a badly reproduced attempt at a wolf mask…he's already seen that. Complete of hairy mane and enraged furrows. Not at the zoo, or on a BBC documentary. The last October, John had decided that he would subject his flatmate to another of his 'educational' movie nights. True, Halloween wasn't a big celebration in London. But the former soldier was clearly missing his army friends. "The Americans got us into it, obviously. You see, a clearly fake supernatural scary tale can be a nice distraction from the actual dangers you cannot delve on," he admitted. So, of course, if John was in the mood for 'Dog Soldiers' (soldiers, and werevolves, and a plot that actually sounded like something the late Mr. Knight would have concocted), Sherlock had agreed with a shrug.
So no, there's no way that the thing he's seeing is an actual experiment, failed or not. It's simply too similar. If the stupid movie was actually a documentary, it would never be allowed to get out. God knows he's had his share of bad trips, and weird trips, and silly trips. This would be par for the course – especially with Henry at his side shaking like a leaf and the ideas the young man planted in his brain since that morning at Baker Street.
But he's not taken any drugs. At least not that he is aware of. But he must have, doesn't he? He tries to blink the vision away, but it doesn't work. Which might mean it's true. No, no, it makes no sense. It just means he's taken more drugs than he even suspected and – mind palace or not – he can't take the helm of this hallucination. After a few really horrific trips, he'd discovered lucid dreaming, and usually…well, he might not be able to control things entirely, but he could steer them to a point.
The growling, drooling, furious monster does not lunge at them – but he also refuses to change at all. His brain can't create a pink collar for it. Why can't he? And where the fuck is John? John would shoot him down – it was the whole point of this outing – if the thing is real. Which no, no, it can't be. The sleuth shakes his head vehemently, but the thing is still there. And still, despite all his attempts to comfort himself or reason it down, fucking terrifying. There. He admits it. He generally likes dogs, but not when they look like they just jumped out of the depths of hell itself.
He wants to whimper himself. He wants to call for help. No, don't be stupid, if Henry realises he's just as shaken as his companion, he'll lose every credit. He's supposed to be the one with a brain – and capable to use it. Why is he suddenly useless. Again, where is John? He can't gallop away like he'd like to, he'll ever look ridiculous or make the beast's hunting drive kick in, but his flight-or-fight (and let's be honest, there's no way to fight that thing) instincts are in overdrive. He needs to get away – slowly. He needs John to deal with this. Help. (He can't voice it. This is not true. Again, repeat it to yourself – this is not true. Someone dosed you with a really awful batch. Who?)
They do find John, backtracking their steps. The sheer fact that he's abandoned them is…yesterday, Sherlock would have called it out of character (if nothing else, the man is loyal) but now he's wondering if it wasn't done on purpose. Throwing his defective soulmate to the wolves. No one would probably blame him, either. No, no…his brain is running itself in circles, nor at his best. He cannot trust his deductions at the moment. Which just about kills him.
Seeing his companion flitter about their obviously distressed client – doctor's instincts, he supposes – while ignoring him just because he isn't screaming his head off, and instead lying through his teeth (quite patently, he thinks)...if only to himself, the sleuth will admit it hurts. Instead of running up to his room and slamming the door (honestly, he's not even sure his blogger would notice a sulk at this point), Sherlock curls up in an armchair next to fire. It's the closest thing to their flat he can have in this godforsaken place.
Eventually, John comes back, still worrying about Henry bloody Knight and ignoring his distress. Sherlock can barely contain himself through his silly speech, or listen to the clues he asserts he's found. With the man being at their rear, his words are implying that the sleuth missed hints that were staring him in the face. He might be high, but his brain has not entirely given up working. He's not blind. He sees, and he can – still – observe.
That's when the detective breaks. If his companion will ignore everything unless vocally pointed out to him, he will make him happy. Admit to vulnerability. It might kill him, but if it makes John finally pretend to care, at least, he's going to…not ask, no. Never that. Just point out that he's seen the hell hound, and that experience was a tiny bit upsetting.
What he was hoping for, he has no idea. Maybe a touch? Maybe a reassurance that John hadn't meant to leave him to be dog food? Instead, what he sees is the other man physically recoiling from him. He should have expected it, really. Sherlock is this close to being sick, and not because of a bad reaction to whatever drug he's been dosed with.
Here his blogger is – the very same famous for his lurid exaggerations, turning their cases into even more adventurous stories than they are – appealing to rationality. Suggesting he calm down. He's not a nineteenth century maiden diagnosed with hysteria (not that hysteria was ever a thing). He knows better than anyone how to be rational. How to examine facts logically. He's made a career out of divorcing himself from his feelings. Usually, people – John too, occasionally – look down on him for this. And for once that he's not able to (feelings are brain chemicals, and drugs mess with that, it's not like he can help himself) he's scolded? Just say he will never please anyone and leave it at that.
If the consulting detective snaps, angrily, way too loudly deducing some nearby bystanders…well, they're collateral damage. Sherlock needs to prove that – upset or not, drugged or not – his brain works, and there's no reason to treat him like a child, discount his words, his feelings…everything and anything about him. John might not appreciate him, not think him good enough, but he better do him the fucking courtesy of not behaving condescendingly. Isn't his doctor the one who's always so concerned about politeness anyway?
The blond's reaction is, frankly, the worst he could ever have. He could agree that Sherlock is not a broken thing. He could pull off the doctor card (pretty much the only authority John can whip over him in this moment). He could even storm off, saying he'll be back when they'll both be calmer. They're all too used to that. Instead, he passive-aggressively sneers, questioning why the detective would listen to 'just a friend'.
That is simply too much. He doesn't have friends. He has clients. Acquaintances. Colleagues. People that use him. People he uses. Family. (Often, these categories intertwine with each other.) And one fucking soulmate who shields himself behind all kind of downgrading terms to cover his refusal to acknowledge their relationships. Of course, only the first part of this rant makes out of his lips. The whole pub doesn't need to know.
That is when John opts for the old and tried 'getting air' technique. With a last parting shot that implies that Sherlock deserves what he's got. Well, you know what? Fuck him. Fuck soulmates everywhere. Fuck hellhounds, and this whole case, and everything. Just fuck it. Now, if only he'd been consciously instead of sneakily drugged, he'd know where to go to take his mind off this. Instead he just has this stupid pub's alcohol. As if it's ever going to be enough.