Disclaimer: I don't own a thing A.N. Sorry, everyone. I had hoped, at one point, to recuperate for last month's failed update due to complete writer's block. I almost didn't manage this month's either, and I know it's not as good as it should be, but…this is my best, relatively to this plot. Let's hope for better in January (December is for challenges). Sorry again!
Blissfully, Sherlock can't remember a single dream. The following morning a grudging permission is waiting for him on his phone when he wakes, because the army makes people get up at ungodly hours he's more used to seeing from the other side, when he pulls one of his one-nighters. Oh well. Even if he had doubts about going through with this, now would be too late to change his mind. Just as good that he doesn't, because John clearly needs to feel the drug's effects to stop saying ridiculous things like 'be logical' – one does not boostrap oneself out of a drug trip. Sherlock should know.
The owners are disgustingly cheerful this morning, too. The detective tries to stifle a rush if envy – is this what a proper soulmate relationship gets you? Not that he wants to become an obviously brainless person, looking out to ensure people are comfortable, like them. Still, it's the principle of the thing. A quick word lets him know that yesterday's approach ended badly for his partner. Sherlock draws a relieved breath. He hadn't dared to knock on John's door, in case he'd discover that his blogger wasn't there, still revelling in the bed of Henry's therapist…or worse, being treated to the spectacle of the naked woman in John's bed.
The consulting detective is almost surprised that, in that case, John is not already in the common room, ready to start the investigation. But maybe – like himself yesterday night – he's indulging himself and sleeping longer than his usual just in case they'll have to stay up for days. Sherlock decides to take advantage of his absence. Keep interaction down to a minimum.
Now, first things first: if he is intent on doing the experiment he bugged the Major about, he needs to get his hands on the drug. And if he wants the drug, he needs to visit his client – and ignore the stab of jealousy the man evokes. It's not Henry's fault that his soulmate is an asshole, who would rather care for pretty much anyone but him. (Now, that might be an exaggeration; but he's frustrated and spoiling for a fight, a scene…anything, really.)
Not wanting Henry to suspect his inner turmoil, or notice the sugar theft – though that's not really something people keep track of most of the time – the sleuth goes to the other extreme. Rather than showing any distaste, he's…well, frankly, disgustingly chipper, and that according to Sherlock himself. He doesn't usually overact a part. But, usually, he's not coming down from an accidental drugging either.
The silver lining is that his client is in a semi-permanent drugged state, if his behaviour since the first day is any indication, so he won't analyse the situation too deeply. Not if the detective is quick enough…and he certainly plans on being quick. Get in, prepare coffee to have an excuse to get at the sugar, pocket some, get out before Henry has figured out which way is up, much less what the consulting detective is up to. Sherlock even masks it as taking care of their client, just as John did yesterday. Not that he cares what happens to the man…much. Certainly not enough to make him breakfast.
Henry's main concern seems to be why Sherlock would deny to have seen the same thing he did (apparently hallucination is not a word his client knows). Of course, the sleuth ignores such a line of questioning entirely. But his client disregards his queries too, so it's only fair.
Well, no, it's not entirely exact that Henry disregards them. It seems more as if the young man feels that the consulting detective has suddenly started speaking Chinese. The only inquiry that has been bugging the detective since he accepted the case is "Why hound?" Why not dog? If Henry had been passionate about dogs since childhood, or maybe his father was, pointing out that the dog – the monster – was a hound rather than a mastiff or a sheepdog or whatever might have been understandable. But the man knows about dogs just as much as Sherlock knows about astronomy, and there's no doubt that if Knight senior was a notorious dog lover, Henry would have mentioned the dramatic irony. So where does the specific wording come from? Why wouldn't Henry say dog, mutt, stray, or anything else as vague?
For someone who's given interviews, consulted a therapist, and probably mulled over his tragic loss his whole life, you'd think that his client should be more self-aware. Every word weighed and dissected. Instead, he doesn't seem to find anything peculiar with his choice of words. Sherlock is tempted to advise him to fire his therapist. How can she help him deal with what happened if she won't even listen to the way he tells his story, and challenge him to reflect about it?
Instead, he sticks to the mission. Take what he needs – not that his client seems to be very aware of what's happening under his nose – and get away before Henry can form a complete sentence. He's more than determined to slip in John's bedroom, if the man is still sleeping for some reason. Hopefully, even purposefully ruined as it will be, an offer of coffee will be enough to reconcile the both of them.
If he's forgiven for snapping yesterday, and then his blogger proves himself paramount to solving the case, it might be enough to solve the rift between them. And yes, he's purposefully planning to upset John, but the man might benefit from having to walk a mile or two in his shoes of the night before. It will be a controlled situation, anyway. Heck, Sherlock could have rushed away from his hallucination, slipped and broken an ankle. That's more risk than his frustrating soulmate is going to go through.
Seeing John outside, intent at breakfast, the sleuth feels a small stab to his useless heart. Has John purposefully avoided him? Waited until he was gone to allow himself a meal? Is the detective's behaviour really so abhorrent that his blogger doesn't even want to share a coffee anymore? That sounds like a cruel and unusual punishment.
He tries to make small talk (he can't exactly shove a coffee at John and go on his merry way, not when his soulmate is in such a mood). He. Makes. Small. Talk. For John. He pretends however awkwardly to be normal. His problem is that mentioning John's private line of enquiry (obviously useless, but he'll take anything to stop his soulmate from ignoring him) only makes him curt, and asking about his date… well, that seems to make him snap even more angrily.
His doctor is smiling, and it's not a good thing. It's not one of the soft smiles, or happy smiles, or 'God life is absurd but this is why it's funny' smiles. Thank God it isn't the "I'll murder you in ten seconds if you're still here" smile, but it's definitely more an angry baring of teeth than anything you could wish more of. What's got into him? Does Sherlock really deserve all this?
John leaves his breakfast three quarters through, apparently because he can't tolerate Sherlock's presence at all now. Well, that won't do. Work-mode inner Sherlock pretends it's just because they have a case to solve and an experiment to make that being so suddenly abandoned is inacceptable. Teen Sherlock, instead, is now quite happy that his attic is barricaded because he's going to die in here anyway so why would anyone want to reach him. He's dying. He's absolutely dying if John rejects him entirely. (Inner Mycroft – because of course he has to meddle – says that Teen Sherlock just never learned how not to be dramatic.)
The detective needs to stop him. For…everything, really. All reasons disclosable and not. What does John want from him? What do people do? Explain. Certainly explaining will help. So, while he wants nothing more than go on with his project – the earliest this case is solved, the earliest they'll be back home, and hopefully they'll settle back into theit brand of normalcy – he tries to justify himself. Yesterday's freakout was reasonable. Okay, that might be an odd way to phrase it, but…Even when explained the reasons of his behaviour (if he cannot trust his perceptions, what use is he?) John is less than sympathetic, and obviously has not forgiven him for…for what? Really, as if being unwillingly drugged didn't warrant a bit of leeway – Sherlock is planning to be much more understanding after his experiment.
His soulmate is still leaving, and the sleuth mentally scrambles, looking for the magic word that will stop him. Re-examining yesterday's data…well, he hadn't been polite, sure, but nothing that should make John want to leave. Unless….could it be that his denial of being friends had turned his blogger so harshly against him? He needs to be calm today, and he should have the drugs out of his system anyway, but God, if this cold shoulder is the treatment he gets, he still wants to scream. "I don't have friends, I have a soulmate, you twat!"
He doesn't. Of course he doesn't, John is angry enough at him as it is, and he's trying to stop the man from leaving, not urging him to do so. If John wants to be his friend…well, that's still not enough, and showing a bit more compassion when the circumstances require it wouldn't hurt either, but it is a step in the right direction. He tries for a compromise, and yes, he sounds ridiculous to his own ears, but needs must. "I meant it yesterday, John. I don't have friends. There's only one for me." It is ambiguous, and would certainly allow the man to define them as he likes.
But it's still…not enough? Seriously? Desperate by now, he tries the true and tried John Watson Make People Happy Technique™. Praise. Abundant, exaggerated praise. Well, no, not exaggerated. The tragedy is that John does deserve to be extolled, for his own intrinsic qualities. It's just their relationship that is fucked up for some reason. Why they can't move on from that, what he's exactly done – what he is, he suspects – to deserve the subtle ostracization is a question that will plague him to his dying day.
That finally seems to have some effect. Blessed be flattery and human weakness to it. Mostly, he just throws back at John the frequent compliments he receives from his blogger, and it's obvious that it feels as if he's floundering. These are not his words, and walking behind him like a puppy singing his praises feels awkward, but if that's what keeps him his soulmate, so be it. He tries to elaborate further – of course John is amazing, but how is he amazing? Finally John stops, after his usefulness for case-solving is pointed out. A long look, and he seems to decide this isn't a joke.
From that to discussing the case, it's the most natural thing in the world. They're finally on track. His…blogger (that at least) is finally in a positive mindset, and they might solve this stupid case soon enough. As soon as the sleuth manages to offer him a cup of coffee.
And of course that's when people start meddling. Lestrade. What the fuck is Lestrade doing here? Shoo. He doesn't need a handler. He just needs to be allowed to work, so he can put this painful mess behind himself and get back to their somehow tolerable routine, Lestrade included, if he insists. Not that the inspector meant to be here – Sherlock would bet that he's been ripped away from his holiday because of Mycroft's orders, no matter how much he denies it. Well, Mycroft can fuck right off. They'll need to have words on that.
It's not his day – his week, more like – because John welcomes Lestrade all too happily. Why wouldn't he? It's just Sherlock he can't stand. It's the inspector he happily shares his discoveries with. Sure, he might not have heard it from the therapist. But he hasn't been forthcoming with possibly significant news until Lestrade came here. Part of the detective is bitter enough to look forward to his experiment soon to come.
At least that brings them all back to the pub, so the coffee offer is even more natural. Luckily, John has not accidentally solved the case, or the drugging would be rather awkward, What he's observed is nothing more than a small ploy to exploit the local myth. And if it's not bad enough, that story ends in the poor dog being put down, and there's no hint that it's a lie. He wants to scream.
It was vicious? Dogs are not vicious. Poorly trained or abused dogs can be vicious. For vegetarian, nature-loving dudes, these people are so idiotic – what did they do to…him? Her? (Seriously, no person loving their pet would call them an 'it', no matter how grammatically proper.) He can't wait to get away.
At least, he has the occasion to discuss his hallucination naturally and carefully plant suggestions in John's brain. Now, he just needs to bring him to Baskerville. Thankfully, when in case-mode, John never challenges him.
John, frankly, didn't want to face Sherlock that morning at all. Yesterday's declarations still smarted, of course they did. He'd take better to outright physical abuse. So no, he wasn't going to let him off the hook easily. He needs to impress on the maddening if enchanting idiot that denying any sort of tie between the two of them is not on, ta very much.
The message seems to stick, though. John half expects the sleuth to try and say he was right (that's not right, Sherlock might be ashamed of their actual relationship, but damn it if it's nothing), which is why any attempt at justification flies so badly.
Afterwards, for a moment he wonders if he's being mocked. Fantastic or amazing is clearly not what the consulting detective things of him. It takes him a while (and not being parroted) to understand that the man is legitimately trying to apologise, and just has no idea why. Which makes the attempt he tried at all…rather adorable, to be honest. Not that he can admit that. He would be manipulated all the time if Sherlock knew.
Thank God for Greg's sudden arrival, it helps him relax. He can so use someone who won't deny they're friends at the moment. At least he's guaranteed someone who won't laugh at him if his suppositions turn out to be wrong.
Not that the detective does this time, despite his attempt being ultimately useless towards the solution of the case. Sherlock seems to be still in apologetic mode, and speaking of dogs, hellhounds or otherwise, he looks so much like a whipped dog that John just has to comfort him, and if that requires swallowing disgustingly sweetened coffee, so be it.
When the consulting detective decides to drag them again at Baskerville, part of John suspects it's a bad idea. If the scientists do have weaponized, genetically engineered dogs they're still not going to show these to the two of them, are they? No matter how much of a fan that annoying doctor is, not even he would come forward with, "And these are our new murder dogs, a couple of which managed to escape and hide in the moor, but never mind that."
But the sleuth insists their authorisation is actually confirmed this time (though John isn't sure if the confirmation comes from Frankland guaranteeing for them or Mycroft) so they might as well lead a proper investigation instead of glancing around while hurrying to escape being caught. The blogger can't even object to that – it does make sense. He just wishes he had a proper argument to make Sherlock rethink this decision. It might not be the most expedient way to solve this case, maybe. But his colleagues' careless – no ruthless – handling of test subjects and pithy dismissing of ethics worry him. Their attitude rubs John the wrong way.
Sure enough, as soon as they arrive at the base Sherlock is directed towards Major Barrymore's rooms. John wants to follow him. He's pretty sure that the stubborn characters of both men would clash until the resulting sparks might set fire to an unattended chemical in a whole different wing of the building.
Then again, when Sherlock huffs, "I'll handle him, John. You're the doctor, and for once, you might see more than I could. Genetics is not exactly my main expertise. I need you in the field to examine as much as you can, before the Major gets bored and kicks us out – please?" there's no way he can refuse. It's not every day that the consulting detective admits any flaw, and when it happens, of course John isn't going to object.
So he parts from the detective with only a plea of, "Don't antagonise him on purpose, I can't read a scene in five minutes like you do," and tries to hide his surprise when he's handed a keycard and pointed towards the labs but not escorted there. Even if Sherlock has been acknowledged as Mycroft, that's a whole lot of trust to put in someone.
The 'keep out unless you want a cold' sign makes him smile. He's used to humour like this. For once, he's in his milieu all around. He's useful, and even Sherlock had to recognise it. Good.
…Once inside the door, all his cheerfulness wanes. There's not a soul. Now, the cheeky sign and the reluctance of military personnel to accompany him suddenly look ominous. Has he walked into a trap? If the Major decided that any supervision was a bad idea, having already seen how Sherlock tends to rush into situations, maybe they thought he'd stay with John, talk to the officer a minute and then hurry to check here…where he'd find whatever expects them and 'die accidentally' because he couldn't bother with proper safety precautions. He's pretty sure that he's read a story like that.
The sudden dazzling lights against him and piercing alarms make him almost nauseous. Of fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Before someone tried to blind him, he'd seen some cages. Covered cages. Which meant he couldn't even be sure what they contained…or if they were unlatched. Fuck this. He's out of here.
Or he would be, if the fucking keycard worked. Someone is absolutely trying to murder him. Sending him in seconds before the codes changed… Why the fuck has he thought that bringing an illegal firearm into a military base would be a bad idea? He's going to die without a chance to defend himself. No, they're fellow soldiers, not serial killers…there must have been a mixup. They'll have noticed it. Fixed it by now. If only he swipes the card again…
No. At least they stopped blinding and deafening him on purpose, but it takes him a bunch of seconds to reorient himself and fight the afterimages off in the following twilight. Oddly, it's the thought "Sherlock fucking dragged me here and he's undoubtedly next on their murder list" that gives him something to hold onto. Sherlock is outside. He can help. Get to this door and open it at least. Maybe pretending he wants to join the examination and have the bastards think he'll just be mauled too.
In the meantime, he needs to know his surroundings. Staying plastered to the door will only give whatever is in here something against which to pin him. The freaked out animals and bent cages don't help his nerves. Whatever it is, it got out. And it's looking for dinner. Looks like John is on the menu.
He peers in the darkness, and sure enough, there it is. How the fuck did he miss it before. It's glowing an eerie, sickly green that wouldn't be out of place in a ghostbuster movie. The size of a pony, if not a smidge more. And burning, bloodthirsty eyes, red like flame. Heck, even his saliva is glowing, while it drips onto the floor.
There's a deep, hungry growl. No. No no no no no. He's not survived Afghanistan to be killed by his own army's pets. Since he's weaponless, he needs shelter. Very sturdy shelter. His eyes zero on another lab door, just as impenetrable as the other one. If his murderer-to-be have forgotten to change all the codes…
Of course they haven't. They're scientist. Oh God. He's going to be eaten. Wait…it's not rushing towards him…yet. Maybe all the tampering has accidentally messed up his senses? He needs a place, before the bastard does jump on him and starts munching…these maws look likely to snap bones all too easily.
Safety, safety…He won't survive until Sherlock comes to find him eventually, out in the open. He must not hyperventilate. That won't help him now. With no other options, he consider the cage the beast must have vacated. It must be steeped in the creature's smell, and it certainly doesn't look like that…thing is eager to go back to his crate. And the bars are bent, but not entirely broken, so if anything can effectively protect him inside here, this is his best bet.
John has never been more grateful for his compact size. He can curl up inside without being too cramped. This is a situation where you don't want to develop any impairment in your limbs. The cloth thrown over it, flimsy as it is, feels like an extra protection, keeping him hidden.
Another growl. He thought that Sherlock would come check on him, but…how long is it that he's trapped? It feels like an eternity. The Major is keeping Sherlock…what if he's thrown the mask? No, he wouldn't, not in his office. Somewhere they can clean easier.
Fuck it, He can't wait here until the detective decides to come. He'll die before. If not killed by the beast, because of a heart attack. He might be used to his life being in danger, but he's not used to being helpless when it happens. His fight or flight instincts are screaming, and neither is an option. All he can do is call for help. And Sherlock – whatever else the insane murderers holed in this place are doing – better find a way to get him out of here. They have their spats, sure, but letting him become dinner is a bit much even for the consulting detective.
So he calls. Trying his best to murmur, just in case the possibly blind animal's hearing is exceptional. He thought that a sentence would be enough. Two, at most. Instead, his partner makes him want to scream (not doing that, either, he has a minimum of self-preservation). Keep talking? Keep talking? Why should he? It's not like he has that many details to offer. And besides, what details do you need beyond very big, very bad monster free to roam in the room? Because if it's an attempt to distract him, it's not working and it's not useful.
Or…or it's to check if he's still alive, but can't Sherlock bloody see that his chances of actually remaining so hinge on not setting off the thing in here with him, and every word lowers his probability of going undiscovered? Why can't the idiot just listen for John's breathing, or something? If the place is noisy, maybe listen harder instead of making him speak and so elevating the risk that the thing will get at him.
And still he talks, in the softest whisper he can muster, because he doesn't want Sherlock to hang up. The man's voice is his last grasp on sanity. Help is coming. Now, if only he could sound less irritatingly calm, that would be awesome. If it's done to stop him from panicking, it's. Not. Helping. Not at all.
Less talking, more running. But he can't say so, because this is not the moment to be arguing. Soon. Once the detective brings the cavalry, or at the very least filches a gun from someone. He's putting his very life in the man's hands, come on, Sherlock…come on!