Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Obviously.
Way too late for his taste (how come he's not been eaten yet? Not that he complains, mind), but the consulting git does arrive. Weirdly, John can't hear any shots before the cover of his (well, the monster's…but his at the moment) cage is taken away with a flourish, which convinces him it must be the hound.
Before he can have a heart attack, though, there's Sherlock – clearly intact – crowding him in his refuge, holding him – and if John holds back, well, there's no shame, it's there? He just needs to get outside. Really, as much as this might be an adequate crate for a big, even a huge dog, there's no way two adults can fit without a bit of contact. Besides, a man one who's been trapped God knows how long, crouching all the while, barely breathing, panic doing a number on his nervous system, is entitled to cramps – and a friend is at the very least as legitimate a support as the floor, or the bars.
Still, if it's not been killed, the hound must have been anaesthetised – did Sherlock use a blowpipe instead of a gun? And where the heck did he find one? Before he can follow this thought further, John has been helped out of his shelter, and…there's no hound. Not dead, not asleep…where did it go?
Fine, maybe the sleuth just managed to open one of the other doors and that thing ran away. Maybe Sherlock doesn't have enough meat on his bones to tempt the hound, and it's now looking for the kitchen or something. Dogs, even genetically engineered demonic looking dogs, principally reason with their stomachs, right? Or maybe it's gone to look for his handler. It must have one. Someone to feed it, at least. Hopefully not human flesh, though it wouldn't surprise him.
The private joke fails to cheer him up as it normally would, the same way that Sherlock's manner – soothing, almost nonchalant, why the fuck is he nonchalant when he just met the thing from hell, even if for him it's the second time, it's stupid – only manages to piss him off. Fucking reality as he knows just disintegrated, he would have sworn that no matter how someone played they'd never be able to create that…that…monster (are we sure it's a human production and these bastards didn't accidentally stumble into a 'literally summon hound from hell' ritual? Maybe playing with a goat?) and Sherlock knows and he just emanates, "eh, no biggie," even if yesterday he was – understandably – in a state. Is this payback for his own arseholery of yesterday? Or will the detective have the gall to offer him a brandy and tell him to get over it? after all, it seems to have worked wonders for the git.
The more Sherlock tries to placate him, the more John is tempted to snap that long, delicate-looking neck, which is, also…unusual. Not that John has never been tempted to teach the maddening lunatic a lesson, in the physical sense of the word. Being brought up by a bastard will warp your instinct at least a bit. But it also taught him to despise the old man and his methods, so John will never unleash his potential for violence unless ordered to (and/or if lives – preferably Sherlock's, at that – are in danger). Murdering him over petty annoyance is a scary instinct. This is not him. Someone help. Not that he says so. But he yells, trying at the very least to stop the sleuth from minimizing what just happened and understand how bloody serious the situation is. The man is a genius, he'll figure it out.
But no, Sherlock is still cool as a cucumber (which is a stupid idiom, now that he thinks about it, who decided on it, and why the fuck is he even thinking about it with a murderous beast free), inquiring after the details of the case as if the effing human-eating thing wasn't still roaming. Watching him, you'd think they have all the time in the world. How can a man be so brilliant and at the same time so bloody idiotic?
If John rushes through the interrogation (or tries to, because, you know, it'd be best for their survival to get out of this hellhole pronto) he can be understood. Besides, the world's most annoying consulting detective has seen the creature too, no later than yesterday. What does he need a description for? John is sure that he'll see the monster in his nightmares for months to come, it isn't like you can forget something like it. Possibly not even if you hit your head trying to escape and get amnesia from the trauma, which Sherlock emphatically hasn't.
And then the sleuth has his used-to-be-fascinating 'Ahah!' moment, but this time his blogger only wants to growl. He's been purposefully misled to check if the apparition was, in fact, the result of a drug trip instead of an actual escaped experiment. Out of all the possible details to change, the idiot in front of him had to pick something that would make the hallucination extra-scary (hallucination or not, John is sure that he'll see these eyes glowing with the very fires of hell every time he closes his eyes for a long time) instead of something innocuous like, I don't know, simply changing the coat's colour. An orange-tinted hound would have been as good a check, and it would have the thing look less like something out of the darkest myths.
So, okay, he's been drugged, just like Sherlock. Well, no, not okay, nothing is going to be okay until the bastard is caught and preferably given a dose of their own medicine. Yeah, not very charitable, but John was convinced he was going to be eaten alive a bunch of minutes ago. That's way more than a bit not good. But at least, the world is starting to make sense again…sorta.
Now, find the poison, and you should find the poisoner too, right? Especially in a place like this where everyone has the knowledge and means to tailor a compound for their own goals…and where, hopefully, things are (mostly at least) documented. So, first step, commandeer a lab, and analyse the thing until you can figure out who exactly touched whatever creates this specific compound. Fine. Logic.
Also, John has never been happier for his maddening soulmate's scientific preparation, because if asked to perform the analysis himself right now he might not recognise bloody water…and he's not going to trust the very people that have created (or one of them did, but they have no fucking clue who is) this concoction in the first place. Bless Mycroft being basically God, so they're allowed whatever they ask for, no need for extra permits, paperwork, arguments or anything else he currently does not have the strength for.
Oddly, it seems that most of the centre's researchers have taken a sick day, possibly warned that hurricane Sherlock was coming (by whom, though?), because the corridors to the labs are empty. Honestly, the doctor doesn't blame them. These are supposed to be top secret studies. Hardly still, if done in the presence not only of a keen-eyed consulting detective, but also of his notorious blogger. Not that John doubts that his report of the events will need Mycroft's approval, and contain a lot of [redacted] or asterisks. They are still a liability, though. Now, John would never sell state secrets, and his…something, he'll angst over the proper term later, would properly find betraying his country unspeakably boring. But these people don't know.
Unsurprisingly, the only one still in the lab is Stapleton, with her poor fairy-brilliant rabbit. Since they know about it already (and it's not really something you'd weaponise anyway) there's no reason not to check on Bluebell. Probably to see if the bioluminescence is stable, at least.
You'd think that Sherlock would have his plate full with the poison, but he talks to the scientist about the sad-looking former pet, basically threatening to out her to her child if she doesn't tell her some version of the truth herself. For someone who was – rightfully – outraged at being considered a lost pet finder, he seems really determined to make sure the child won't grow up believing Bluebell has been snatched by the faeries or some other absurd tale. It's kinda sweet, in a way. Still, John wants him to get to work and finish this damned case so they can go back home, where it's safe to pass out.
The doctor thinks he's really holding up remarkably well. He's not screaming anymore, just waiting quietly for the results to come in, he's not passing out, he's not throwing up despite having been a bit nauseous since he's been sure that he's not in immediate danger of dying. The body is a weird thing, no matter how deeply one studies. But apparently he's not as good an actor as he hoped, because Stapleton is concerned for him.
After Sherlock's attitude, one would think that she would loathe him and John besides, just on principle. To trigger her nurturing attitude, he must really look like shit. And still, he claims to be fine, perfectly fine, thank you, because he would never accept even a glass of water here. You never know what might be in there.
Apparently, Stapleton's idea of helping out, though, is to distract him with conversation. Which…might not be so bad. And since she apparently has only one topic she's knowledgeable about, she starts by giving him the details of her current experiment. Poor, brilliant, fluffy Bluebell.
The doctor just hopes that his…partner (let's settle with partner for the moment) is busy enough with his own investigation not to listen in too keenly. The last thing John needs, once finally back home, is to find jellyfishes in the sink and/or the tub so that his personal mad scientist can recreate more fluorescent pets. Hopefully Mrs. Hudson will side with him, if it ever comes to that.
Well, since they're investigating anyway, John tries to do his share. If Stapleton feels like talking about her job, maybe she'll talk about more than the silly neon rabbit. Something like huge dogs from hell, maybe. He prods her with as much tact as he can muster at the moment.
The results are…disquieting. Oh, sure, she doesn't come out and say, "Sure, we do have pony-sized dogs with fangs that can bend steel and we're feeding them human flesh, and marrow as a treat on Sundays." It's what she doesn't say that is worse. Now, John has seen war, and he's all for whatever gets more people dead in the enemy camp than there are in yours. But still, he's a doctor at his core. A doctor, not a scientist – maybe this is the whole issue he often has with Sherlock. These people, despite having a good number of soldiers running around, never had someone muttering, "Bit not good, that."
If it can be done, it's being done. To animals, humans (which is way, way worse), viruses and every element in nature. 'Why not?' is a good punchline for a joke. It's less commendable as guideline when you're messing with living things. The lack of empathy he sees in this woman (never mind for experiment subjects, but also for her own kid, who was anguished enough over the disappearance of her pet to write Sherlock fucking Holmes a mail) makes John frown. This is not the person he would want in charge of future discoveries. The results might cause more chaos than benefits.
Before he can opt to take on himself the duty of teaching her ethics, their conversation is interrupted by a frustrated and angry consulting detective. Apparently his analysis is coming up empty. Which should be a momentary hurdle, if the man didn't admit what he's looking for. Drugs, of course…in the sugar. Henry's sugar, which he used in the 'apology cup', and which John stupidly chugged despite finding it vile. The fucker purposefully poisoned him. Not wanting to be soulmates is a thing. Knowingly infecting one's cup, after having suffered the effect themselves…John is sure that there is a specific circle of hell for people like that.
At last, rather providentially, Sherlock shoos them all out to access his mind palace before he can be too tempted to strangle him. And Stapleton's shocked reaction makes him ponder how he's never done on this whole 'mind palace' business, and now he imagines the git in a pink princess dress in his own brain, rooting through a Disney looking castle for the relevant memory. The scientist might just have unwittingly saved Sherlock's life.
The consulting detective, finally alone, tries his best to concentrate on the matter at hand. He has few precious clues, and he needs to solve this case now. After all, if he can't demonstrate that his latest experiment was pivotal to the solution, he might not be able to go back home. Still, part of him is still concerned with John even after the man left. It's galling, not to mention counterproductive. Someone please stop him from being obsessed with the man. He has work to do.
Hound, hound…no, Elvis, get out of here. No matter how personally relevant the 'you are no friend of mine' might be to this case. He might have thrown it in frustration, but he's all too aware that he'll be on the receiving end of it unless he is truly brilliant right now – or preferably even a few seconds ago – and gives the former soldier someone else to shoot for what he's gone through.
Hound, Liberty, In…wait, hasn't he read? Possibly that time he snatched Mycroft's computer during the holidays because it was just so boring. Damn. If it's Mycroft-level it will be under lock and key even here. Oh well. The Major left in disgust halfway through his experiment, so there's a good chance his office is empty still. If he knows the type he's at the inn downing stiff drinks.
Now, the man is certainly not an IT genius, so he should be able to crack his password easily…but he might need more info than the empty office can offer. That's it. He needs to find Stapleton again. And since they'll be together, John can come too and watch him extract the relevant files. Read the solution for himself. If he manages to do so in under a minute, he might still earn that sweet, sweet admiration he's addicted to by now.
Thankfully, Stapleton has been around soldiers long enough that snapping at her is enough to make her offer answers to the best of her knowledge. And even more thankfully, the major let his tendency for hero worship (is this something that soldiers have in common?) overwhelm the more common tendency to pick loved ones as passwords, because finding the man's family tree would require a handful more minutes. Instead, the answer is literally staring them in the face.
The detective might have personal opinions about 'Maggie', almost enough to make him consider the option of an afterlife just for the pleasure of imagining her burning in hell. But he's not here to judge, he's here to hack.
The solution is finally staring them in the face, and what a drug is it! Sherlock is intimate with the kind of pharmaceuticals one would take for pleasure, whatever it meant in the moment – slowing up the brain to manageable or quickening it so much it took off earth. Obviously, he was also knowledgeable about a number of poisons, some of which affected the brain, for his work. But he's never been required to study weapon research. Never wondered how people could do what he's done to John , see the effects, and decide 'this is an avenue worth pursuing'. Or not, because apparently the experiment was discontinued, because paranoid and murderous is not a combination you want – not in your men, and frankly, not even in the enemy.
The data seem to have shocked John, too, and the man was a soldier, so he should be more able to wrap his mind about chemical warfare. Then again, he was dosed not too long ago. The sleuth knows he needed quite a while to regain full control of his emotions (at least externally, because they always seem to act up anyway).
They finally know what affected them...and if it wasn't significantly modified even how they were dosed. Airborne molecules. If it's breathed in, it explains why John wasn't affected, never having reached where they started hallucinating. And he supposes leaky pipes could account for the lab experience. Though, since none of the scientists seem to have been affected (it would definitely be noticeable) maybe their killer saw his request and set up for the gas to be released at the agreed time, making sure it would affect John and that his misconception would last longer.
Now it only remains to see who's behind this. There might not be anyone else around now, but it doesn'r automatically mean Stapleton is guilty. The gas release could have been automated, after all. Who would have participated at these experiments twenty years ago and, despite witnessing their results, stubbornly hold onto that project, because it had potential? Someone insane, certainly, and sadistic, too, but Sherlock is afraid too many in Baskerville would fit these two requirements. He needs to find some other parameter. Old-ish, for sure, the project shut down twenty years ago…and someone who lived in the USA for months. Someone who might have still some aftermath of that…like occasionally using American English instead of British words. Oh damn. Do all murderers in UK read John's blog religiously? And what is their obsession with getting a call?
Well. He can indulge this one, just the once, he supposes. Arrange a meeting with him that will end with handcuffs on his wrists. It's not often that Sherlock meets someone who's more of a mad scientist than himself, but at least, he keeps his experiments confined (mostly) to body parts, and would never turn someone murderous on purpose, tonight notwithstanding. He'd experienced the paranoia effect, not the violent reaction, in his defence. Possibly because John is here. His soulmate makes him feel inherently safe. The detective knows all too well that if someone or something needs shooting, the former captain will make an always correct snap judgment and unerringly hit his mark.
Before he can fully arrange Frankland's arrest, his blogger gets a call of his own, which puts every other plan on hold. Their client finally lost it, and fled – obviously into the moor. Henry was long due for a psychotic break, especially given he must have been dosed again and again since he was a child, so no surprise there.
Part of the sleuth wants to petulantly protest about bad timing – if only this happened tomorrow, they would have been back to London already and the case out of their hands. Instead, now they need to save the young man from himself. He knows all about bad trips, and not just because of his most recent experiences. But the stupid, irrational jealousy he feels toward the young man annoys him. And then his own pettiness disgusts him. No wonder John doesn't want to acknowledge their bond. They're going, they're saving Henry, and that's that. Luckily Giles is around, because dealing with someone who is insane to an unknown level and armed, more firepower is always better than less.
They find Henry where they expect him to be – where his trauma started (and where there must be vents for the toxin, which don't help, dammit). John is trying his best to placate the man, who – thankfully –went from homicidal to suicidal. Well, that's progress. They can't help him if they're murdered by a delusional man. Now, the way Sherlock has dealt with bad trips in the past has always been to analyse the hell out of them to figure out if they were reality or if they didn't count. He can do this for Henry. He can give him reality.
His client isn't in the best mood to listen, sure, but he was starting to remember already. Having his memory jogged, implanted false memories replaced with what the detective has deduced must have happened – that helps. He's not anymore a madman, dangerous to society and himself. He's a victim of gaslighting, and someone knows. Someone is dispelling the jumble of lies and insinuations he's been fed. As long as Sherlock's voice is calm, determined and never, ever angry or accusatory (he knows all too well the volatile moods of a drugged man), he can put together the cracked puzzle that Henry's life is right now. That's the reason the young man came to him in the first place.
And then, of course, because Murphy's law always stands, he's just come to the part where yes, there was a dog (honestly, couldn't the inn owners find another option? Borrow Bluebell, maybe?), but there is not, and never worse, a monster…the fucking hound calls out to them.
Wait, wasn't the dog put down in the first place? Not that he blames the owners for not killing him if they didn't feel like it, but…selling it? Putting him out for adoption? Anything that isn't, you know, "let's free an already unmanageable and possibly pissed off at being abandoned dog in the moors"? Why no one ever uses the logical part of their brain? Is every dweller of this village a victim of experiments that turned them more idiotic than most people – and that's already a lot?
Of course, just when he has almost managed to bring Henry back to himself, the poor boy has another psychotic break, worse than the first one. At least John has his gun now – Sherlock wouldn't trust him with one right now if it was their only lifeline – but still, fuck, couldn't the dog wait? The thing is probably hungry, and angry, which is never a good combination on anyone, much less someone having fangs and claws. Lestrade's terror, if restrained – at least the inspector is trained not to lose his mind when someone else is already doing it – is proof enough that, even if not the hellhound he's already seen, there is an actual basis to his delusion, and it's scary in its own right.
And then, as if actual, living, hangry dog are not enough trouble, the delusions take over him again. He doesn't have time for this! He can't be tripping – especially not a bad, terrifying, paranoid trip – when he's busy keeping things together and actually helping someone else. He might not have Lestrade's training, but he has taken this case (for a smoke, gosh, his priorities need revising) and he'll see it to the end.
Still, it's hard to keep his mind when Jim fucking Moriarty pops in front of you with that insane grin…mostly because the man is actually crazy enough that Sherlock can't be entirely sure. Werewolf-looking dog? Sure, these don't exist, it's a normal – if annoyed – pooch. Jim Moriarty deciding he's feeling ignored and Sherlock has taken too long already to solve this case, so why not pay him a visit? It makes sense…and that's the horrifying part. Well, whoever is brain is actually perceiving right now, he'll make the bastard regret the interruption. Everyone he cares for is already accounted for after all, and Mycroft would know better than making him a surprise visit now. That's what Lestrade is for.
Frankly, he shouldn't be surprised to discover that Frankland is behind his nightmare. No, not generally speaking – as in, he's the man who drugged them – but literally the man whose likeness he twisted into the one enemy who legitimately terrifies him. His ugly face seems to be easy to twist into anything. At least, finally the sleuth manages to deduce exactly how they've been dosed. It's a relief to know that paranoia does not ruin his mental faculties, as long as he has the correct data to begin with.
The arrest is not a priority at the moment though, given the dog – who's been breathing in the drug too, how has he discounted this until now – apparently part of his brain is still not at his best. Well, not like he can do much, he doubts that martial arts will do much against it. They have two man with a gun, luckily.
It's a relief to know that Lestrade doesn't usually carry one, because his aim is wildly off the mark. But they don't have time to call an Armed Response Vehicle. And they don't need to. It might be because this was imagined as a weapon for the military, but – despite the double dose in a short time – John doesn't need more than one single bullet to put down the unfortunate beast. And as much as the detective doesn't like killing pets, he still finds it awfully sexy. Oh damn. Wrong thought, wrong thought, wrong thought. How to reroute his brain?
Work – he's here for work. There's his client still cowering. Henry needs to see it – the poor dog which took the blame for this whole mess. The sleuth needs to bully him into it – the young man can't entirely be blamed if he wants to keep as far as possible from his nightmare of twenty years – but he won't even leave his delusions behind if he doesn't face it.
It's just a plus that he can confront Frankland too, afterwards. Sherlock still has to explain a few details, because Henry hasn't read the reports, and lacks a few key clues to figure everything out honestly, the case's solution is brilliant. What's not to like? Something, according to John, but he's unreliable now. In fact. Henry sides with him. The Hound is a bad dream now, as it ever was, and knowing that his 'poor deluded dad' wasn't deluded at all – he was as keen-eyed as the consulting detective, just unluckier (no soldier guarding him, so no surprise there) – gives him strength. They're not genetically insane.
They just met with the worst creature the world has to offer: a doctor gone bad. Moriarty might be worse, but he needs a web of underlings. Frankland needed no accomplices to destroy who knows how many people. It would be silly to imagine these are his only victims without checking some records. Or maybe he'll boast in jail. Who knows.
…Fine, no, he won't speak. Not because he knows better. Because John's bullet knocked down the dog, but apparently didn't kill him (so maybe aim is somehow affected). A whimper is enough distraction for Frankland to flee. Obviously, the detective gives chase. After all, his legs are the longest, and he's not about to let him get off scot free. He doesn't check their direction, just follows. He's rather shocked to find out their murderer didn't, either…but thankfully for him, the madman hits a mine before Sherlock has caught up and entered the minefield too. The spectacle is...well, he wouldn't mind the effects at a crime scene, but he's not used to seeing it happen, and his stomach roils. If the man forgot the mines' existence because of the drug (and honestly, not wearing a mask wasn't one of his best moments) justice is made. Or something like that.