Yes. I know right! I actually posted another chapter!
See, I was going to keep this going and I was happy with it!
But I started writing other things that I found more enjoyable.
This will be continuous, it will just update a lot slower.
It's more of a side-story for me, ya know?

But I am so thankful for the reviews!
The Sherlock scene in this is from the show, and I got the script write up from
Ariane DeVere on live journal.

Thanks for reading, and please review!

Chapter 2

"What now?" Dean asked, sprawled out on the sheets of their temporary hotel room bed.

Sam gave his brother a questioning look, chuckling softly, "What do you mean?"

Both knew they were tempted to look into the demon hound situation, but Sam no doubt wanted to at least unpack.

Dean shrugged and sat upward, "I'm bored, Sammy."

Sam scoffed and sighed loudly, "Relaxation Dean. You've got a beer," Dean glanced over at his bottle next to him, "and the TV is turned onto some stupid romantic comedy. What more do you need?"

Dean rolled his eyes at his brother, "It's tele, Sam."

Sam squinted and stuck his head forward, puzzled by his brother's words. "What?"

"It's tele now, not TV. We're in England." Dean widened his eyes with an enthusiastic smile, which then instantly turned dark again, resulting in a blank face, deadpanning his younger sibling.

Sam laughed and shook his head in annoyance, "Jerk."

Dean grinned, "Bitch."

After more moments of pure, utter, and rather anguishing silence, Dean, tired of hearing his brother unpack every little thing, down to the last detail, pulled himself up off the bed, grabbed his beer, and stumbled out the door of their room.

He wiped a hand over his face, swaying down the long corridor, taking a sip from the bottle every so often.

The beer was weird. Different. They didn't have the typical American one he was used to.

"Why London, Sammy?" Dean questioned aloud, shrugging up his shoulders in a lack of understanding.

Why not Italy? They have beaches, babes, and pizza.
But London? Dreary weather, old-fashioned clothing, and tea? Come on, now.

But there was one thing here that most definitely interested him.

A monstrous hound, they said? Sounds rather intriguing.

Dean grinned a rather mischievous grin as he continued down the lonely corridors of their strangely uncomfortable motel.

The documentary was eerie to say the least. John couldn't help but squirm in his seat. The reporter had the typical "reporter-voice" as she went on, talking about the mysteries of Dartmoor, the stuff of legend and myth. John was quite sure Sherlock wasn't even watching it; his eyes kept constantly darting back to Henry Knight, their new client, and staring at him with a continuous calculating gaze. The kid that had approached them, and was now sitting in John's chair, even showed up on the video at one point, giving his statement on what killed his father – what happened that night, something about a "hound of hell"?

John swallowed as he watched Sherlock pick up the remote, and slam a finger down on the power button, sighing in exasperation.

The detective turned to the newcomer, eyeing him suspiciously, as John sat beside him, rubbing his thumb over the pen in his hand – a notebook also sitting gracefully in his lap.

"What did you see?" Sherlock snapped, eyebrow arched at the small man.

Henry narrowed his eyes and pointed nervously to the television screen, "Oh, I…I was just about to say."

Sherlock immediately countered, causing John to wince inwardly, "Yes, in a TV interview. I prefer to do my own editing."

The army doctor turned his attention to Henry, scanning over his timid expression, as the man cleared his throat; all while Sherlock sat unmoving.

"Yes. Sorry, yes, of course. 'Scuse me."

John felt sorry for the man, watching as he reached in his pocket with shaky fingers to pull out a grimy paper napkin, to wipe his nose.
"In your own time," The blogger offered in respect to the client's uneasy state.

"But quite quickly," Sherlock felt the need to add, and John could only roll his eyes.

Henry lowered the napkin and drifted his gaze to Sherlock, eyes somewhat serious and dramatically narrowed, "Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

"It's an amazing place," Henry started rather passionately, "It's like nowhere else. It's sort of…bleak, but beautiful.

Sherlock shrugged, "Mmm, not interested. Moving on."

Henry seemed to ignore Sherlock's rude comment; "We used to go for walks, after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we'd go out onto the moor."

Sherlock huffed, "Yes, good. Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?"

John's eyebrows flew up in surprise at Sherlock's insensitivity, just as his eyes widened as well, leading him to shift in his seat, due to the uncomfortable position he was ultimately put in.

Henry cleared his throat, "There's a place – it's a sort of local landmark called Dewer's Hollow."

Sherlock tilted sideways expectantly, seemingly unimpressed.

Henry swallowed, "That's an ancient name for the Devil."

Sherlock shrugged and shook his head, "So?"

John felt the need to finally step in, "Did you see the Devil that night?"

That's when the man's face fell into a horrific, blank stare, as if looking back to the memories that still haunt him.
He then turned to John, gulped, and nodded, quietly whispering, "Yes."

John and Sherlock simply sat, awaiting further explanation.

"It was huge. Coal-black fur, with red eyes." Henry looked up, "It got him, tore at him, tore him apart." The boy then sighed and shook his head, eyes wide in terror, "I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found."

"Hmm," John nodded slowly and looked across to Sherlock, "Red eyes, coal-black fur, enormous: dog? Wolf?"

Sherlock's eyes sparkled, "Or a genetic experiment."

John winced at his nerve, watching as the consulting detective looked away while biting back a wide, malicious grin.

"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stared Henry Knight down, "Why, are you joking?"

Henry narrowed his eyes, "My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville; about the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him. At least the TV people took me seriously."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, "And, I assume, did wonders for Devon tourism."

John leaned forward, feeling the need to break Sherlock's continuous monologue of insulting sarcasm. "Henry, whatever did happen to your father, it was twenty years ago. Why come to us now?"

Henry seemed to fall incredibly defensive, "I'm not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find it all so funny."

The client got out of his seat, eager to leave at that point, having heard enough of Sherlock's "personality", but the detective's next statement had him frozen in his tracks.

"Because of what happened last night."

John furrowed his brows, "Why, what happened last night?"

Henry gulped, "How ... how do you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I didn't know; I noticed."

John turned away; seemingly aware of what came next.

"You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight, and do please smoke. I'd be delighted."

Henry gazed at him blankly, mouth gaping open slightly, then turned to John, only to firmly plant himself back in the chair he had originally been sitting in, and fishing into his pocket. "How on earth did you notice all that?"

John quickly answered, "It's not important…"

Sherlock didn't seem to agree. "Punched-out holes where your ticket's been checked…"

John scowled, "Not now, Sherlock."

"Oh please. I've been cooped up in here for ages." Sherlock pouted.

"You're just showing off."

"Of course," Sherlock shrugged, "I am a show-off. That's what we do."

Turning to look back at Henry, Sherlock began his explanation.

"The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee: the strength of the stain shows that you didn't take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast – or the nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich."

"How did you know it was disappointing?"

"Is there any other type of breakfast on a train? The girl – female handwriting's quite distinctive. Wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later – after she got off, I imagine – you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You've been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you're not that into her after all. Then there's the nicotine stains on your fingers ... your shaking fingers. I know the signs."

John watched as Sherlock grew slowly more intense, "No chance to smoke one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here."
The detective glanced at his watch, "It's just after nine fifteen. You're desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at five forty-six a.m. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?"

Henry swallowed and then took a shaky breath,
"No. You're right. You're completely, exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "It's my job," He then leaned forward, glaring steadily at the client, "Now shut up and smoke."

John frowned, looked over his notes, and cleared his throat.

And it was because of a simple, quick deduction and some cigarettes, that Sherlock Holmes accepted the case of the mysterious man-eating hound.

And not the only one to accept it either.

"Why not?"

Sam was glaring at his brother, eyes fixed to match his agitated scowl, "Dean!"

"We can't just ignore it!" Dean shrugged, brows raised expectantly as he flopped back down onto the vintage bed sheets.

Sam groaned and sat on the mattress' side, "No, Dean! We can! We can ignore it! We came here to take a break from all that – to have some time to ourselves, to relax!" Dean rolled his eyes, as Sam finished, "Not chase some monstrous hound around England!"

Dean fixed his position, so that he sat upright, and gazed at Sam with a calculating expression.
"It killed someone, Sammy. Now come on, you're not going to let that slide are you?"

Dean knew Sam wouldn't be able to fight off the guilt if he didn't go through with this, and he couldn't help but grin when he witnessed his brother's mask faltering.

The younger shook his head, and let out a long exasperated sigh, "I hate you."

"No you don't," Dean smirked, and got to his feet, "What do you say, Sammy?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, and arched a brow.
Dean patted his brother on the back, hard and quick, "Let's go hunt us a hound."

Sam rolled his eyes and joined Dean by the door, the two grabbing their coats eagerly, and grinning to themselves.

"Why not." Sam mumbled and shook his head; frustrated with the fact that Dean had managed to convince him - not that it took much, though.

"I need something to eat first." The older man snapped as he slammed the hotel room door behind his brother.

"Dean!" Sam growled in aggravation.

Dean shrugged, "Do they have cheeseburgers here?"