Watson found himself in the same room that he had stayed in previously, and, once the initial warmth of familiarity had worn off, it brought back those terrible memories of his previous visit. Unconsciously, he rubbed the scar, distinct from the scars of the Jezail bullet that had almost killed him, on his left shoulder where Stapleton has shot him, with Lestrade's revolver. Watson's own service revolver was comfortably nestled in a holster beneath his left arm, under his jacket, and in easy reach.

The room was warm, with a coal fire smouldering in the grate, and his luggage already laid out neatly for him. He moved most of the items into his wardrobe, pausing only to pull his dressing gown on over his clothing, and he crossed to the window, pulling open the curtain. He could feel the cold from outside emanating through the glass and window frame, as he peered outside. It was snowing heavily, and the only light came from the windows of the house. Watson could hear the servants moving around downstairs, closing up the house for the night, and in the adjacent room, Holmes was pacing restlessly, as he did when deep in thought, no doubt smoking heavily.

Watson glanced around the room – Sir Henry was a generous host; there was a decanter on the worktop, and Watson picked it up, took out the stopper, and sniffed deeply. Brandy. Excellent. He poured a generous measure, and, grasping the arms of the chair, he dragged it over to the window. He snuffed out the lights in the room, leaving the low-burning fire, took one of the blankets from the bed, retrieved the brandy, and arranged himself in the armchair, from where he had an excellent view of the moor and the front grounds of Baskerville Hall. He took his revolver, laid it on the table next to him, and, taking a sip of the brandy, sat back to keep watch.

He did not even notice himself nodding off, but was snapped awake by a strangled cry of alarm. Without conscious thought of what he was doing, he snatched up his revolver, lunged for the door, and went crashing into Sir Henry's chambers. Holmes followed barely two paces behind, also fully dressed – apparently having also stayed up. Sir Henry was sitting bolt-upright in the bed, his face as white as the sheets he clenched in his thin fingers.

"The window!" he gasped.

Watson threw himself recklessly at the window – the curtain had not been drawn, and the window itself was tight-shut. He threw it wide open, and leaned out as far as he dared, peering for a good view.

"What do you see?" Holmes's voice came from behind him, also peering out into the darkness, "Watson! What do you see?"

"Nothing," Watson replied, quickly, "I'll check the grounds!"

Watson charged out of the room, almost colliding with Dr Mortimer, who was still brushing sleep from his eyes. Watson pointed to Sir Henry; "Take care of him!" he exclaimed, as he and Holmes went barrelling down the corridor, to the front door, which was bolted.

The two of them managed to get it open, and they plunged into the freezing snowstorm. They ran around the house to the back, where Sir Henry's bedroom was located, and came to a halt. Holmes glanced around quickly; there were no traces in the snow on the ground, which was at least six inches deep and unbroken, save for the tracks left by himself and Watson. There was no evidence of climbing equipment attached to the wall, nor was there anything immediately available to anyone wishing to climb the wall. Holmes peered upwards; he could see nothing immediate in the darkness and snowfall; he made a mental note to check again in daylight.

Behind Holmes, Watson was visually scanning the grounds; there was no sign of life at all, no tracks in the snow, no clear pathways a fleeing person could use to disguise their exit. Holmes glanced over and met his gaze in the light from the window; he shook his head slightly, and indicated to go back inside.

Back in the hall, they met Dr Mortimer coming down the stairs; "Well?" he said, expectantly.

"Nothing – on ground level, at least," Holmes replied, evenly, "How is Sir Henry?"

"Deeply shocked," Dr Mortimer replied, gravely, "I have given him a mild sedative to help him sleep."

"And we should all do the same," Holmes replied, with a half-smile, "come, we should retire – I profess that I am chilled to the bone from this terrible weather."

They made their way back upstairs, taking off their damp dressing gowns to be hung by their fires to dry. Watson reached his room first, bade them goodnight, and stepped inside. He frowned at a cold breeze in the room; the window was open. He did not recall opening it; perhaps it had been Dr Mortimer, looking out to see where they had gone? Tiredly, he reached out, and closed it quickly, shutting out the chilly air.

There was a spare dressing gown hanging on the back of the door, and he swapped it for his damp one, pulling it one gratefully. He combed his fingers through his snow-damp hair, realising that he was still shaking a little; either Sir Henry's white-faced fear had shaken him more than he thought, or the cold had permeated a little too much despite the relatively short exposure he had received. He eyed the brandy decanter, and decided, in his medical opinion, a good measure would be as effective as a mild sedative in helping him to get some sleep.

The decanter was on the table by the armchair near the window. He set his revolver down next to it, and poured a generous amount into the waiting glass, before standing by the window, peering out into the ice-fall that prevailed. He frowned; he could deduce nothing from the mysterious, almost supernatural circumstances. He had not seen the supposed phantom, that was true; but something had terrified Sir Henry almost to his wits' end; something he feared even more than the terrible beast-dog that had scarred his face and neck a few years hence.

Watson knew that Holmes had seen, or at least deduced, something as to how these terrors were being wrought on a man he thought of as his friend. He would have to speak to Holmes in the morning, despite suspecting that his friend, as always, would wait until the last minute to show his full hand. Watson held up the brandy, noting that his hand was shaking slightly, as he recalled the abject terror in Sir Henry's stark, pale face. He took a mouthful, and swallowed. Ah – it was good brandy, of course, though it was strangely sweet. The fiery taste warmed and steadied him. He finished the rest in one mouthful, noting again the sweetness, and made a mental note to ask Sir Henry – or at least Barrymore – for the name of the distiller.

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness crashed over him, and Watson gasped, grabbing the arm of the chair for support. He felt his eyelids grow heavy as his chest constricted. Blindly, he reached out, and caught the windowsill. He tried to cry out, but the room spun, and it was as if the floor tipped beneath him. He went sprawling, but the darkness had taken his consciousness before he hit the floor.

~*~