A/N I actually really like this one, so please tell me if you agree. Set in the middle of The Hounds of Baskerville, and yeah. We're almost a fifth of the way through, whoohoo! xD

Thanks to Fayet, ThisDayWillPass

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XIX. Grey

Sort of… bleak, but beautiful.

Henry Knight's description of Dartmoor, John concludes, was spot-on, and yet somehow lacking. The sparse words form only the frame of the marrow-deep chill that seems to emanate from the very landscape. He can only see bits of the moor itself, cresting gently over the low-roofed buildings sitting around Cross Keys Pub, but the cool, misty atmosphere that flavors it has filtered into the little village. It's minutes past six in the morning, silent and peaceful, and John's the only one up, perched on the dewy edge of a wooden bench, elbows settled on the neighboring tabletop, which the bartenders will be up to lay with breakfast preparations in half an hour or so now.

A bird trills from some secluded location, its warbling call accompanied by a ghostly howl of wind from out on the moor. It could be mistaken for a dog's cry, he theorizes, but only by someone suspecting such. His eyes strain against the thin wall of mist topping the hills, halfheartedly searching for the bulky shape of the fabled hound that they came here to search for.

Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!

He blinks, hard, trying to free his mind of the words, the memories. He came out here to clear his thoughts, not poison them farther with whispers of hounds, of UMQRA and Bluebell and Baskerville. And yet he's already suspecting that he should have stayed in bed, that perhaps thirty minutes of fresh air and solitude is the last thing he needs right now.

He's just begun to wonder if Sherlock is up when a weight settles on the bench next to him, answering the unspoken question. He doesn't look in its direction, doesn't so much as make a move to acknowledge his appearance.

A few seconds spin themselves out in silence. John continues to gaze into the grey distance, his fingers running restlessly over the damp surface of the rough wooden table, drumming out a low staccato beat that irritates them both. He doesn't stop, though, just continues in his attempt to drown the silence.

"Bit early to be up," Sherlock finally observes, the steadiness of his words making it evident that he'd been planning them.

"I suppose so. I was looking for a bit of privacy, actually. A chance to… mull over things." His words are more cutting than intended, and he's already registering them before Sherlock's next sentence.

"I could leave, if you wanted."

"No...! No. Don't, it's fine."

"Alright."

They lapse into silence again. Slowly, a question creeps to the front of John's mind, prickling and teasing. He manages to delay for about a minute and a half before voicing it.

"Can you appreciate it at all?"

He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him, guesses the brows to be drawn down in puzzlement. "Appreciate what?"

"The… the moor. Its… beauty."

"Beauty isn't a factor in my thinking, John. You know that. I can't afford any sort of distraction that it might provide me with. I have to remain straightforward, see things as they are—not be fooled by a mask of false appeal."

"But it doesn't matter right now," John points out.

"On the contrary, we're in the middle of a case. It's never been more essential."

"Not right now. It's six in the morning—"

"Nine past, actually."

"It's nine past six in the morning, and no one's up but us."

"Us and the man two rooms down. According to the absence of his jacket and those footprints along the path, he went for a walk about half an hour ago. The familiarity and absentmindedness shown by the lightness of his tracks suggests that he does so every morn—"

"Sherlock," John sighs, finally looking over at his companion. The dark-haired detective's eyes are fixated on the misty distance. "You know what I mean. If you try, if you really try, can you see how gorgeous it is?"

"…Sometimes," he finally murmurs, his voice surprisingly soft, "almost."