The chapter is betad by TheMuseOfDeduction. All mistakes are mine.

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CHAPTER THREE – Warning (Sherlock's POV)

March 2012

'Friends? I don't have friends!'

What made me say something like this? I hurt John which was definitely 'a bit not good', causing him to leave me and to leave the pub. Undoubtedly John just needed some air as he always does when I am like this. Only this time I didn't just behave like an utter and complete arse, which happens regularly, I have to admit. This time, I was horrified, I doubted myself. If there's one thing I can rely on, have to rely on, simply need to rely on, then it is my mind. I wondered whether I could trust myself or not. I've never felt like this before and I most sincerely hope that I will never feel like it again. When I come face to face with Moriarty, I need to have my wits about me for more than just my own life depends on it. I cannot afford to be scared. I watch my trembling hand, still clasping the glass of whiskey for dear life. The fog in my head still lingers and I still feel a bit shaken by the events of the night, but I know I have to make it up to John.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a young woman entering the pub and taking a seat at the bar. I hear the barkeeper saying her name, Miss Mortimer. She's Henry's therapist. Interesting. I haven't spoken to her yet and at the moment I'm obviously in no condition to do so. I hesitate a moment, then I take my iPhone out of my pocket and take a picture of her.

I open WhatsApp and create a new message. Henry's therapist is currently in Cross Keys Pub. S

It only takes a few seconds before John is answering me. At least we're still on speaking terms. So?

Interview her?

His reply comes almost instantly. WHY SHOULD I?

I heave a sigh. Well, on arguing terms, then. Still better than nothing… I don't send a text this time but simply attach her picture. My finger hovers a second above the button before I press 'send'. It's my way of saying sorry. She's his type and I need the information.

I leave the room, climbing the stairs to my bedroom and hoping that I'll see John at breakfast. He'll have cooled down by then. He always does. I know that John forgives me far too easy because he's a great friend and even so much more than that.

In my room I sit down on my bed, tailor fashioned, resting my head against the wall and applying three nicotine patches to my right forearm. My eyes flicker to the crook of my arm for the fraction of a second and I briefly ponder the fact how easy my mind stilled when I injected my seven percent solution, which now seems ages ago. I shake my head. Strangely enough I don't feel tempted anymore. All I need is this ... and John. I don't like that he's not around right now. His presence usually helps me think. I still feel a bit antsy and adrift by my feelings; the kind of feelings which I hate; feelings which lead to the experience of other feelings. I've buried them deep, deep down in the catacombs of my mind palace but they constantly keep re-emerging now.

I heave a sigh and close my eyes. There will be enough time analysing my emotions later. Now I need to solve this case. Inwardly I go back to the hollow, reliving the events of the night when Henry and I were affected whereas John wasn't. I know it must have to do with a drug, administered to us in a certain way. But how? How? Contrary to us, John wasn't scared for he didn't see the hound. The question is why? What have we done differently? Something that Henry and I have in common that John and I do not. John and I are together constantly, we've eaten the same things, drank the same drinks.

Oh.

My eyes fly open. The coffee! He drinks his coffee black while Henry and I take sugar in it. Involuntarily I have to smile. Sugar. Simple. Why did it take me that long? For Heaven's sake, I embarrassed myself in front of John who most probably believes that I'm unstable right now.

I furrow my brows, pondering my thoughts. Since when do I care about such trivia? I shake my head. Must be the aftermath of the drug… I need to concentrate my attention back on the case. Now the only thing that remains to be done is proving my theory and I already have something in mind how this could be done. I feel the thrill of anticipation running through my veins and relieved, I'm rubbing my hands together. First thing tomorrow morning I will advance this brilliant idea of mine.

Unfortunately, my high spirits get a proper ticking-off first thing in the morning because, to my surprise, John isn't at breakfast when I come downstairs which means that he is still angry with me. I heave a sigh. Why do relationships have to be this complicated? He knows how I think about him. He should know how I feel about him. No matter what I say. Why is he always listening to my words? I shake my head. I'm fairly certain he knows. Why do I have to say these sentimental things constantly, then? People! It's enough to make you crazy.

I have a quick coffee and hurry to Henry's afterwards, trying to retrieve his sugar to test my theory. I also need John. I don't like when he's angry with me, which means that I will have to descend to the nine rings of hell: apologising. For a moment my stomach contracts and I can feel my guilty conscience since I know very well that John won't approve of my experiment but I silence my conscience with the thought that he hates our row much more. Henry's still a veritable bundle of nerves when I see him. I try to be patient with the man but fail miserably, being on edge and bristling at his nervous and jittery behaviour.

On my way back to the cottage, I finally spot John, who is sitting on the steps of the war memorial at the graveyard reading some notes. I believe he's investigating which is a thought that makes me smile. It's not to say that he isn't smart ... he is actually very witty. Many people would do worse, but he'd inevitably draw the wrong conclusions because he would never suspect the sugar. I look at him and feel my stomach twisting again. It keeps doing this thing lately and I'm asking myself if I'm getting sick? It's something I can't afford either.

I take a deep breath and walk over to him, surrendering to my fate. John looks up as he hears me approaching him, glaring at me with a stern face while tucking his notebook back into his pocket. I slowly approach him, trying to be relaxed for I neither want to give him the feeling that I'm too sure of our reconciliation nor do I want to appear hesitatingly about making my apology. I feel awkward nevertheless.

'Did you, er, get anywhere with that Morse code?' I start the conversation, trying to break the ice.

John steps down from the memorial stone. 'No,' he replies coolly and starts to walk away but I won't give up this easily.

'U, M, Q, R, A, wasn't it?'

John doesn't stop walking and I'm forced to follow along behind him. 'UMQRA,' I reply and try to think of a meaning to the word.

'Nothing,' John's answers testily.

'U.M.Q...'

'Look, forget it. It's ... I thought I was on to something. I wasn't.'

'Sure?' I ask. At least we're talking again. Kind of…

'Yeah.'

'How about Louise Mortimer? Did you get anywhere with her?' I ask, knowing he interviewed her even though he was cross with me.

'No,' he says.

'Too bad. Did you get any information?' I keep pressing and see John smiling briefly, although he doesn't stop walking.

'You being funny now?' he asks instead.

I try to keep my voice light, innocent. 'Thought it might break the ice a bit.'

'Funny doesn't suit you. I'd stick to ice.' John's words were sharp. They cut like a knife cuts through butter. I know he is hurting me because I hurt his feelings.

'John ...,' I start but he interrupts me immediately.

'It's fine.'

I start feeling uncomfortable. This isn't turning out as it should. 'No, wait. What happened last night ... Something happened to me; something I've not really experienced before ...,' I try to explain my behaviour from the night before.

'Yes, you said: fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said-.'

I catch up with him, take hold of his arm and pull him around to face me. I need him to understand this. 'No-no-no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I've always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night.'

He looks at me in disbelief. 'You can't actually believe that you saw some kind of monster.'

'No, I can't believe that,' I say and grin bitterly for a moment. 'But I did see it, so the question is: how? How?'

'Yes. Yeah, right, good. So you've got something to go on, then? Good luck with that,' he replies and turns to start walking away again.

Inwardly I heave a sigh and curse these emotions. But it has to be done and so I turn and call after him. 'Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it.'

He finally stops and turns back to face me.

'I don't have friends,' I say and bite my lip briefly. 'I've just got one.'

John looks away as he ponders my words for a moment, then he nods briefly and glances back at me. 'Right,' he answers. Then, he turns and walks away again.

Right? I look down at my feet and think about his reaction. I did apologize, didn't I? I told him what he means to me, I … Oh… 'John? John!' I call and run after him.
'You are amazing! You are fantastic!' I exclaim forcefully.

John doesn't stop but answers at least. 'Yes, all right! You don't have to overdo it.'

I catch up with him again and overtake him, then walking backwards in front of him. 'You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable,' I say cheerfully.

There, done! I said sorry and made him a compliment, which wasn't actually as hard as I thought. I slowly seem to get the hang of this stuff.

'Cheers. ... What?'

I turn around and walk beside him, taking out my own notebook and starting to write in it. 'Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others,' I reply, expressing my high estimation of him.

As a reply he contorts his face. 'Hang on – you were saying 'Sorry' a minute ago. Don't spoil it. Go on: what have I done that's so bloody stimulating?'

I stop just outside of the pub and show him what I have just written down. HOUND.

'Yeah?' he asks inquiringly.

I write another word in it. 'But what if it's not a word? What if it is individual letters?' I say and show him the page, which now reads H.O.U.N.D.

'You think it's an acronym?'

I put my notebook back into my pocket. 'Absolutely no idea but ...,' I begin to explain my thoughts on the matter when my eyes fall on Detective Inspector Lestrade who, according to the colour of his face, just came back from vacation and is standing in front of the reception desk right now.

My face grows dark. 'What the hell are you doing here?' I exclaim as I storm into the pub.

An hour later John and I are watching him walking away in order to have a chat with the local force. I still can't believe that my bloody brother sent him after me.

'So that was their dog that people saw out on the moor?' John asks, referring to our interview with the pub's owners.

'Looks like it.'

'But that wasn't what you saw. That wasn't just an ordinary dog,' he inquires.

This is the perfect moment to put the next phase of my plan into action. John just drank the coffee I made for him, the one with the sugar in it. It's about time to test my theory. 'No,' I answer, letting my gaze become distant. 'It was immense, had burning red eyes and it was glowing, John. Its whole body was glowing.' I feign a shudder, acting as if I am shaking off the memory, then I turn and walk towards the car park. 'I've got a theory but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it.'

John walks next to me, looking at me expectantly. 'How? Can't pull off the ID trick again.'

'Might not have to,' I reply and get out my phone, hitting the speed dial. Then I lift the phone to my ear. Mycroft definitely owes me for sending Lestrade to spy on me.

'Sherlock,' my brother greets me. His voice betrays his annoyance, which I can tell after years of experience.

'Hello, brother dear. How are you?' I say in my most engaging tone, smiling endearingly. I cast a quick glance at John who smirks. Apparently, I am forgiven now. The thought makes the queasy feeling in my stomach get worse, which really is becoming annoying. If it continues I'll have to talk to John about it. I don't like being sick.

Mycroft breathes audibly a few times before he answers. 'Sherlock, what the hell are you doing in Baskerville? This is top secret!'

I roll my eyes. There's no point in hiding it due to the fact that he can't see it anyway. 'That's why I called you. I'm investigating a case. I have a theory I need to test and I have to go back into Baskerville in order to test it. They won't fall for my card trick a second time, but a call from you, dear brother, opens doors.'

'Sherlock, I'm just a …' he starts but I interrupt him.

'…minor government official. Of course, you are.'

'Very well,' he says, sighing. 'I see what I can do. But I won't be able to give you more than 24 hours.'

Since The Woman's death, he definitely tries to go easy on me. Obviously even my brother isn't immune to sentiment. He gives in far too easy. How unusual. I really don't know what it is with these people and that woman. I don't fancy her. The mere thought makes my stomach turn. She is smart, witty, a fair opponent. I like them smart. She inspired a composition of mine, once, and now everyone thinks I'm whining for her. Good lord! John already inspired 78 compositions and I'm fairly convinced he wouldn't accuse me of being in love with him. Not that he knows about it. Heaven forbid. I like a quiet life.

'I won't need more time,' I confirm.

'Good. Anyway, there's something else I need to talk to you about, Sherlock,' my brother says. 'John's with you, I presume?'

'Of course,' I reply. Where else would he be?

Mycroft clears his throat. 'About our Irish friend. I've taken the liberty of inviting him for a chat, but he seems to dislike my hospitality.'

'I'm sorry to hear. That's really very unfortunate indeed,' I reply vaguely and cast a quick glance towards John, who is listening intently.

'Indeed it is. Well, he actually has spent his time off on decorating the walls of his room with your name. It's all over it,' my brother continues.

I smile faintly. 'Interesting.'

'Yes, isn't it? He only wants to talk about you. The man really isn't interested in any other subject at all.'

I turn my head away from John as if I'm looking for something. When I answer my brother I'm keeping my voice down. 'To be honest, everything else would have surprised me.'

'I've been running through a whole program of activities with him. All effort proved useless.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' I whisper. 'I believe that he absolutely should think about me all the time.'

When I cast another glance at my friend, I find him looking at me suspiciously. 'Mycroft, this is important,' I press, talking in my normal voice again.

'I understand,' Mycroft says dubiously. 'Well, he wants to get to know you better. He wants some information about you. About your childhood, your upbringing, about God-knows-what.'

'I see,' I reply, being aware of the implications.

'He will use this information, trying to destroy you,' Mycroft presses and I can hear the concern in his words.

'I know,' I say. Moriarty will most definitely try to use every bit against me, discrediting me, burning the heart out of me. His motive is easy to deduce. I am one with my work, married to it; I define myself by my work. Without work, I am nothing.

'Well, between you and me, my patience is wearing thin. Are you standing fast? Shall I talk to him? Shall I give him what he is asking for?' he asks reluctantly. He'd rather not follow this path, but I know that despite his worry he knows this is the only solution to get finally rid of Moriarty.

I take a deep breath. 'Under all circumstances!'

'Well, that's settled then,' he says, sounding tired. 'Then, dear brother, both of us will burn in the not all too distant future.'

I hesitate for a moment. 'Thank you,' I reply, 'I'm afraid there's nothing to do about it.'

Mycroft keeps silent for a few seconds. Then he quietly says 'Good luck' before ending the call.

A few days later, London experienced another wild, stormy night. Even though it was an unusually warm March by now, Mother Nature didn't release the city completely out of her grasp. Outside, the boisterous wind was wailing mercilessly through the street and the rain was lashing heavily against the windows. Baker Street's road gullies weren't able to handle the water masses fast enough and so huge puddles had formed on the street and the pavement.

John and I sat together all evening in blissful silence. Both of us had moved our chairs closer to the chimney fire that radiated pleasant warmth. Yesterday the radiator broke down again and the responsible company refused to come and repair it before the following morning. Just when I wanted to explain the tediousness of the situation to the person in question, John snatched the phone out of my hands before I could even blink with my eyes. I should be sulking about his cheeky behaviour, but the situation has its merits. The flat is cold and with the fire as the only source of warmth, were sitting together closely. I like this intimacy although I wouldn't admit to it – or worse: venting this in front of John. He can be picky about the choice of words concerning behaviour or descriptions of the nature of our relationship - or the word 'relationship' at all.

John is sitting opposite me, balancing his laptop on his knees. Apparently he is absorbed in one of his medical essays. I'm sitting in my chair, thinking, eyes closed, legs stretched, fingertips put together under my chin. I retreated to my mind palace, structuring the data from the Baskerville case. Unfortunately, John has written down the case again in a most ornate writing style. I inwardly cringed when I read it for the first time but I decided on not commenting on it. I actually took the whole case for John's sake that probably saved him from a mental breakdown since he insisted that I had behaved hyperactively, rude and arrogant again, before Henry Knight had appeared. I beg to differ but I can't shake the guilty conscience that is torturing me for what I will put John through soon. Therefore I decided to give him some rest and peace now and then. Unfortunately, the case actually proved to be as disappointingly straightforward as I feared. I must confess that I superbly played accepting the whole thing reluctantly. Even by my standards. But the case certainly presented one or two interesting puzzles and distracted me for a while from my problem with Moriarty, making the time waiting for his opening gambit pass more quickly for me. At worst, it will be weeks from now. I know my brother is looking well after him. Between the Adler affair and the Baskerville case I did my best, trying to make his life miserable, discomfiting him. I retrieved the Turner painting, I solved the kidnapping of a family man organized by him, I saw Lestrade during the last couple of weeks more often than Mrs Hudson. I humiliated the criminal genius by thwarting his plans. He has a reputation to lose...and he is losing it slowly. On the downside there is this media circus. I hate it but at the moment it's vital to my plan. I'm getting attention and I need it to get his. The more I'm standing in the spotlight right now, the better. I know that John hates it, too. He thinks I'm going to be famous and that fame won't last forever. I sincerely hope all of it will be over soon again.

'OH. MY. GOD!' John suddenly cried. 'Sherlock!'

I don't move and instead of answering I simply regard his remark with a vague 'Hm'.

'SHERLOCK!' John repeats and he sounds most determined. When I open my eyes he stands in front of me, brandishing his laptop in front of my face. 'He was here. HERE! In our flat.'

I sit up, irritated, and snatch the laptop out of his hands. 'For crying out loud! Isn't it possible to have five minutes of peace in this house?" I reply grumpily and cast a quick look on the screen which showed why John was out of his mind.

Hello, boys! Do forgive me for hacking into your blog. See you soon, boys! Xxxx

The message which was posted on John's blog could only come from one man and implied that my brother released him from custody. My mood immediately lightens.

Four kisses. Four pips. Four warnings. Still no fifth pip. Which means that game continues.

I see that a video is embedded in the text and press the play-button.

The camera shows the hall of front of the stairs it pauses a moment. Then I hear Moriarty's voice.

'Who lives in a house like this? It's home to me. How clean is your house? I smell baking. It's apple pie. Glorious Mrs Hudson.'

Then, he climbs up the stairs to our flat.

'Hello? God look at the wallpaper! So here we are Sherlock Holmes HQ. Too many notes,' he says, looking at my sheets of music.

'Boring. Boring,' he comments on my collection of criminal objects. Then, the camera pans towards my antelope skull.

'He put headphones on it. Good god.'

Now the camera wanders through my bookshelves. 'Books. Books. Books. What do we have here?'

The camera stops in front of the fireplace, zooming in on my knife on the mantelpiece. 'Temper. Temper. Temper.'

Then, he takes a look at Billy. 'A skull? I wonder what your skull would look like on my wall. More skulls. More skulls. Market stall tat,' he continues says, taking a look at my belongings. John probably would say my mess.

'Tsk tsk Oh the hours must FLY by. Alas, poor Sherlock. I knew him well. Time to go, time to go.' He quotes Hamlet, wrongly, but I nevertheless get his message, meaning death is inevitable.

The tape ends with his chuckle.

'Ah,' I comment on the video, already feeling the thrill of the chase to come. Involuntarily the corner of my mouth twitches although I try very hard not to smirk.

However, it doesn't slip John's attention. '"Ah" is all you can come up with?' he asked incredulously. "The lunatic broke into our apartment…and into my blog!'

My eyes light up. 'Yes, indeed. Impertinent, but also risky. I cannot blame him for doing it. If I knew where he lived, I would most certainly pay him a visit,' I say, making every effort to control my facial expression. I think it wisely to withhold the information for the moment that the lunatic obviously had a key to our apartment.

John looks at me with a straight face. 'Not good!'

For a moment I look at him, confused. 'Oh,' I reply, finally realizing what he means. 'No, of course not. Not at all good. I just mean... it's just ...the logical course of action.'

The roar of the wind and the lashing rain were drowned out by the screeching brakes of a car that was brought abruptly to a halt in front of our house.

Instantly we look at each other.

'I only hope he does not come to see us. I really don't want to go out tonight,' John says.

Seconds later, the doorbell rings and John heaves a sigh.

I hear Mrs Hudson opening the door for our guest. 'Is he here?' a strained voice from the hallway says.

'Come right up, Lestrade,' I call down.

'Evening, Greg. I hope you only come for a beer and a nice chat,' John greets him as Greg Lestrade walks into the living room a moment later. 'The weather's lousy!'

The inspector is completely soaked and looks like a drowned rat. 'Evening, John. I'm afraid I need you tonight.'

My stomach feels queasy. The thrill of the chase is taking over my thoughts. 'Ricoletti?' I ask elated.

Greg looks at me in disbelief, sighing. 'Yes, Ricoletti,' he confirms.

I smirk. Turner had been a blow right to Moriarty's face, but Ricoletti will be really painful...and thus, I believe, the decisive game is likely to be declared open.

Author's note: I used Ariane DeVeres transcript of 'The Hounds of Baskerville' for the dialogue, referring to the original BBC episode. . #cutid1