"Sherlock, where are you going?" Greg shouted from behind me as I stormed off into the woods. It was dark, I was scared, but I needed to find the dog.
"If you're going after that bloody dog then I'm coming with you. So's John, and I'm pretty sure Molly will be too."
"I appreciate it, Greg, I really do, but if anyone gets killed tonight it'll be me, only me." I said, and walked off into the woods. Greg followed. "Go back, Greg. Please."
"Molly! John! Get over here!"
We heard the howl an hour after they followed me into the woods. I was glad for the company, but they slowed me down. I doubted anyone would make it out of the woods alive. We chased down the dog, tearing through the foliage and trees, until we found it. We crouched behind a bush, watching it, listening to it pant. It howled again- the sound was bot terrifying and deafening, threatening to burst my ear drums and send me running through the woods.
I took a photo; when I looked, the dog didn't show up on the screen. It was too dark.
"Shit." I cursed loudly. Too loudly. The hound's neck snapped round, it's eyes fixated on me, growling angrily. For the second time that night I sprinted off in the direction of the camp, Molly, John and Greg following, running as fast as they could to keep up with me. I took a wrong turn and tumbled down a mud bank, my duffle coat wripping on twigs and rocks as I rolled. I tucked my elbows in and pushed my hands out to bring myself to a stop. John hit me, rolling fast and knocking me over again, Greg and Molly collapsing on top of us. The hound howled from on top of the bank; it wasn't coming after us, then. I breathed a sigh of relief. We would be dead if it had followed us...or would we? John didn't say how the man was killed, he had only said it was blamed on a dog. What if he had been killed- murdered?
We were lost. Terribly, hopelessly lost in the woods with a maybe-killer dog. It was midnight, or past, and the moon was shining brightly, providing some light. We attempted to climb the mud bank, but it was futile; the gradient was too steep.
"We have to find another way back up." I said, brushing off a layer of dirt from my duffle coat. Molly groaned. We had been stuck in the woods for hours; I was starting to wonder if we would ever get out. I flopped down into the mud, completely resigned. John collapsed next to me, Molly and Greg following.
"I think it was a murder." I said, loosing all tack.
"Are you sure you're not just wishing for another case?" asked John skeptically.
I shrugged. "Probably."
"AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" someone shouted from the top of the bank. They spontaneously rolled down the hill towards us; we jumped out of the way as the figure, arms flailing, hit the ground. It was distinctly Dimmock-shaped. None of us helped him up. He didn't get up. John looked at his head and body, being the most medically qualified, and announced that Dimmock was most likely concussed. I was tempted to leave him in the forest to die, but thought better of it. John sat him against the mud bank and we waited for him to wake up; we couldn't move on until he did. What a fun trip this had turned out to be.