Thanks so much for all the support for the previous chapter! I'm slowly getting my way through responding to all the reviews, so if I haven't replied to you yet, fret not, for I shall!

Enjoy!

I'll admit, I was just the teensiest bit disappointed when I woke up the next morning and noticed the absence of Sherlock's gangly body curled up next to mine. Twisting around to gaze at the indent he made in the mattress, I smile in spite of myself, and do a little happy wriggle in my cocoon of cosiness. I mean, of course I wasn't expecting a good morning-kiss on the forehead and a steaming cup of tea but still…

Oh for crying out loud, get a grip on yourself Audrey! You should be grateful for the fact that he willingly touched you! This is Sherlock we're talking about.

To be honest, I was just astounded that he even knew what spooning was.

Humming cheerfully to myself, I hop out of bed and make my way towards the bathroom. Twisting the tap, I wait a few seconds for the water to heat up before pulling back the curtain and standing under the showerhead. 'YaAH...ha..ha..hot…' I hop from toe to toe as my body adjusts to the temperature. Squeezing an unhealthy dollop of lemon scented shower gel into my palm, I wash myself clean of all the scandalous thoughts my mind was conjuring up of myself and Sherlock.

Oh Audrey…you indecent thing…

If there was such thing as a God of Bad Timing, then I'm pretty sure he or she has made it their life's ambition to terrorize me. I say this because, the exact moment a glob of shampoo nearly scalds my eyeballs from their sockets, is the exact moment that Sherlock decides to barge into the bathroom, drenched in blood and waving a harpoon around like psychotic Inuit.

'SHERL- WHAT ARE YOU DO – IS THAT BLOOD!?' I shriek unintelligibly, wrapping the shower curtain around my body while simultaneously rinsing my eyes out.

'Got into a spot of bother with a pig in…' He waves his hand casually. 'The details aren't important. However, I do need to wash the animal blood from my body so, if you please…' He gestures to the door with one hand while picking a bit of dried blood from his hair with the other.

Having successfully given life back to my eyeballs, I pull the curtain across and continue to rinse my hair. 'I'm sorry Sherlock, but it sounded like you just said you wanted to use the shower now? Would I be correct in saying that?'

'Mhmm.' He mumbles distractedly, as he unbuttons the top of his shirt.

'Okay. Hop in then.' I reply cheerfully.

I see his shadow through the curtain, as his hand drops from his shirt uncertainly. 'Wai – What?' It takes my absolute everything to try and stifle the laugh that is threatening to burst out.

'You heard me.' I say, my voice shaking with suppressed giggles.

'But you're in th-'

'The shower?' I finish his sentence. 'Why yes, thank you for noticing that, Sherlock. Now, if you wouldn't mind waiting outside like a proper gentleman would-'

'No.' he replies defiantly, crossing his arms as I whip my head around the curtain to glare at him.

'What did you just say?' I hiss, my inner Gollum threatening to make an appearance.

'My house. My bathroom. My rules.'

I gape at him for a second, my temper beginning to rise. 'Are you – Sherlock, I'm in the shower now!'

'But I'm covered in bloo-'

'I AM A LADY, SHERLOCK HOLMES!' I screech unintentionally loudly. Sherlock, realising he's took it a step to far, slowly backs out of the room, both hands held up in surrender. 'Good God woman, don't shriek at me like that.' He says in a rather appalled tone, before shutting the bathroom door with a click.

Astounded, I marvel at the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes. One minute, he's all romantic and protective and basically just…lush, and the next minute you'd swear he's never had real human interaction before in his life!

I close my eyes and dramatically press my cheek to the tiled wall, imagining that the water droplets rolling down my face are tears.

(Now, don't look at me like that – We've all done it before.)

'Why?' I whisper. 'Why couldn't my soul mate have been Robert Downey Jr?'

'Oh no…Oh there, there Henry.' I lean forward and pat the young man's knee consolingly. 'You just tell us in your own time.'

'Yes but quite quickly.' Sherlock intones impatiently. Henry lowers the tissue he had pressed to his eyes. 'Dartmoor, Mr Holmes, it's an amazing place. It's like nowhere else. It's sort of ... bleak but beautiful.'

'Mmm, not interested. Moving on.' Sherlock waves his hand tiredly.

I throw Sherlock a venomous look and smile encouragingly at Henry, motioning for him to continue. 'We used to go for walks, after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we'd go out onto the moor-'

'Yes, good.' Sherlock cuts across him. 'Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?'

'Sherlock!' I hiss at him, shaking my head disapprovingly while John slowly lowers his forehead into his hands. 'There's a place.' Henry continues, seemingly unfazed. 'It's a sort of local landmark called Dewer's Hollow.' Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, as if to say, 'And?'

Henry leans forward, and says in a low voice, 'That's an ancient name for the Devil.'

'Whaaat?' I gasp dramatically, trying to make up for Sherlock's blatant disinterest. It seems to please Henry, who looks quite chuffed with himself for creating such a reaction.

John hides a smirk, and addresses Henry seriously. 'Did you see the Devil that night?

His face turns pale. *Cue flashback* 'Yes.' His eyes look into the distance, as if watching something that we can't see. 'It was huge. Coal-black fur, with red eyes.' His eyes begin to tear up again. 'It got him, tore at him. Tore him apart.' He blinks, returning to the present. 'I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found.' His nose crinkles up a bit, as though he's about to start crying.

My heart breaks for the poor boy. I can understand the loss he's feeling. Hurrying over to his side I wrap my arms around his shoulders, squeezing them tightly. 'I'm so sorry you had to go through that alone, Henry.' I whisper softly, so that the others don't hear. He lifts his head up to give me a small, teary-eyed smile.

'Hmm.' John says thoughtfully, breaking the silence. 'Red eyes, coal-black fur, enormous: dog? Wolf?'

'Or a genetic experiment.' Sherlock tilts his head to the side, and bites back a smile. I narrow my eyes and throw him a "Bitch I will cut you" kind of look.

'Are you laughing at me, Mr Holmes?' Henry asks defensively, glancing up at me.

Sherlock's expression turns serious. 'Why, are you joking?'

Henry, appearing quite offended, stands up and heads towards the door. 'I'm not sure you can help me, Mr Holmes, since you find it all so funny.'

'Because of what happened last night?' Sherlock asks casually, inspecting his fingernails. Henry turns back, baffled. 'How ... how do you know?'

'I didn't know; I noticed.'

John and I share an "Oh dear lord, here we go" look.

'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 stares at him, then glances across to John and me, as we simultaneously sigh and roll our eyes. Although secretly, I'm dying inside. Know-it-all Sherlock is the biggest turn-on I've ever fallen prey to in my entire life.

Hesitantly, Henry walks back to the chair and sits down, fishing around in his jacket pocket. 'How on earth did you notice all that?'

'It's not important ...' John swiftly begins to steer the conversation in another direction but Sherlock's already off, reciting his spiel in an astonishingly accurate Hermoine Granger fashion. He points to two small, round, white pieces of paper stuck to Henry's coat. 'Punched-out holes where your ticket's been checked...' Turning his attention to the napkin, he continues. '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.'

Henry laughs in awe. 'How did you know it was disappointing?'

'Is there any other type of breakfast on a train?' Sherlock smiles to himself, as though he himself is amazed by his own cunning. '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.' His gaze becomes intense, bordering on creepy. 'No chance to smoke one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here...'

He blinks suddenly, as if awakening from a daydream and glances 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 stares at him in amazement, then draws in a shaky breath. 'You're right. You're completely, exactly right! Bloody hell, I heard you were quick.'

Sherlock smiles smugly. 'It's my job.' He leans forward in his seat and glares at Henry, unblinking. 'Now shut up and smoke.' Taking out a roll-up, Henry pauses to turn to me before he lights it. 'Do you mind?'

Bless his little soul for asking.

'No, not at all!' I quickly reply, for fear that Sherlock might rip my throat out if I denied him his second-hand smoke. John frowns at Sherlock's slightly quivering form. 'Um, Henry, your parents both died and you were, what, seven years old?'

Henry pauses before he answers, exhaling his first lungful of smoke. Sherlock stands up and steps closer to him. 'I know. That ... my ...' He stops as Sherlock leans into the smoke drifting out from Henry's mouth and breathes in deeply and noisily through his nose. Having sucked up most of the smoke, he sits down again and breathes out, whining quietly in pleasure.

I stare at him in either awe or disgust, I can't be too sure at this stage. I attempt to catch John's attention, but to no avail. He seems to be trying his absolute hardest to ignore him. 'That must be a ... quite a trauma. Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story, this...'

John trails off as Henry exhales another lungful, and Sherlock dives in to noisily hoover up the smoke again. 'Sher-Sherlock Holmes!' I hiss at him. 'Sit down. You're giving me second-hand embarrassment!'

Henry eyes Sherlock dubiously, and slowly turns back towards John. 'That's what Doctor Mortimer, my therapist, says.'

John sits forward in his seat, eager to make some sense of the case. 'What happened last night, Henry? What did you see?'

Henry's expression turns dark. 'Footprints. Footprints on the exact spot where I saw my father torn apart.'

Sherlock, looking both exasperated and slightly disappointed. 'No, sorry, Doctor Mortimer wins. Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye, Mr Knight. Thank you for smoking.' He leans forward in his seat and flicks his fingers at Henry, gesturing him towards the door. 'Off to Devon with you; have a cream tea on me.'

'Sherlock –' John begins to object, but I place my hand on his shoulder, giving him a pointed look. His eyes widen in understanding, and he nods.

Henry stares at Sherlock imploringly, shaking his head. 'Mr Holmes, you don't understand, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!' Sherlock raises his head sharply, pauses for a fraction of a second, and then stands up.

'I'll take the case.'

After almost two hours of driving through the British countryside, we finally pull into the parking space of a quaint little B&B, on the outskirts of Grimpen Village. As we walk towards the entrance of the inn, we come across a gaggle of American tourists, earnestly listening to the young man giving the tour. Clearly, he's just about to finish up.

'…three times a day, tell your friends. Tell anyone!' He encourages the group as they wander inside the pub. Leaning his sign on the side of the wall, I catch a glimpse of it before we enter the inn.

'Beware the hound.' I mumble, reading it aloud. Sherlock turns his head to glance at the tour guide with a withering look. 'Ugh.' He groans. 'I hate youths.' I smirk up at him, finding myself in agreement with this opinion. 'You and me both, buddy.'

Don't get me wrong, I love my friends but, I've always seemed to have little patience for my peer group. Maybe I just mix better with older people? Like, older men, perhaps? With dark curly hair and cheekbones and blue –

Okay feel free to shut up now, Audrey.

Once inside the surprisingly cosy and kitschy pub, we approach the check-in desk. 'Afternoon!' The cheerful, blonde barman greets us. 'How can I help?'

'Afternoon.' John replies with a polite smile. 'We'll be needing three rooms please.' The barman's face falls at this slightly. 'Oh, I'm afraid we only have two left. The beginning of spring is always such a busy time for us, what with all the Americans…' He trails off, consulting his reservation book. Sherlock sighs impatiently and checks his watch as I make eye contact with John, giving him an uneasy look. The barman looks up from the book and addresses us again. 'Okay, so we have one single room and one double left.' He glances from John to Sherlock. 'I'm sure you two will be wanting the double room.' John grimaces and his face begins to turn pink, while Sherlock glares affronted at the blonde man, who shrinks under his cold gaze.

'No, you are quite mistaken.' Sherlock quips. 'The double room is for us.' He wraps his arm around my waist as he says "us". I just nod quickly, unable to speak (or move) at this point in time. John raises his eyebrows at me, but remains quite. Though I swear I see him try to hide a smirk.

'Perfect.' The barman snaps the book shut and moves towards the computer. 'And how would you like to pay?'

'John's credit card.' Sherlock and I reply simultaneously. John throws us both a filthy look before reluctantly pulling his wallet out.

Hah. That wiped the smirk off his face.

'Ta.' The barman plucks the gold card from John's hand. Looking over his shoulder, he calls to the brown-haired man in the back room. 'Billy, can you show our new guests to their rooms please.'

Billy puts down the crate of beer he had been carrying and walks towards the counter. 'I will of course.' Smiling warmly at us he takes two sets of keys from the board behind and beckons us to follow him. Sherlock's hand travels up my side and arm, so that it is draped leisurely over my shoulder. I glance up at him confusedly, and he replies with a raised eyebrow, as if to say 'Problem?'. Feeling rather delighted with myself, we follow Billy through one of the doors to the right of the room.

'Now, the single room for Mister..?' He waits for John to reply as he unlocks the bedroom.

'Watson. John Watson.' John smiles and takes a step inside his room. Before I get a glance inside his temporary living quarters, Billy swishes past us and calls behind. 'Come on, then.' Sherlock and I exchange a look before following the overly-enthusiastic man. Taking us up a small flight of stairs, he stops in front of the first of two possible bedrooms. 'This is my favourite.' He whispers dramatically. 'The view is to die for.'

'Doubtful.' Sherlock murmurs.

'Oooh!' I squeal in spite of myself as I walk in. The room is fairly big and bright, with two sets of mahogany wardrobes on either side of the King-sized (Well, not quite) bed. A vanity table stands in front of the large, south-facing bay window (I can confirm that the view is, in fact, to die for) and a small door to the right of the bed leads to the en suite. Hanging on the wall above the bed frame is a black and white canvas print of Charlie Chaplin, donning his iconic bowler hat, moustache and cane combo.

Sighing appreciatively at our cosy lodgings, I turn to face Billy. 'It's perfect! Thank you.' He grins in return and heads towards the door, stopping to mumble something at Sherlock before he leaves. Sherlock smiles tightly in response, and quickly snaps the door shut behind him.

'What did he say, Sherlock?'

Sherlock looks at me with wide eyes before waving his hand nonchalantly. 'Oh, it was nothing.'

Had this been different circumstances, I would have tortured the information from him. But…There was still a bathroom to be explored…So I brushed it off and bounced over to explore said bathroom. 'Oh!' I gasp as I set my eyes on the Victorian-style clawfoot bathtub in the centre of the room. 'Oh Sherlock, come look at the bath!' His head pops around the doorframe a few seconds later.

'Hmm.' He eyes it suspiciously. 'Might require a slight squeeze to fit in…'

I bumble back into the bedroom, and test out the bed's squishy:firm ratio. 'Dibs on the right side of the bed!' I shout at Sherlock, who is currently attempting to fit himself into the tub. 'Seems fair.' He calls back after a minute or so. 'It is highly unlikely that I'll be doing much sleeping for the next three days.'

'You can bet your ass we won't be doing much sleep –'

'What was that?' Sherlock materializes beside me, sending my heart into raging palpitations.

'Nothing.' I mumble, shimmying myself off the bed. Kneeling down to unzip my suitcase, I sort through the clothes until I find the silver photo frame. Gazing at it fondly, I place a kiss on the glass and set it on the bedside table. Sherlock squints at the photo for a split second before letting out an exasperated, 'Oh for the love of God!'

'What?' I reply indignantly.

'You know, I'm not even surprised.' He attempts to keep a serious face before shaking his head. 'Only you would bring a framed photo of your cat, Audrey.' He looks at me affectionately for another few seconds before he realises what he's doing. Rising up from his side of the bed, he strides towards the door.

'Well come along then. This case isn't going to solve itself.'

Thirty minutes later we pull up just outside the gates of Baskerville. I notice quite a few military personnel guarding the building, and others walking around the perimeter. A security guard holding a rifle raises his hand, and walks around to the driver's window.

'Pass, please.'

Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and hands him the access-all-areas pass he stole from Mycroft's office last week.

'Thank you.' The guard replies sharply and walks away.

I tap my foot against the floor of the jeep nervously, trying not to make eye contact with any of the guards. John glances back and gently pats my knee.

The security guard swipes the card through a reader at the gate room. I crane my neck to get a look at the screen. A small photograph of Mycroft pops up, as well as showing his status as "Secure". The gates begin to slide open as the security guard approaches the jeep.

'Clear.' He hands Sherlock the pass. 'Thank you very much, sir.'

I breathe a sigh of relief as Sherlock drives smoothly through the gates. The main complex is a rather intimidating building, with masses of barbed wire wrapped around the top of the bordering walls. Once the car is parked we make haste to the entrance, stopping when a military jeep slams to a halt in front of us, and a young corporal jumps out. Hurrying over to us, he looks rather disgruntled.

'What is it? Are we in trouble?'

Sherlock frowns before he addresses the young man sternly. "Are we in trouble, sir."

I all but swoon.

'Yes, sir, sorry, sir.' The corporal corrects himself and takes a step in front of us, holding out his hands to prevent us getting nearer to the entrance. 'Your ID showed up straight away, Mr Holmes. Corporal Lyons, security.' He introduces himself. 'Is there something wrong, sir?'

'Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not.' Sherlock shakes his head in mock-seriousness.

'It's just we don't get inspected here, you see, sir. It just doesn't happen.'

'Ever heard of a spot check?' John intones. He then takes a small wallet from his pocket and shows his ID to the corporal. 'Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.' Even before he finishes speaking, Lyons comes to attention and salutes. I almost squeal out loud with proudness, but settle for clasping my hands together and grinning like an idiot.

The grins falters from my face though, when all eyes are suddenly on me, waiting for an introduction. I glance at Sherlock, panicking slightly. 'Hello, I'm…uh…'

'Audrey. My fiancé.' Sherlock finishes for me. Both John and the corporal stare incredulously at him, while I manage an almost-convincing smile. I notice the corporal glancing down at my hands, obviously observing their lack of an engagement ring. 'Oh, yes.' I laugh, in a hopefully blasé tone. 'We only became engaged last Sunday, you see. We haven't got around to going ring shopping yet.' I continue to smile cheerfully at him.

Lyons looks as though he's about to say something to Sherlock, before he suddenly turn back towards me. 'I'm sorry, how old are you?'

'Twenty-one.' I reply defensively. 'Twenty-two this June.'

'I'm afraid we won't have time for pleasantries.' John interjects. 'We'll need the full tour right away. Carry on.'

Lyons hesitates.

'That's an order, Corporal.'

'Yes, sir.' Lyons immediately stands to attention and leads us through the entrance. He walks a few paces ahead of us, giving us some time to quickly and quietly confer.

'Fiancé, Sherlock? Really?' I hiss at him. He glances down at me, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. 'I thought you'd be pleased.' I gape at him, trying and failing to disagree with him. 'Well, that's not the point.' I finally manage to get out. John also seems to be finding this most amusing. 'Stop it, you...That's an order.' I repeat his words with a smile.

'Yes nice touch, that.' Sherlock adds.

John appears quite chuffed with himself. 'Haven't pulled rank in ages.'

Reaching the door at the end of the corridor, Lyons swipes his pass. The doors slide opens and reveal an elevator on the other side. We take it down to the third floor, stepping out into what appears to be a brightly lit laboratory. As we move forward, various staff dressed in white coveralls with full breathing masks walk around the lab. As Lyons leads the way past them, a caged monkey screams and hurls itself at the bars towards us. I shriek in fright, clutching the side of Sherlock's coat.

And I swear to God, every single worker in that room simultaneously stop what they're doing to look at me. The lab is silent, save for the occasional beeping from some machine.

I wince at my shocking girly-ness. 'Sorry…'

I then make a vow of silence to myself.

At the far end of the lab, a scientist wearing coveralls takes his mask off and approaches our group. 'Don't be embarrassed.' He consoles me kindly. 'George's always giving people frights.' He looks at the monkey fondly. 'Only happened to me last week!'

I smile at him gratefully. The man stares for a few more seconds before Lyons introduces us. 'Sorry, Doctor Frankland. This is Mr. Holmes and his fiancé, and Captain Watson. I'm just showing them around.'

'Ah, I see. Careful you don't get stuck here, though. I only came to fix a tap!' Chuckling to himself, he continues past us and towards the elevator. Lyons leads us through the door and into another lab, where another monkey is standing up on a high metal table. A female scientist looks at it and then turns to her colleague.

'Okay, Michael, let's try Harlow Three next time.'

As she walks away from the table, Lyons approaches her. 'Doctor Stapleton.'

'Stapleton.' Sherlock whispers thoughtfully to himself.

'Yes?' She looks at Sherlock, John and I. 'Who's this?'

'Priority Ultra, ma'am. Orders from on high. An inspection.'

'We're to be accorded every courtesy, Doctor Stapleton.' Sherlock addresses her haughtily. 'What's your role at Baskerville?'

Stapleton looks at him and snorts with disbelieving laughter. 'I'm not free to say. Official secrets.'

Sherlock smiles tightly at her. 'Oh, you most certainly are free.'

She looks at him for a moment before speaking. 'I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up – genes, mostly; now and again actual fingers -'

Sherlock's eyes widen, as though a lightbulb has dinged above his head, and is reaching into his pocket before she finishes the sentence.

'Stapleton. I knew I recognised your name.' He holds up his notebook to her on which he has written a single large word: "BLUEBELL". She stares at it in amazement while Sherlock watches her face closely.

'Have you been talking to my daughter?'

Sherlock stows the notebook away. 'Why did Bluebell have to die, Doctor Stapleton?'

John looks at Sherlock bewilderedly. 'The rabbit?'

'The glow-in-the-dark rabbit.' I correct him, before I realise I've spoken aloud. Stapleton narrows her eyes suspiciously at me.

'Disappeared from inside a locked hutch, which was always suggestive.'

Stapleton pulls a pretty impressive poker face. 'I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Who are you?'

Ignoring her and checking his watch, Sherlock turns to Lyons. 'Well, I think we've seen enough for now, Corporal. Thank you so much.' Taking my hand, he briskly strides back towards the elevator, pulling me behind him. Sherlock's phone dings a text, and he scoffs as he reads it. 'Twenty-three minutes. You're getting slow, Mycroft.' Reaching the lift doors, he swipes his card, Lyons following in suit. The doors open, revealing Doctor Frankland standing inside, as if he has been waiting. Trying to look nonchalant, he smiles at us

'Hello ... again.'

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Sherlock steps into the lift. When we reach the ground floor, the doors open again and reveal a very grumpy looking bearded man in military uniform.

'This is bloody outrageous.' He shouts at Lyons. 'Why wasn't I told?' Sherlock slips past him, dragging me along with John following closely behind. Barrymore strides after us. 'The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense...'

'I'm so sorry, Major.' Sherlock calls back emotionlessly. 'New policy. Can't remain unmonitored forever. Goodness knows what you'd get up to.' He lowers his voice and whispers urgently to John and I. 'Keep walking.'

Lyons suddenly stops and slaps a red button on the wall. Alarms start to blare, red lights flash and the automated security door locks itself. 'ID unauthorised, sir.'

'What?' Barrymore spits.

'I've just had the call.'

Barrymore turns to Sherlock, John and I. 'Who are you?'

A little further back, I notice Doctor Frankland slowly walking towards us, looking thoughtful. I sigh in relief.

Well, at least you did something right in the book, Doctor Frankland.

'It's all right, Major.' He explains reassuringly. 'I know exactly who these people are.'

'You do?' Barrymore asks disbelievingly.

'Yeah. I'm getting a little slow on faces but Mr Holmes here isn't someone I expected to show up in this place.' He smiles knowingly at Sherlock before extending his hand. 'Good to see you again, Mycroft.'

John tries to mask his surprise as Sherlock takes Frankland's hand, smiling falsely.

'I had the honour of meeting Mr Holmes at the W.H.O. conference in…' He pretends to think. '…Brussels, was it?'

'Vienna.' Sherlock corrects him. Frankland continues to smile as his gaze falls on me. 'And may I offer my congratulations on your engagement.' I smile widely at him, before realising that Sherlock and I aren't actually engaged, and tone it down a little.

'Thank you.' I reply politely.

'This is Mr Mycroft Holmes, Major.' Frankland says, turning to Barrymore. 'There's obviously been a mistake.'

Barrymore turns and nods to Lyons, who goes back to the alarm and switches it off. A moment later the entrance door's lock disengages noisily.

'On your head be it, Doctor Frankland.' Barrymore says sharply before striding from the room.

'I'll show them out, Corporal.' Frankland laughs and addresses Lyon, who nods and follows Major Barrymore.

Sherlock spins on his heel and walks towards the now open entrance door. John and I follow him while Frankland trots behind. Sherlock throws him a "Why are you so obsessed with me?" kind of look before speaking. '…Thank you.'

'This is about Henry Knight, isn't it?' Frankland eyes him excitedly.'I know who you really are, you're Sherlock Holmes! I'm never off your website. Thought you'd be wearing the hat, though.'

Sherlock grimaces as I snigger, images of that heinous deerstalker flashing before my eyes. 'That wasn't my hat.'

Frankland ignores him, turning to speak to John, who attempts to bite back a smile. 'I hardly recognise him without the hat!'

'It wasn't my hat.' Sherlock repeats through gritted teeth.

'I love the blog too, Doctor Watson.' John smiles at this, surprised but clearly pleased. 'Cheers.'

Frankland turns his attention towards me. 'But I'm afraid I don't know your name, Miss…?'

'Audrey. Dubois.' I reply, reaching my hand out to grasp his. 'But soon to be Holmes.' He remarks, gently shaking my hand. I nod enthusiastically, deciding to play along and really milk it. 'Yeah, we're going to have a winter wedding.' I glance up at Sherlock earnestly and continue. 'Both of us aren't really into summer and...well...heat, I suppose. And my parents were planning on visiting in December anyway so, it's ideal.' I take Sherlock's hand in mine and squeeze/hug his arm with the other.

Frankland smiles pleasantly and reaches into his pocket, handing a small card to Sherlock. 'Here's my cell number. If I could help with Henry, give me a call.'

'I never did ask, Doctor Frankland…' Sherlock begins conversationally. 'What exactly is it that you do here?'

'Oh, Mr Holmes, I would love to tell you – but then, of course, I'd have to kill you!' He laughs cheerfully.

Sherlock deadpans. 'That would be tremendously ambitious of you.'

Oh snap.

'Tell me about Doctor Stapleton.' He continues.

'Never speak ill of a colleague.'

'Yet you'd speak well of one, which you're clearly omitting to do.' Sherlock observes. Raising the card, he begins to turn away. 'I'll be in touch.'

'Any time.' Frankland waves his hand and heads back towards the lab.

'So, what was all that about the rabbit?' John asks Sherlock once we reach the Land Rover. Smiling briefly, Sherlock pulls his coat tighter around him, flipping the collar up to activate full ponce mode. John rolls his eyes and turns to him. 'Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?'

'Do what?'

'You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.'

'Aha!' I bark out a rather unattractive laugh. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but is so disconcerted that for a moment he can't find the words.

'Can it be?' I ask in mock wonder. 'Sherlock Holmes…Speechless?'

Finding his voice again, he turns towards me incredulously. 'You're one to talk – "Yes we're going to have a winter wedding..."' He makes his voice go all high pitched and girly as he says this.

'Oh shut up!' Feeling my face flush with embarrassment, I hastily jump into the jeep. Chuckling to himself, Sherlock takes his seat behind the wheel. Twisting back to face me, his expression turns serious.

'Good choice, though. I would have picked winter too.'

Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Hounds of Baskerville has probably been the most requested chapter so I'm really excited to finally get it started!

PLEASE leave reviews - as always I want to know what you thought of it. Plus, they're brilliant motivation!

I'll update when I can. :)

P.s Expect some v. dramatic Sherlock and Audrey scenes to come in the following chapters...

Heh heh.