A/N: This story begins just after the main events in season 2, episode 2, "The Hounds of Baskerville," and features my OC Linlómë. Linlómë is a world-traveling fairy who befriended Sherlock and John some time ago (sometime I will have to write a story about how she convinced Sherlock magic was real) and now often accompanies the two on cases where she feels there might be something supernatural/magical involved. This is my first time publishing anything on ffnet, so do please notify me if I get any of the formatting wrong.

The Real Hound of the Baskervilles

Part One: The Encounter

"How's Henry doing?" John asked Linlómë as she entered the modern white kitchen of Baskerville Hall.

"I put the poor boy to sleep," she replied with a sympathetic smile, then asked, indicating the cup of tea in his hands, "Is there any hot water left?"

"Uh, yeah, in the kettle," John replied, tipping his head towards where the kettle sat, gently steaming, on the stovetop. Linlómë nodded her thanks and went to pour herself a cup. Sherlock, slouched in a chair at the table, slouched even further.

"I thought we were leaving," he grumbled.

John and Linlómë shared a longsuffering glance, then John said, "Yeah, we'll go once we finish our tea."

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "Why do you people always insist on your tea?" he muttered. Linlómë hid her smile in her teacup, while John rolled his eyes, but neither of them bothered to reply. Despite Sherlock's impatience, a comfortable silence descended on the kitchen, enwrapped by the pre-dawn darkness of the moor.

Oooooo-woooooo

Sherlock jerked upright and Linlómë and John froze as the sound of a large dog howling came faintly through the closed windows. All three stared at each other with wide, disbelieving eyes for a second, then Sherlock leaped to his feet and was out the door in a dark swirl of coat. Linlómë and John hastily abandoned their teacups on the counter and ran after him into the cold, overcast night.

"It can't be!" John exclaimed as he caught the front door after Sherlock had barged out of it. "That dog is dead, you killed it yourself! Are we-are we still hallucinating?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock shouted over his shoulder. "It wore off ages ago!"

"Then what did we just hear?" John continued as he ran down the path after Sherlock.

"No idea!" Sherlock returned.

"Let's go find out," Linlómë said, her fairy stamina allowing her to easily catch up to Sherlock after stopping to shut the door behind them.

Oooo-woooo. The unearthly call sounded again, clearer now that they were outside, but still a ways off.

"It came from over there," Linlómë said, pointing in the general direction of the Baskerville facility. Sherlock ran full tilt in the direction she pointed, Linlómë beside him, long black hair fluttering over her light grey overcoat. John lagged behind, already having done far too much running earlier that night for his liking. They heard another howl, far closer this time, and Sherlock and Linlómë stopped abruptly.

"What? What is it?" John gasped. In lieu of an answer, Sherlock pointed sharply at the grass in front of them. It looked like something white was crawling up the tall grass stalks. John stared, trying to figure out what was happening, then made an inarticulate noise as he realized what it was: frost was emerging from the ground and coating each blade of grass, moving in a slow wave towards them.

"Impossible," Sherlock breathed. With a look of fascination he made as if to step forwards to examine the phenomenon more closely, but Linlómë grabbed his coat-sleeve and tugged him backwards.

"I have a feeling we shouldn't touch it," she said lowly.

"Yeah, let's not," John agreed, already backing up.

Out on the dark moor ahead of them, they heard a low grrrrrrrrrrrrr. The sound seemed to come from the darkness itself, freezing them in place, their limbs stiff with a chill colder than the night air. Then, two ghostly green eyes appeared, about a hundred feet away. There was a faint rustling sound, and the soft thuds of heavy paws as the eyes began approaching, the grass seeming to shudder with every step. The ghostly green glow spread from the eyes, outlining a massive, dog-like head. The glow swept on, illuminating nothing, but sharply outlining the shape of a giant hound, the unnatural frost emanating in waves from its paws. It opened its fearsome jaws and let out another unearthly howl, revealing sharp fangs and a throat filled with ghostly light. Terror seized them, and as one, Sherlock, John, and Linlómë turned and fled.

Fueled by terror, John actually kept pace with Sherlock, running faster than he had probably ever run in his life. Linlómë had immediately outstripped them but forced herself to slow down to their human pace. Behind them came the hound, its footfalls unhurried, merely loping, not running, and yet the grass beneath their feet was swiftly turning white from frost.

"Too slow!" Sherlock panted, trying to redouble his pace.

Linlómë glanced behind them, then in front. "Can't lead it to the house," she decided, then grabbed hold of both John and Sherlock's shoulders. Suddenly, all three of them were in front of the little chapel some distance away from the village where Sherlock had tried (and failed) to apologize to John early last morning.

"Into the chapel, go," Linlómë ordered, spinning around and staring back across the moor as a distant howl arose again. Sherlock scowled, but John pulled him to the doors before he could argue. The ornately carved wooden doors were, of course, locked, but Sherlock made quick work of picking it.

As the doors creaked open, John hissed, "Come on, Linlómë." He turned to look at her. She was standing stock still with her eyes closed, but stirred and opened them when he spoke. She followed after the two men, pulling the doors shut with a bang. Sherlock and John both leaned against the solid stone wall, trying to catch their breaths, while Linlómë stood at the doors, her splayed hands softly glowing as she muttered something under her breath.

"How? How is there a real hound?" John demanded, his breath still coming out in sharp huffs.

"That reporter, on the show, she said that there had been tales of a phantasmal hound haunting Dartmoor for centuries, right?" Linlómë said, turning her attention away from the doors. In the dark interior of the chapel, her pale face could just barely be seen.

"Yes, but-but what has that got to do with anything?" John sputtered.

"Stories like that are often based on truth. What if there was a demon hound in the past and now all the recent hullabaloo, not to mention the resurgence of belief in such a beast, has—well—summoned it again?" Linlómë asked grimly.

John's shoulders slumped. "Great. Ohhh great. How do we un-summon it?"

"I don't know!" Linlómë exclaimed defensively. " How did they do it before?"

"We need to regroup—do some research—figure this out," Sherlock gasped, his eyes wide and his normally aloof attitude shattered by what they had just seen.

"Agreed," Linlómë said shortly. "But we have to survive this first."

Another howl caused all of them to shudder. It sounded a little closer than the one they heard just after Linlómë teleported them.

"What use is a church against that thing?" Sherlock sneered.

Linlómë replied, "It has physical and supernatural defenses, it is far enough away from the village that others will not be put in danger, but also far enough away from that thing to give us some time before it catches up. Hopefully, we will not need to put this chapel's defenses to the test. First light is only two minutes away, and I am fairly certain that the hound will disappear at the first hint of daylight." Linlómë took a deep breath, then prompted, "Sherlock? Deductions?"

He blinked at her for a moment, then shook himself. "Right, right." He inhaled sharply, putting his fingers to his temples in his habitual "deep thought" pose. Beside him, John straightened up in anticipation. Sherlock began talking in the rapid-fire way he always did when making deductions. "Ok, ok, top run speed, about 11 miles per hour, let's make that 12 with adrenalin, frost caught up in…5 seconds, so, the church was about 2 and a half miles away from us, uh, um, 3 minutes. 3 minutes for the hound to get here, maximum, assuming it continues at the same pace and doesn't run—but there can't be a hound! Monstrous ghostly hounds don't exist! But we can't be hallucinating, because there wasn't any fog, and it looked completely different from last time, and then there's the frost, what's up with the frost?" By this time, Sherlock was pacing furiously.

"Um, maybe it's a-a ghost?" John asked hesitantly.

"What?" Sherlock exclaimed, whirling around to stare at him.

"Well, you know, ghosts are supposed to make things…colder, right?"

"There aren't any such things as ghosts, John!" Sherlock said scathingly.

"Well, there aren't supposed to be any such things as giant glowing hounds, either!" John shot back.

Sherlock was about to let fly a retort when another, much closer howl disturbed the air. Sherlock turned away and resumed his pacing, muttering, "Data, data, I need more data!" Suddenly he stopped and turned to Linlómë. "I need to see it again. Open the doors."

"What? Sherlock, no!" John protested.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Linlómë agreed.

"I need data, that data will shortly be outside, open the doors." Sherlock persisted.

"We are not letting that-that thing in here with us!" John exclaimed.

"Oh, so you'd rather remain ignorant?"

"In this case, yes!"

"Sherlock," Linlómë broke into their argument, "You need to understand that, by opening the doors, we would basically be inviting that thing in and nullifying any protection the church may have provided. Also, it will be very useful for me to know how it reacts to the shutting spell I put on the door and how it reacts to the church itself."

Sherlock huffed, "Fine, then just take the spell off when you've got your data so I can get mine."

Linlómë hesitated, then a pained look came over her face, and she sighed. "Very well. You are right, we need all the information we can get."

"I don't believe this," John muttered. He took his revolver out and checked it, hands shaking ever so slightly.

"Doubt that's going to do anything," Sherlock remarked.

"Well, it'll just be some more data for you, won't it?" John snapped.

"Dawn is less than a minute away now, John," Linlómë reassured him. "The hound will only be inside for a few seconds at most before it disappears. But we should probably get as far from the doors as possible before it arrives."

"And what if you're wrong about it disappearing at dawn, hmmm?" John demanded, even as he hurried after Linlómë and Sherlock down the center aisle and up onto the altar.

"Then, well, let's just say it will not matter whether the door is open or shut," Linlómë replied. She bent down to the floor and sketched a glowing rune with her fingertip just in front of the raised altar area. Then she joined Sherlock and John behind the altar itself. She turned around in a circle with one finger pointed, and a couple feet away, a line of white energy followed her movement until the little group stood within a floating ring of light.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and asked, "Different types of warding?" Linlómë nodded, her eyes fixed expectantly on the doors. John leveled his revolver at the doors, aim steady and true, while Sherlock took a deep breath and prepared himself to hyper-focus on the hound when it came in.

Oooooo-woooooo. Another howl came from right outside the door, causing all of them to shudder. There was a snuffling sound, then a scrabble of claws against the door. A beat of silence passed, then a glowing muzzle passed right through the doors, quickly followed by the rest of the massive head. Linlómë gasped in surprise.

There was a sharp bang as John shot his revolver. He hit the hound straight between the eyes, but the bullet merely passed right through the glowing head, a dark shaft appearing along its trajectory before the bullet thunked into the door. The hound growled, low and menacing, as the rest of its giant body slowly advanced through the doors.

Sherlock stopped John from firing again with a swift hand on his shoulder. "Try again when it's all the way inside," he whispered. John nodded sharply and exhaled, tracking the hound's head as it advanced. As soon as the hound was fully inside, frost crackled from its paws and spread rapidly along the floor, the walls, the windows, and the pews as the temperature within the church noticeably dropped. Bang. Another bullet flew from John's gun. His aim was as true as ever, but again, the bullet went straight through the hound, cracking against the stone floor. The advance of the frost stopped for an instant, then resumed.

"Fascinating," Sherlock muttered.

"Fifteen seconds," Linlómë said.

The hound growled again and bounded forward, the forerunning frost outlining, but not covering, the shining rune Linlómë had left on the floor in front of the altar. The frost swept up the walls and steadily covered the ceiling, but it didn't pass beyond the rune before the altar.

The hound put one glowing paw down right on top of the rune—and yelped, withdrawing like it had been burned. It lowered its head and fixed its greenish-glowing eyes on the shining white rune, the frost around the rune increasing in thickness, seeming to eat away at the edges of the rune. The rune's light dimmed, flickered, then went out. The frost surged forward over the altar and the back of the church but did not penetrate the circle of energy surrounding them. The hound's ghostly head lifted, staring straight across the altar at John, Sherlock, and Linlómë, and it opened its mouth and howled. The sound tore at their ears, but it also seemed to assault their hearts, forcing cold darkness upon them. Both John and Sherlock would have taken an involuntary step backwards if Linlómë hadn't prevented them with an iron grip on their arms.

"You mustn't put so much as a finger outside the shield," she hissed.

The hound gathered itself and leaped, right up onto the altar, its huge muzzle inches from the slender band of energy surrounding them. The frost thickened, building up layer upon layer all around their little circle of frost-free floor. Linlómë grunted, lips pressed together and hands clenched tight as she strained to hold their shield in place.

"Time's up," Sherlock whispered harshly.

"It's not disappearing!" John gasped.

"The daylight has not penetrated yet!" Linlómë realized. She swiftly brought one hand up and made a pushing motion. The doors of the church creaked open, revealing grey-brown moor lit by a line of light on the horizon. The ghostly hound shook itself, looked over its shoulder at the first light of dawn, then let out a surprisingly pitiful whine, slowly fading as the glow outlining its body seemed to slither from its extremities to its head, then into its eyes, which hung suspended in the air for a moment before they too faded away. The frost stopped thickening, melting into drops of dew which swiftly evaporated into a gray mist that hovered and then dissipated. Safe in the grey light of morning, Linlómë, Sherlock, and John breathed great sighs of relief.

Part Two: Proving Theories

Sherlock, John, and Linlómë arrived at the local library precisely at 9 AM, when it opened. The librarians were obviously used to people seeking information about the local legend. They knew exactly where all the books were that mentioned the Hound of the Baskervilles. They helped pile all the books on a table, then left the three friends to their research.

It was slow going. There were many books which only really mentioned the hound in passing, more which only held wildly differing second-hand accounts and speculations, and more which only tried to debunk the legend. But there were a few very old books, most written by a man called Alfred Baskerville (probably an ancestor of Henry's), that included first-hand accounts and some very helpful compilations of facts about the hound.

"Huh, says here that they tried to exorcise the hound, but it didn't work," John told the others, holding up the book by Alfred Baskerville that he was reading.

"Does it specify whether it was a Catholic priest or a Protestant minister who performed the exorcism?" Linlómë asked.

"Why would that matter?" John inquired.

"Because Catholic exorcisms are the only ones that actually work," Linlómë replied.

"Really? Why's that, then?" John said.

"Just answer her question. Catholic or Protestant?" Sherlock huffed.

John looked back at the page, then said, "Uh, no, doesn't say, just that he was from St. Mary, Queen of the Angels church."

"Most likely Catholic, then. Or Anglican, I suppose. Protestants don't tend to name their churches after the Blessed Mother." Linlómë let out a sigh. "Well, at least that means the hound isn't actually demonic in nature, which is a relief. There would be little we could do without a priest if that were the case. It also rules out any sort of malevolent ghost, which leaves us with three possibilities: the hound is either extraterrestrial, supernatural, or magical."

John blinked at her, then said, "Not our usual fare, then."

Linlómë chuckled. "Not your usual fare, no, but definitely my usual fare." Linlómë thought for a second, then said, more to herself than anyone else, "Actually, I think it is probably not supernatural. If it were, then the church should have affected it in some way." Sherlock and John exchanged looks and went back to reading.

Fifteen more minutes passed in silence as they all finished reading the last of the books. Finally, John set down the last one and stretched, groaning a bit as his stiff back protested.

"It's nearly noon," he said, pulling out his phone and glancing at the screen.

"Lunch?" Linlómë suggested.

"Yes, please," John agreed. Sherlock heaved a dramatically exasperated sigh. "And we'll discuss things as we eat," John conceded.

No more than half an hour later, all three were sitting at an isolated table outside the inn, eating. That is, John and Linlómë were eating. Sherlock, as usual when he was involved with a case, had refused any food, despite both his friends' insistence. Instead, he sat back in his chair with his eyes closed and his hands steepled in front of him.

"Give me the data," he told them. "Everything, every detail about this hound."

John swallowed a bite of his sandwich and consulted his notepad. "So, multiple priests, Catholic, Anglican, and Protestant, have tried to exorcise the hound in various ways, in various places. Once they even went around the whole of Dartmoor and exorcised the entire area, but it was never any use. The hound just kept appearing anyway."

Linlómë chimed in, "The death toll of this hound over the centuries is staggering. Sheep, goats, cows, horses, and hundreds of people have all been found in various states of evisceration out on the moor, all torn apart by something with large teeth and claws. Doubtless some reports have been exaggerated, and some probably were not due to the hound, but even adjusting the number of fatalities to account for that still leaves at least 1100 people and animals killed by the hound over the course of five centuries. The earliest reports I could find were from the middle of the 15th century, the last from the early 19th century."

"Yes, that fits with what I learned as well," Sherlock said.

"What happened? Why did the hound stop appearing?" John asked.

"I don't know…yet," Sherlock said.

"Was there anything unusual or consistent across the accounts that you read?" Linlómë asked Sherlock.

"Yes, there was one thing," Sherlock began, then stopped.

"Well? What?" John prompted.

"Hm? Oh, right. All the first-hand accounts where people actually saw the thing occurred on partially cloudy nights, and most of the accounts of hearing howls also happened on cloudy or partially cloudy nights."

"So?" John asked.

"So," Linlómë said excitedly, "That must mean that the hound can only appear in complete darkness. Which means that it will disappear in the presence of any light, not just daylight. There are only eyewitness accounts of seeing it on partially cloudy nights because on clear nights it can't appear and on completely cloudy nights, no one who saw it stood a chance of getting away."

"Exactly," Sherlock said.

"This is good news," Linlómë continued. "If light causes it to disappear, then I can easily make it do so. However, light alone will not rid the world of its presence."

"Explain what happened last night on the…magical end of things," Sherlock demanded of Linlómë.

Despite his tone, Linlómë complied. "Well, first I put a shutting spell on the doors, which physically strengthens them and prevents them from moving. But the hound bypassed the spell completely by passing through the doors instead of physically trying to force them open. Second, I put a medium-strength Rune of Warding in front of the altar. Runes like that only have a certain amount of power, and they fade once that power is used up or overcome. A Warding rune in particular is meant to repel any sort of harmful thing, whether it be magical or physical or somewhere in between. The rune successfully repelled the frost at first, which confirms that the frost is harmful in some way, and it also hurt the hound when it first stepped on it. I thought at first that the rune itself was what had hurt the hound, but now I think it was the light the rune was imbued with, enough to hurt it but not enough to make it vanish."

"Most likely. Continue," Sherlock said.

Linlómë did. "As you no doubt noticed, when the hound focused its attention on the rune it was able to quickly overpower it, at which point the frost was no longer held back and swept through the rest of the church. Third, I had erected a personal shield around the three of us. A personal shield is made from the light I carry within and is directly sustained by me at every moment. Nothing can breach it until I run out of power or lower the shield. Like with the rune, the hound used the pressure of the frost to try to wear down my power rather than trying to physically break through. It would have worn me down eventually if the light of dawn had not caused it to disappear."

"As I thought," Sherlock said. "So, why was the barest hint of dawn-light enough to make it disappear when your spells' light wasn't?"

"My best guess is that light from the sun, or stars, I suppose, has some quality that my light does not," Linlómë replied.

"Like what?" John asked.

Linlómë shrugged and Sherlock said, "Not enough data for that one. Ok, the only detail left to discuss is this: why did the frost stop when John shot it?"

"I think," Linlómë said slowly, "that the frost must be an effect of its physical presence. Remember, it had to become insubstantial to get through the door, and only once it was fully inside did the frost start to advance. Then, when John shot it the second time, it had to turn insubstantial again to avoid the bullet, and when it did, the frost stopped for a split second."

"So, what you're saying is," John said, "it can be physical, so it's possible to kill."

"Essentially, yes," Linlómë replied.

"But how? How does it make the frost? How does it control the frost?" Sherlock asked.

"And how do we keep it physical so we can kill it?" John added.

"All excellent questions," Linlómë said. "Here's some more: what does the hound want? Why does it kill and eviscerate, but not eat, its victims? Why did it disappear for over a century and then come back now?"

There was silence for a few moments, then John asked, "So? What are we going to do?"

Linlómë stood up. "We go back out on the moor," she declared. "I have a theory, but I need to investigate my suspicions before I can prove them."

. . . . . . . . . .

Less than an hour later, Sherlock, John, and Linlómë were standing in the same spot where they had encountered the hound the night before. The grey-green swells of Dartmoor stretched on for miles in all directions under a low grey sky, punctuated with the occasional outcropping of rock. Almost a mile away, they could just make out the line of trees around Baskerville Hall.

"Alright, Sherlock, I need you to see if you can trace the hound to where it first appeared," Linlómë said. Sherlock grunted affirmatively, already intent on examining the ground. Seconds later, he exclaimed, "Hah!" and was off running, following the trail of the hound's footprints.

As Linlómë and John followed at a more sedate pace, John asked Linlómë in an undertone," You can follow the hound's trail just as well as he can, so why have him do it?"

"Actually, even though I could follow the trail well enough, I can only pick up half the details that he does," Linlómë replied.

"And we need every detail we can get," John nodded.

The trail of giant pawprints led over the moor for some distance. They were about halfway to the Baskerville research facility when suddenly the trail took a turn, avoiding the minefield and making more or less straight for Dewer's Hollow. None of them were much surprised by this development. The closer they got to the ominous hollow, the colder the air became. The clouds seemed to lower even further, becoming darker and thicker. A light drizzle began, making John shiver and huddle into his coat, chilled in spite of the vigorous walking they had done that afternoon. Both Sherlock and Linlómë ignored the weather, tramping down the long slopes to Dewer's Hollow with singular purpose. John sighed and followed doggedly after.

At last, they reached the edge of the steep bank of the hollow. Here, Sherlock abruptly stopped, bending down close to the ground to make a minute examination of the tracks. He let out a grunt of frustration as he stood up.

"What?" John asked.

"Too many tracks, they're muddling the trail," Sherlock mumbled.

"Well, there were lots of people here last night," John commented. "There were the two of us and Lestrade, and Henry, and the dog, and Stapleton."

Sherlock ruffled his own hair agitatedly and bent back down to the ground.

"Don't worry about making out the different tracks, Sherlock," Linlómë said. "All I really need to know is whether the hound came from here or passed through here. It seems likely that it appeared from here, but I want to be sure."

"That should be easy enough," Sherlock replied, setting off at once along the edge of the hollow.

As they waited for him to come back around, John shivered and stuck his hands under his armpits to warm them. "Should have brought an umbrella," he muttered. "Or a warmer coat."

Linlómë moved a bit closer to him and briefly rested a hand on his arm. Suddenly, all the cold rainwater that had seeped through his coat vanished, and John stared at his coat-sleeve in wonder as the raindrops slid off.

"Better?" Linlómë asked.

"Uh, yes, m-much better," John stammered. "But why—I mean, you don't usually—"

Linlómë smiled sympathetically. "No, I don't usually use magic except when it is unnoticeable or absolutely necessary. However, there is no one but the two of you to notice out here, and we are likely to be in the cold and wet for some time yet. Thus, there is no reason not to prevent you from being miserable."

"Oh, well, uh, thanks."

Sherlock came back around and approached them, saying, "You're right. The hound's trail leaves the hollow, but there's no sign of it entering."

Linlómë nodded. "Then this is the spot." She started down the side of the hollow.

Sherlock followed at once, but John hesitated. "I'm…not very keen on going back down there," he said.

Linlómë stopped and turned to look at him. "If you would rather not—" she began.

Sherlock interrupted her, saying, "Come along, John!" as he went on down the slope. "Don't want to miss all the excitement, do you?"

"All the 'excitement' you will get for the next few minutes is watching me sitting still with my eyes closed," Linlómë said, starting back down the slope.

John looked around at the empty moor, then at the retreating backs of his friends, and decided company was better than loneliness, even if the hollow was very creepy. He followed after. By the time John reached the bottom, Sherlock had already scoured the whole hollow for the tracks of the hound, while Linlómë stood in the center with her eyes closed. Suddenly, she opened them and walked over to a place where there was a level patch of grass overhung by jagged rocks.

"Here, I think," she said.

"I concur," Sherlock said. "That's where the hound's footprints begin."

Linlómë nodded, then gracefully lowered herself to the ground beneath the rocks. "I suggest you both step back as far as you can, just in case."

"But, what are you doing?" John asked, even as he went to stand with Sherlock on the far side of the hollow.

Linlómë smiled. "Investigating my theory," she said, closing her eyes.

As Sherlock and John stood under a pine tree growing out of the side of the hollow, resigned to waiting until Linlómë chose to divulge what she had learned, they became aware of the utter silence around them. It was not an empty silence. It was a silence of presence, but of what presence, neither of them could say. The presence of the silence was so large as to forbid them from talking, yet they both felt compelled to shift around, simply to break it in some way. They stared at Linlómë, taking comfort in her calm, unruffled face, waiting for something to happen.

Suddenly, Linlómë's jaw clenched, and her shoulders stiffened. A moment later, the temperature in the hollow plummeted, and the air above Linlómë seemed to warp, rays of darkness shafting out from a single point. Linlómë's eyes flew open with a gasp and she scrambled on her hands and knees out from under the darkness. Rocking unsteadily to her feet a little way in front of where Sherlock and John stood, frozen, Linlómë turned and pure, unadulterated white light poured from her outthrust hands directly into the center of the dark rays. Light and darkness vied for supremacy for a breathless moment. Then the darkness withdrew, sucking itself into one black point that was quickly obliterated by Linlómë's light.

"Are you two all right?" Linlómë asked urgently, turning and rushing over to them.

"Y-yes, fine," Sherlock replied.

"What was that?" John whispered, his face pale.

Linlómë winced. "The proof of my theory."

Part Three: The Plan

Finally ensconced in a cozy booth inside the inn, both Sherlock and John looked expectantly at Linlómë, who had refused to explain anything until they were off of the moor.

"My theory was correct," she began. "The hound is a voidbeast."

"And what's that when it's at home?" John asked.

"A voidbeast is exactly what the name suggests: a beast that lurks in the void between worlds," Linlómë replied.

"Impossible," Sherlock scoffed. "A void is, by its very definition, nothing. There can't be anything living there."

"Well, exactly," Linlómë said. "In order for voidbeasts to survive in the void, they must consume energy from somewhere, living energy. And so, they hunt through the void for weak places in the dimensional walls of worlds, push through, and feed off of any large sources of living energy they can find."

"So, if you knew about voidbeasts, why didn't you recognize the hound as one?" John asked.

"Well, obviously, she hasn't seen one before," Sherlock answered for her.

Linlómë nodded. "Sherlock is correct. Voidbeasts are exceptionally rare, so although I had heard of them, this is my first time encountering one. That is why I wanted to be sure, instead of making an assumption."

"So, back there in the hollow, that blackness, and the cold…" John trailed off.

"If I was right, and the hound was a voidbeast, I knew it must have come through a weak spot in the dimensional barrier. I was, you might say, poking around in a metaphysical sense, trying to see if I could find such a weak spot, and I accidentally punched right through it into the void," Linlómë said apologetically. "The darkness you saw and the cold you felt was a bit of the void bleeding through."

"Fascinating," Sherlock said.

John shivered. "No, not fascinating, terrifying."

"I am very sorry it scared you," Linlómë said to him.

"No, it's all right," John waved a dismissive hand. "We weren't hurt, and you closed it right up again, so…the problem's solved. Right?"

Linlómë grimaced. "I closed the hole I made, but the weak spot is still there. The hound can still come through."

John sighed loud and long, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. Letting his hand fall back down to the table, he said, "Of course. Of course it couldn't be that simple."

"These things are rarely simple, I'm afraid," Linlómë said.

"Why is it that otherworldly things can never just be shot?" John complained.

"Well, like you said earlier, if we can figure out how to keep it physical for long enough, you probably could just shoot it," Linlómë said.

Sherlock had been sitting and thinking furiously. Suddenly he leaned forward and said, "These voidbeasts, you said they consume energy, right?" When Linlómë nodded, he continued, "So that's why it kills both people and animals but doesn't eat the bodies: it just needs the energy inside the bodies, which obviously it must absorb directly instead of through digestion. And that's why the hound lowers the temperature around it and why the frost appeared: it was sucking all the energy out of the air, including any water vapor, which instantly froze. What I don't get is why it doesn't consume light energy as well as heat."

Linlómë replied, "It is because it is not wholly natural. Voidbeasts are magical creatures, and they have the void's magical qualities as well as its physical qualities. The void is filled with darkness, which is opposite to light. Within the void, the darkness is strong and smothers any light, but within this world, there is enough light even just from the stars to drive away the darkness in voidbeasts."

"But, what about the greenish light the hound is covered in?" John asked. "Why doesn't that light make it disappear?"

"Actually, that glow is not light," Linlómë answered. "It is a kind of…well, a florescence is the best way I can describe it. It is an un-light, an after-effect of the energy the hound is consuming. Did you notice how the glow never illumined its surroundings? The hound's glow is not light because it does not dispel darkness: therefore, the hound is not affected by it."

"That's nonsense," Sherlock said.

"No, it's magical metaphysics," Linlómë told him. "The metaphorical attributes of a thing affect magical reality, sometimes even more so than the physical attributes. For example, I think I know now why the hound stopped appearing. It was because people stopped believing that it could exist. That lack of belief caused the hound to lose most of its ability to physically manifest itself in this world, and because it must be physically present in order to absorb energy, it was no longer worth coming here to feed. But the recent resurgence of belief in the hound has caused it to reappear, because that belief has given it the ability to physically manifest again."

"Still doesn't make sense, this whole thing is impossible," Sherlock muttered.

"That's what you said about the existence of magic, and look at you now," John grumbled.

Linlómë ignored their byplay and went straight to the heart of the matter. "Given what we know, how can we either prevent the hound from coming back or kill it?"

The three sat and planned for over an hour, going back and forth over all the information they had. Finally, they had a possible plan. Linlómë had strenuously tried to convince John and Sherlock not to come with her to confront the hound, believing it to be too dangerous. But as usual, they both stubbornly insisted on coming anyway. As the first part of the plan, Linlómë carefully layered several protection spells on her friends and magically enhanced the bullets in their guns while Sherlock looked over John's shoulder as he wrote a teaser on his blog entitled "The Hound of the Baskervilles: More Reality than Myth?"

"Right," John said as he closed his laptop. "Now that's settled, we'd best get a bite to eat, then go to our rooms and take a nap until it's time to go."

Part Four: The Confrontation

Three hours later, full night had fallen, and John, Sherlock, and Linlómë were once again on their way to Dewer's Hollow. The night sky was thickly covered by clouds, making conditions perfect for the hound to appear. Linlómë had told them she wasn't sure when exactly the hound would make its appearance, so all three were bundled up in preparation for a long, cold wait.

Upon reaching the hollow, the three of them climbed down and huddled under the trees opposite the rocky overhang where they expected the hound to appear. Time passed slowly, each moment much like the next. The wind sighed through the trees and whistled over the moor and the rocks, a light, misty rain fell for a while and then passed, and still no sign of the hound.

Finally, the wind brought the faint sound of a church bell to their ears: midnight. There was no discernible change to human senses, but Linlómë suddenly became very alert. A few seconds later, Sherlock and John could faintly make out what Linlómë had already sensed: a spot of darkness deeper than the night had appeared in the same place it had earlier. As the dark hole swiftly grew, Linlómë whispered, "Get ready. You know what to do." Sherlock and John nodded, both taut with tension.

In the center of the blackness, two specks of greenish glow appeared. The glow spread and brightened, outlining the head of the giant hound silently gliding out of the void. As they watched, it seemed like the darkness bleeding from the hole morphed into the form of the hound's body.

As soon as they could see most of the hound's body, Sherlock and John burst out of hiding and ran up the slope of the hollow as fast and noisily as they could. Linlómë made herself invisible and stayed hidden in the trees. Frost crackled furiously across the ground as soon as the hound's body was fully formed, travelling noticeably faster than it had the night before. The men's panting breaths suddenly froze as the air temperature plummeted.

John and Sherlock reached the top of the slope and took off across the moor. The hound howled and took off after them. When its glowing tail had disappeared over the edge, Linlómë came out of hiding and hurried towards the hole to the void, praying that the protection she had put on the humans would keep them alive long enough for her to close the hole. She also hoped she was right that closing the hole would cut off the hound's source of power.

She stood before the hole to the void, concentrating on the complicated spell. Light began radiating from her skin and quickly grew stronger, her glowing fingers dancing through the air, leaving threads of light behind. Then, it was as if the light shining from within her tore through a veil and revealed her midnight-blue wings, spangled with sparkling silver flecks. Her gentle, steady radiance lit the hollow as the threads of light in the air began to form an intricate, circular pattern.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and John were running across the moor being chased by the huge glowing hound. The grass behind them was quickly turning white as the frost preceded the hound, but when it did catch up, they noticed no ill effects. Evidently, Linlómë's protection spells were working. And the hound seemed more solid this time; they could feel the vibrations of its pounding paws now, instead of only hearing them.

Just ahead, a large spur of rock jutted out of the moor. They split, John going left and Sherlock going right. At the far side, they met and halted, standing back to back, each with a pistol in hand, ready for the hound to appear. Only a second later, the voidbeast charged around the rock at Sherlock. His pistol went off with a sharp crack, followed half a second later by another shot from John, who had whipped around to face the hound. Both bullets lodged inside the hound this time, causing brief flashes of light within its shadowy body. It yowled in pain and broke off its charge, circling around them and growling angrily.

"Of course, that's not enough to kill it still," John grumbled.

"It's solid enough to hit now, though," Sherlock helpfully pointed out.

John huffed. "Ok, fine, Linlómë's crazy idea to get more people to believe in it did work."

Sherlock flashed him a grin. "Keep distracting it," he said blithely, carefully moving away to the side. When the hound's head turned to track him, John obligingly distracted it by shooting it again, this time right on the nose. The hound shook its head violently, and Sherlock used the opportunity to flank it. The hound recovered from the shot to its nose and looked ready to leap on John. Sherlock shouted, bringing its attention back to him, and shot it in the side, giving John the chance to flank the hound on the other side. Then before it could attack Sherlock, John shot one foreleg, and together the two of them cornered the hound against the rock.

By now the frost was so thick and white on the ground that every step John and Sherlock took crackled. They noticed that there was a faint glow coming from just above the surface of their own bodies now as Linlómë's shield spells worked to counteract the pull of the void from the hound. The hound itself was shifting from foot to foot and regarding them both warily.

"Now what?" John wondered. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but instead cried, "Look out!" He bowled into John and the two fell to the ground, just barely avoiding the hound as it leaped to attack. But instead of turning around to attack again, the hound loped away, straight back towards Dewer's Hollow.

"Get after it! It's too soon!" Sherlock ordered.

John cursed and stumbled to his feet. They both ran after the hound, but even with one leg injured, it was still faster. They hurtled headlong down the slope into the hollow just in time to see the hound leap at Linlómë as she floated before the completed spell ring. The momentum of the leap carried both hound and fairy through the hole and into the void.

Both men surged forward, intent on reaching Linlómë. The hole had grown now to the size of a door, and through it they could see the glowing outline of the hound turning around, running back to the door. They saw Linlómë turn around too, the brilliant nimbus of light surrounding her growing dimmer as the blackness encroached upon it. She wove her fingers in a complex pattern, face pale but determined. There was a flash of light from the spell ring before it disappeared and reality snapped back into place. Sherlock and John hurtled right through where the door to the void had been and crashed into the rock beyond. The natural darkness of night filled Dewer's Hollow. The Hound of the Baskervilles had vanished back into the void—and so had Linlómë.