(Alice’s POV: )

 Not long afterwards, a recording of a documentary was playing on the TV. Sherlock had taken off the dressing gown and exchanged it for a jacket and was sitting in his chair. John had relocated to the dining table chair near Sherlock’s, and a man was sitting in John’s chair. I was behind Sherlock’s chair, standing in my usual way. The documentary footage showed scenes of Dartmoor. Sherlock instantly looked bored.

 “Dartmoor. It’s always been a place of myth and legend, but is there something else lurking out here – something very real?” the narrator said. Footage of ‘Keep Out’ signs disappeared and reappeared. “Because Dartmoor’s also home to one of the government’s most secret of operations...” The narrator continued, walking along a narrow road. Sherlock’s eyes flicked repeatedly between the screen and the man in John’s chair as the footage showed a large sign saying:

 ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A RESTRICTED AREA

BASKERVILLE’

 By this time Sherlock’s eyes were permanently fixed on the newcomer as he watched the documentary anxiously.

 “ ...the chemical and biological weapons research centre which is said to be even more sensitive than Porton Down. Since the end of the Second World War, there’ve been persistent stories about the Baskerville experiments: genetic mutations, animals grown for the battlefield. There are many who believe that within this compound, in the heart of this ancient wilderness, there are horrors beyond imagining. But the real question is: are all of them still inside?” The presenter informed. The footage switched to an indoor scene where Henry was sitting in front of the camera talking to someone off-screen. A caption at the bottom of the screen showed him as “Henry Knight, Grimpen resident”.

 “I was just a kid. It-it was on the moor.” Henry began, on-screen. There was a cutaway to a child’s drawing of a huge snarling dog with red eyes. The caption said, “Henry’s drawing (aged 9)”. “It was dark, but I know what I saw. I know what killed my father.” Sighing, Sherlock picked up the remote control and switched off the footage.

 “What did you see?” Sherlock asked Henry.

 “Oh.” Henry pointed to the television. “I... I was just about to say.”

 “Yes, in a TV interview.” Sherlock began.

 “We prefer to do our own editing.” I finished.

 “Yes. Sorry, yes, of course. ’Scuse me.” Henry said nervously. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a paper napkin and wiped his nose on it.

 “In your own time.” John said comfortingly.

 “But quite quickly.” Sherlock said rather rudely.  Henry lowered the napkin.

 “Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?” He asked, still quite nervous but getting more comfortable. He glanced at me after he asked. I fought back a smile, remembering the short days my family spent there when I was young. My reminiscing was interrupted by the deep voice that could only belong to Sherlock.

 “No.” The detective said dryly.

 “It’s an amazing place. It’s like nowhere else. It’s sort of... bleak but beautiful.” Henry described fondly.

 “Mmm, not interested. Moving on.” Sherlock interrupted. I discreetly pulled a lock of his hair. He tensed but otherwise didn’t react.

 “We used to go for walks, after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we’d go out onto the moor.” Henry continued.

 “Yes, good. Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?” Sherlock halfway encouraged. John’s eyes rose skywards at Sherlock’s insensitive question and I gave his hair another tug.

 “There’s a place – it’s... it’s a sort of local landmark called Dewer’s Hollow.” He gazed at Sherlock, who tilted his head at him as if to say, “And...?”. “That’s an ancient name for the Devil.” Henry revealed. That caught my attention a bit.

 “So?” Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow.

 “Did you see the Devil that night?” John asked, sounding spooked but interested nonetheless. His face haunted with memories, Henry looked across to him and nodded.

 “Yes.” Henry said in a soft whisper. He looked like he was remembering the accident as he described it to us. “It was huge. Coal-black fur, with red eyes. It got him, tore at him; tore him apart.” Henry said, his voice becoming tearful. Sherlock watched him intensely and I felt my stomach tighten as I imagined the scene. “I can’t remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad’s body was never found.” He finished.

 “Hmm.” John thought, looking across to Sherlock and I. “Red eyes, coal-black fur, enormous: dog? Wolf?” John asked. I furrowed my brows in thought, my stomach beginning to get nauseous.

 “Or a genetic experiment.” Sherlock replied, looking away and biting back a smile.

 “Or a rabid dog, Sherlock. That is a very valid possibility.” I said snappily, looking down at him.

 “Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?” Henry asked, very offended.

 “Why? Are you joking?” Sherlock asked seriously.

 “My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville; about the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him. At least the TV people took me seriously.” Henry complained.

 “Hen-” I began, aiming to comfort him.

 “And, I assume, did wonders for Devon tourism.” Sherlock said, interrupting me. I scowled and pulled his hair, this time where John could see. And I made sure he did.

 “Yeah...” John said uncomfortably after seeing my childish punishment for Sherlock. In an attempt to stop Sherlock’s continuing sarcasm, he leaned forward to Henry. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he realized what John was doing at the same time that I smiled in satisfaction. “Henry, whatever did happen to your father, it was twenty years ago. Why come to us now?” John asked. Henry sat forward, his eyes going from Sherlock to me and back.

 “I’m not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find it all so funny.” He said, still offended. He stood up and walked around the chair, heading towards the door.

 “Because of what happened last night.” I said suddenly. Henry turned back towards us.

 “Why, what happened last night?” John asked, looking at me sceptically.

 “How... how do you know?” Henry asked worriedly.

 “We didn’t know; we noticed.” Sherlock explained. I liked how he said “we”. He had been doing it often but I still wasn’t used to it. John shuffled on his chair with an “Oh dear lord, here we go” expression on his face.

 “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.” I started, quick-fire.

 “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.” Sherlock finished, in the same manner and at the same speed as me. Henry stared at us, and then glanced across to John who averted his gaze and sighed. Hesitantly, Henry walked back to the chair and sat down, fishing in his jacket pocket.

“How on earth did you notice all that?!” He questioned.

 “It’s not important...” John began, but we were already off.

 “Punched-out holes where your ticket’s been checked...” Sherlock started, looking at two small round white pieces of paper stuck to Henry’s coat.

 “Not now, Sherlock.” John complained.

 “Oh please. We’ve been cooped up in here for ages.” Sherlock whined.

 “You’re just showing off.” John noted.

 “Of course we're showing off. That’s what we do.” Sherlock replied.

 “Oi, ‘we’ is not required there.” I corrected.

 “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.” Sherlock listed, ignoring me. Henry half-sobbed, over-awed.

 “How did you know it was disappointing?” He almost demanded.

 “Is there any other type of breakfast on a train? The girl – a girl’s handwriting’s quite obvious- wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sitting 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.” I finished, looking at Sherlock for the last bit and completely contradicting what I had said earlier by explaining. Sherlock’s gaze became intense.

 “No chance to smoke one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here.” Sherlock said, going back to the cigarette subject. He glanced 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 stared at us in amazement, and then drew in a shaky breath.

 “No.” We smiled smugly. John took a drink from his mug to hide his “Oh, sod it.” look. “You’re right. You’re both completely, exactly right. Bl**dy h*ll, I heard you were quick. “It’s our job.” He replied. I looked down at him.

“I’m not getting paid.” I complained. “Therefore it is not my job.” He looked up at me.

 “One; you are rich. Two; I have made it your job. If you don’t believe it, check.” I was about to begin shouting, but John spoke up.

 “Girls, stop it. Not now.” We both looked at him, then to Henry who looked like he hadn’t heard any of it. Sherlock took that opportunity by the blue scarf and leaned forward in his seat, glaring at Henry intensely.

 “Now shut up and smoke.” He commanded. John frowned towards us as Henry took out a roll-up and lit it. John consulted the notes he’d taken so far.

 “Um, Henry, your parents both died and you were, what, seven years old?” He began, sounding like an interviewer. Henry was concentrating on taking his first drag on his cigarette. As he exhaled his first lungful, Sherlock stood up and stepped closer to him. I went around and sat in his chair, putting my leg on the other.

 “I know. That... my...” Henry began, but stopped as Sherlock leaned into the smoke drifting up from the cigarette and from Henry’s mouth, breathing in deeply. Having sucked up most of the smoke, he went to his chair again, literally picking me up and putting me on the couch with surprising hidden strength. He sat down again and breathed out, whining quietly in pleasure. I stared at him in surprise, half in his neediness, and half in the fact that he just picked me up and moved me.

 “That must be a... quite a trauma. Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story, this...” John began, trying very hard to ignore what just happened. Henry had exhaled another lungful of smoke and Sherlock dived in to noisily suck up the smoke again. John paused patiently until he sat down again. I got up and sat on his lap to try and stop him from getting up again. He didn’t move me.

 “...to account for it?” John finished, still looking very irritated. Henry dragged his eyes away from Sherlock.

 “That’s what Doctor Mortimer says.” Henry replied.

 “Who?” John asked, looking up.

 “His therapist.” Sherlock and I said quickly.

 “My therapist.” Henry said, at the same time as us.

 “Obviously.” Sherlock bragged. I tried to elbow his ribcage but he held on to my limb to stop it.

 “Louise Mortimer. She’s the reason I came back to Dartmoor. She thinks I have to face my demons.” Henry explained.

 “And what happened when you went back to Dewer’s Hollow last night, Henry? You went there on the advice of your therapist and now you’re consulting detectives. What did you see that changed everything?” I asked. Sherlock put his head around me so that he could see Henry.

 “It’s a strange place, the Hollow.” Henry began, once again remembering.” Makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid.”

 “Yes, if I wanted poetry, I’d read John’s emails to his girlfriends.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Much funnier.” He added. I fought hard to not smile in agreement. But I failed when I remembered reading some of them. John sighed hard in an attempt to release the tension that might make him kill his flatmates. I mouthed an apology to him and looked back to Henry. “What did you see?” Sherlock asked. I peered at the young man curiously as he continued.

 “Footprints – on the exact spot where I saw my father torn apart.” Henry revealed. Looking exasperated, Sherlock leaned back in his seat, not caring that I was blocking his view of the client.

 “Man’s or a woman’s?” John asked.

 “Neither. They were...” Henry began.

 “Is that it? Nothing else. Footprints. Is that all?” Sherlock asked, interrupting.

 “Yes, but they were...” He began again.

 “No, sorry, Doctor Mortimer wins. Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye, Mr. Knight. Thank you for smoking.” Sherlock interrupted again. I was getting irritated with the self-proclaimed sociopath.

 “No, but what about the footprints?” Henry and I asked.

 “Oh, they’re probably paw prints; could be anything, therefore nothing. You knew that, Alice.” Sherlock replied, leaning forward in his seat and flicking his fingers at Henry, gesturing him towards the door.

“Shut up, Sherlock.” I said, sounding like a kid.

 “Off to Devon with you; have a cream tea on me.” Sherlock continued, once again ignoring me. Picking me up by the waist and setting me on the floor, he stood up and buttoned his jacket. He headed into the kitchen. Henry turned in his seat to look at him.

 “Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!” Henry exclaimed.

FIANLLY!! A chapter!! Isn't it amazing! I spent all afternoon on it for you! =D I am so proud! Plus it's long!! Enjoy, vote and comment, fun peoples!! =D