(Alice’s POV: )

 A few minutes after the lights disappeared, we heard a vicious howling that was very close. My stomach tightened.

 “Did you hear that?” John asked. As soon as he did, Sherlock stormed straight past him. We turned and followed, John moving next to Sherlock and Henry next to me.

 “We saw it. We saw it.” Henry announced, sounding very panicky.

 “No. I didn’t see anything.” Sherlock said firmly.

 “What? What are you talking about?” Henry questioned, moving up to the other side of the detective.

 “I didn’t. See. Anything.” He repeated. He hurried onwards with Henry, John and I still trailing along behind him. My gut felt worse. I hadn’t experienced fear in such a long time; my body was physically reacting negatively to it.

 Some time later at Henry’s house, Henry, John and I hurried indoors. Sherlock had disappeared off elsewhere a bit ago.

 “Look, he must have seen it. I saw it – he must have. He must have. I can’t... Why? Why?” He stuttered, sounding desperate. He stopped in the doorway of the sitting room, turning back to John, who was next to me, in anguish. I felt like I was going to throw up, and had a hand on my stomach and was bent over a bit. “Why would he say that? It-it-it-it it was there. It was.” He insisted. Taking his gloves off, John ushered him across to the sofa, but I was frozen in my spot.

“Henry, Henry, I need you to sit down, try and relax, please.” John urged. Henry looked to me, appearing like a lost child.

 “You know he did. You-you can tell- you know him! Was he lying?” He asked. I began to answer but my stomach got a sharp pain delivered, and John made Henry look back to him.

 “I’m okay, I’m okay.” Henry confirmed, sitting on the sofa.

 “Listen, I’m gonna give you something to help you sleep, all right?” John told him cautiously. He looked around the room and saw a bottle of water on a bureau nearby. I stumbled over to Henry, crashing down next to him, as he was the nearest seat. He looked at me, still with the questioning look.  I shook my head, and he looked ahead of himself, unwrapping his scarf from his neck and smiling.

“This is good news, John. It’s-it’s-it’s good. I’m not crazy. There is a hound, there... there is. And Sherlock – he saw it too. No matter what he said, he saw it.” He said, more confident and sounding like he was reassuring himself more than anyone else.

 Much later, John and I went back to the inn. The pain had subsided a bit, and I was hiding it for fear of John becoming protective.

Sherlock was back at the inn, sitting in an armchair by a roaring open fire, his face was full of shock and disbelief. Unaware of his distress, other patrons sat at tables nearby having their evening meal. John and I came in, and as John sat down in the armchair on the other side of the fire, I ordered a pint. I watched them while I was waiting.

 “Well, he is in a pretty bad way. He’s manic, totally convinced there’s some mutant super-dog roaming the moors.” John began. With his hands in the prayer position in front of his mouth, Sherlock glanced nervously at John for a moment, seemed to look around for me, then continued to gaze in the direction of the fire, lost in thought. “And there isn’t, though, is there? ’Cause if people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we’d know.” John continued, looking for confirmation. Sherlock clasped his fingers together, closing his eyes and breathing heavily as if trying to fend off a panic attack, which I had a feeling that he was. The bloke behind the counter gave me my pint and I hurried over to the two, sitting down on a footrest just to the right of John. Sherlock quickly glanced at me, his eyes softening a bit when he did, and I almost smiled back but the fear in his eyes made my stomach act up again. “They’d be for sale. I mean, that’s how it works.” John continued, beginning to sound doubtful. I took a large gulp of the beer and felt it land in my stomach, slightly numbing the sharp pains there.

John seemed to remember something and reached for his notebook. “Er, listen: er, on the moor I saw someone signalling. Er, Morse – I guess it’s Morse.” He stammered.  Sherlock blinked rapidly and repeatedly. His fear was starting to get to me; Sherlock didn’t get scared.

 “Doesn’t seem to make much sense.” John continued, flipping through the notes. Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath through his nose and then blew the breath out again through his mouth. “Er, U, M, Q, R, A. Does that mean... anything...?” He trailed off, finally realizing how distressed his colleague was looking and paused for a moment, then decided that he couldn’t be right. He put his notebook away again and sat back in his chair. I drank more, seeing John realizing that something was wrong. I felt sick.

 “So, okay, what have we got? We know there’s footprints, ’cause Henry found them; so did the tour guide bloke. We all heard something.” John listed. Sherlock blew out another shaky breath. John looked across to him and frowned momentarily. He looked to me doubtfully. I sat up straighter for the moment he did, hiding my pain and nausea. He looked back to Sherlock.

 “Maybe we should just look for whoever’s got a big dog.” The doctor suggested.

 “Henry’s right.” Sherlock suddenly interrupted. I looked up from between my converse to him.

 “What?” John asked.

 “I saw it too.” Sherlock clarified, his voice shaking. My stomach dropped eight floors and I finished the pint in that moment, ordering another with a wave of my hand.

 “What?” John questioned, shocked.

 “I saw it too, John.” Sherlock repeated.

 “Just... just a minute.”  John sat forward. “You saw what?” He demanded. A waiter gave me another pint, seemingly oblivious to the fear-swept conversation happening less than a yard away. Sherlock finally met his gaze but his face was twisted with self-loathing as he forced himself to admit the truth.

“A hound, out there in the Hollow.” He talked through gritted teeth. “A gigantic hound.” I almost cried out in pain from my stomach. I gulped down the entire pint, feeling the effect start to kick in. John almost laughed as Sherlock looked away, trying unsuccessfully to blink back tears. John sat back in his chair again, not quite able to cope with this strange reaction from his colleague.

 “Um, look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this, okay? Now you, of all people, can’t just...” Sherlock blew out another breath. “Let’s just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the facts.” John suggested. Sherlock looked round at him.

 “Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true.” He recited.

 “What does that mean?” John asked. Looking away again, Sherlock reached down and picked up a drink from a nearby table. Looking down at his trembling hand, he sniggered.

 “Look at me. I’m afraid, John. Afraid.” He said tremulously. I tried to get up, failing miserably with another pang in my stomach and I tried some breathing exercises to no avail. He took a drink and then held the glass up again, his hand still shaking.

 “Sherlock?” John began.

“Always been able to keep myself distant...” He took another drink from the glass. “...divorce myself from... feelings. But look, you see...” He held up the glass and glared at his shaking hand.

 “...body’s betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions.” He slammed the glass down onto the table, making me jump. “The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment.”

 “Yeah, all right, Spock, just...” Realising that he was starting to raise his voice, he looked around at the other people in the restaurant behind him and then looked back to Sherlock.  “...take it easy.” He finished more quietly. Sherlock was blowing out a few more breaths and still failing to bring himself under control. He glanced, panic-stricken, at John. “You’ve been pretty wired lately, you know you have. I think you’ve just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up.” John reasoned.

 “Worked... up?” Sherlock asked, as if trying to figure out of the doctor was being serious or not.

 “It was dark and scary...” John began.

 “Me?! There’s nothing wrong with me.” Sherlock argued, laughing sarcastically. He looked away, almost beginning to hyperventilate, and then put his fingertips to his temples, groaning in anguish. John looked at him in concern.

 “Sherlock...” Sherlock began blowing out breaths again, his fingers trembling against his skin. “Sher-”

 “THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME!” Sherlock shouted suddenly, loudly, and furiously. He glared round at John. I jumped, jolting my stomach. I groaned and lurched over, still not wanting to have help. It was just a reaction… and a mental one at that. I was psyching myself out. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” He shouted again. He looked round at the other patrons, all of whom were now staring at him. He looked away again, and then looked at John. “You want me to prove it, yes?” He assumed. He pulled in a deep breath, trying to get himself under control. “We’re looking for a dog, yes, a great big dog, that’s your brilliant theory. Cherchez le chien. Good, excellent, yes, where shall we start?” He rambled. He looked over his shoulder and pointed at a man and woman sitting opposite each other at a table in the corner of the restaurant. His voice became savage and relentless as he went into deduction mode. “How about them? The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman. The answer’s yes.” Sherlock said darkly.

 “Yes?” John asked.

 “She’s got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we’re looking for.” Sherlock said dryly.

 “Oh, Sherlock, for g*d’s sake...” John complained quietly. Sherlock looked briefly across at the man and his knitted jumper with reindeer and holly leaves on it before turning away again.

 “Look at the jumper he’s wearing. Hardly worn. Clearly he’s uncomfortable in it. Maybe it’s because of the material; more likely the hideous pattern, suggesting it’s a present, probably Christmas. So he wants into his mother’s good books. Why? Almost certainly money.” He listed quick-fire as usual. He took another quick glance at the man. “He’s treating her to a meal but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he’s trying to economise on his own food.”

 “Well, maybe he’s just not hungry.” John reasoned.

 “No, small plate. Starter. He’s practically licked it clean. She’s nearly finished her pavlova. If she’d treated him, he’d have had as much as he wanted. He’s hungry all right, and not well off – you can tell that by the state of his cuffs and shoes.” Still quick-fire, almost becoming frenetic.  He asked the question he’s expecting to come from John at any moment. “’How d’you know she’s his mother?’” He almost mocked. John, who until now had been looking at his colleague with concern as Sherlock’s voice – while lowered – had become increasingly intense, smiled briefly.“Who else would give him a Christmas present like that? Well, it could be an aunt or an elder sister, but mother’s more likely. Now, he was a fisherman. Scarring pattern on his hands, very distinctive – fish hooks. They’re all quite old now, which suggests he’s been unemployed for some time. Not much industry in this part of the world, so he’s turned to his widowed mother for help. ‘Widowed?’ Yes, obviously. She’s got a man’s wedding ring on a chain round her neck – clearly her late husband’s and too big for her finger. She’s well-dressed but her jewellery’s cheap. She could afford better, but she’s kept it – it’s sentimental. Now, the dog: tiny little hairs all over the leg from where it gets a little bit too friendly, but no hairs above the knees, suggesting it’s a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact it is – a West Highland terrier called Whisky. ‘How the h*ll do you know that, Sherlock?’ ’Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name and that’s not cheating, that’s listening, I use my senses, John –along with Alice-, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I’ve never been better, so just leave. Me. Alone.” He listed, going on and on, still quick-fire. He glared at John, who stared back at him in shock.

 “Yeah.” He began. He cleared his throat. “Okay. Okay.” Distressed by his colleague’s venom, he tried to settle back in his chair as Sherlock stared towards the fire, breathing heavily. “And why would you listen to me? I’m just your friend.” He asked, offended.

 “I don’t have friends.” Sherlock retorted savagely.

 “Naah. Wonder why?” John said softly. He got up and walked away. My stomach was calming down, enough to where I could get up and look at Sherlock, who just stared after John.I was feeling a strong buzz, though.

 “Are you okay?” He asked quietly, obviously having calmed down but still looking after the doctor. I nodded, knowing he would know it somehow.

I'm sorry it's taking so long to update! =( I am doing a lot of stuff with my family right now so it's a miracle I update within a week anyway... Sorry. Anywho... please vote, comment, and enjoy, fun peoples! =)