(NIGHT TIME, THE MOORS, HENRY’S POV: )

                The hound howled and I raced across the grass, terrified as the hound snarled behind me. I was praying it wouldn’t get me, over and over again. I kept running, glancing back again and again as I heard the hound gaining on me. Two red glowing eyes loomed out of the darkness each time I looked around. I realized that I was holding my pistol, and so I turned and fired towards the eyes in desperation.

                Suddenly I heard glass shattering and Doctor Mortimer screamed as she threw herself out of her chair in the sitting room and cowered on the floor. The mirror on the wall had shattered under the impact of the bullet, which apparently I had just fired into it. Sobbing and cowering, she looked up at me as I continued to aim at the mirror, my face and mind blank. I came back to myself and looked at the pistol in horror.

                “Oh my g*d.”  Doctor Mortimer continued to sob. “Oh my g*d. Oh my g*d. I am so... I am so sorry. I am so sorry.” I stammered, horrified with what I had just done. I turned and ran from the room, knowing what I had to do. I was a danger to myself and others.

                BASKERVILLE

                (Alice’s POV: )

                Stapleton led Sherlock, John and I along a corridor and used her card to swipe us into the area leading to Major Barrymore’s office. As we went into the room, Sherlock pointed back to the door we just came through.

                “John.” Sherlock said.

                “Yeah, I’m on it.” John replied obediently. He turned back to keep an eye on the door as Stapleton went over to sit down at a computer.

                “Project HOUND. Must have read about it and stored it away. An experiment in a CIA facility in Liberty, Indiana.” Sherlock explained. He stood behind Stapleton, me standing next to him but looking at John, as she typed her User ID onto the computer, then added her password. A request to ‘Enter Search String’ came up and she looked up at Sherlock, who dictated the letters.

                “H, O, U, N, D.” He listed. I looked at the screen as he finished. She typed in the letters and hit Enter. A message came up saying ‘NO ACCESS. CIA Classified’ and requesting an authorization code.

                “That’s as far as my access goes, I’m afraid.” Stapleton apologized.

                “Well, there must be an override and password.” John suggested.

                “I imagine so, but that’d be Major Barrymore’s.” Stapleton replied. Sherlock spun around and walked into Barrymore’s office, me tiredly following.

                “Password, password, password.” He repeated to himself, switching on the lights in the room then sitting down at the desk. “He sat here when he thought it up.” Folding his hands in front of his mouth, he slowly spun a full circle on the chair, looking around the office as he went. Stapleton came to the doorway as I was looking over his desk. “Describe him to me.” Sherlock commanded.

                “You’ve seen him.” Stapleton replied.

                “But describe him.” I said, still scanning over his desk.

                “Er, he’s a bl**dy martinet, a throw-back, the sort of man they’d have sent into Suez.” She listed.

                “Good, excellent. Old-fashioned, traditionalist; not the sort that would use his children’s names as a password.” Sherlock gestured towards the drawings that Barrymore’s children had done for him and which he had pinned on the board above his desk. “He loves his job; proud of it and this is work-related, so what’s at eye level?”  He rapidly scanned around everything in the room without altering the angle of his eyes.

                “Books.” I noted, pointing to Sherlock’s left and looking away from the desk and to said books.

                “Jane’s Defence Weekly – bound copies.” Sherlock replied, looking to the right again and at the subject matter of some of the books on the bookshelf. “Hannibal; Wellington; Rommel; Churchill’s ‘History of the English-Speaking Peoples’ – all four volumes.” He listed. He stood up and looked at a bronze bust on a shelf.

                “Churchill – well, he’s fond of Churchill.” I said quietly. He looked back to the bookcases again. “Copy of ‘The Downing Street Years’; one, two, three, four, five separate biographies of Thatcher.” He looked down to a framed photograph on the desk of a man in uniform standing with his teenage son, me following his gaze. “Mid nineteen eighties at a guess. Father and son: Barrymore senior.” Looking at the uniform of the older man: “Medals: Distinguished Service Order.” He looked around to John.

                “That date?” I asked.

                “I’d say Falklands veteran.” John nodded.

                “Right. So Thatcher’s looking a more likely bet than Churchill.” Sherlock confirmed. He walked out of the office and headed back towards the computer.

                “So that’s the password?” Stapleton asked, me coming out of the office a few seconds after Sherlock.

                “No. With a man like Major Barrymore, only first name terms would do.” Sherlock replied. As he said it, my mobile vibrated a text alert. I pulled it out as I reached the computer.

                “You should’ve slept… you won’t be happy tonight.” It read. It was from an anonymous number. I sighed and quickly typed a reply.

                “Wrong number. Quit texting me please.

                -AW”

                “If only. That really is a contagious habit, isn’t it?” I rolled my eyes and put it away as Sherlock started to type Margaret Thatcher’s first name into the ‘Auth code’ box. He stopped as he reached the penultimate letter, narrowed his eyes and deleted everything back to the first letter, then retyped it as ‘Maggie’. I put my hands on his back for fear of falling over if I didn’t.

                Looking into the screen and gritting his teeth ever so slightly, he hit Enter. The computer beeped happily and announced, ‘OVERRIDE 300/421 ACCEPTED. Loading ...’. John came over from the door to look at the screen. After a slight pause, information began to stream across the screen as everything related to Project H.O.U.N.D. became available. Sherlock’s concentration became intense as he took it all in and focused on certain phrases like ‘extreme suggestibility’, ‘fear and stimulus’, ‘conditioned terror’, ‘aerosol dispersal’.  It took me until I saw a photograph came up of the project team posing happily together and the names of the five project leaders amongst the larger group: Elaine Dyson, Mary Uslowski, Rick Nader, Jack O’Mara and Leonard Hansen, for me to catch on. Clearing the photo from the screen, he rearranged the names into another order:

Leonard Hansen
      Jack O’Mara
          Mary Uslowski
     Rick Nader
  Elaine Dyson

Standing beside him, Doctor Stapleton finally began to understand.

“HOUND.” She said simply. She stared in growing horror at the screen as more information from the project appeared and words and phrases were highlighted such as ‘Paranoia’, ‘Severe frontal lobe damage’, ‘Blood-brain’, ‘Gross cranial trauma’, ‘Dangerous acceleration’, ‘Multiple homicide’, accompanied by photographs of some of the subjects of the project screaming insanely.

“Je***.” John said softly. I couldn’t even say anything.

“Project HOUND: a new deleriant drug which rendered its users incredibly suggestible. They wanted to use it as an anti-personnel weapon to totally disorientate the enemy using fear and stimulus; but they shut it down and hid it away in nineteen eighty-six.” Sherlock explained, still scanning the information as it flowed across the screen.

“Because of what it did to the subjects they tested it on.” I said quietly.

“And what they did to others. Prolonged exposure drove them insane – made them almost uncontrollably aggressive.” Sherlock confirmed.

“So someone’s been doing it again – carrying on the experiments?” John asked.

“Attempting to refine it, perhaps, for the last twenty years.” Sherlock said.

“Who?” Stapleton asked. John nodded at the screen, indicating the names of the project leaders.

“Those names mean anything to you?” Our doctor asked.

“No, not a thing.” Stapleton said, almost regretfully.

“Five principal scientists, twenty years ago.” Sherlock replied, sighing. He pulled up the photograph of the team and began zooming in on individuals within it. The closer footage showed that they were all wearing identical sweatshirts. Looming out of a diamond pattern in the centre of the sweatshirts was a large snarling wolf’s head and the legend ‘H.O.U.N.D.’ was printed underneath. There was some smaller text underneath but I didn’t care what it said. Sherlock continued to zoom in and out of the photo to look more closely at the faces. “Maybe our friend’s somewhere in the back of the picture – someone who was old enough to be there at the time of the experiments in 1986...” He hinted. He stopped as he saw a face he recognized, and rolled his eyes a little as he realized the truth. “Maybe somebody who says ‘cell phone’ because of time spent in America. You remember, John?” Sherlock said, sounding like he thought himself stupid.

“Mmm-hmm.” John confirmed. I thought back to Doctor Frankland giving a card to Sherlock and saying, ‘Here’s my, er, cell number.’ And nodded a little.

“He gave us his number in case we needed him.” I said.

“Oh my g*d. Bob Frankland. But Bob doesn’t even work on... I mean, he’s a virologist. This was chemical warfare.” Stapleton said, staring at the photo on the screen.

“It’s where he started, though... and he’s never lost the certainty, the obsession that that drug really could work. Nice of him to give us his number.” Sherlock answered. He reached into his pocket and took out Bob’s card. “Let’s arrange a little meeting.” He walked away from the computer and I moved out of his way. John walked closer to it and looked at the last image – a very tight close-up of one of the sweatshirts. Stitched below the ‘H.O.U.N.D.’ legend is the name of the American town and state where the project was based: ‘Liberty, In’. My eyes felt heavy and I felt like I would collapse, but then  John’s phone began to ring, startling me a bit. He dug it out of his pocket and frowned at the number on the screen, apparently not recognizing it. He answered.

“Hello?” He asked. “Who’s this?” He asked after some hesitation. They spoke, and John looked round to Sherlock. “It’s Louise Mortimer.” He told us. I looked up, curious. “Louise, what’s wrong?” He asked into the phone. “What?” John asked urgently, looking worried.  “Where-where are you?... “Right: stay there. We’ll get someone to you, okay?” He hung up, then, lowering his phone, he began to text.

“Henry?” Sherlock and I asked.

“He’s attacked her.” John confirmed.

“Gone?” Sherlock asked.

“Mmm.” John hummed.

“There’s only one place he’ll go to: back to where it all started.” He said, hitting a speed dial on his own phone. “Lestrade. Get to the Hollow... Dewer’s Hollow, now. And bring a gun.” He ordered into the mobile.

Fast update! Yay for me! First GMS, then OSA, now this! I'm doing awesome! Enjoy, vote, and comment, fun peoples! =)