The Question of Faith in Baskerville

Chapter Eight: Terror on the Moor?

John brought up the rear as Henry led them on a path only he could see, a route known simply from the numerous times he'd taken it with his father. As the shadows lengthened, casting the various great boulders into deeper darkness, various night creatures started stirring. Most disturbing were the foxes.

When John first heard them, he had jumped, worried that someone was hurt or scared out of their minds.

Henry had quickly assured him that it was merely foxes. He'd actually chuckled as he relived a memory as he said, "I had thought the same before Dad assured me it was just the foxes shouting at each other."

That had been earlier in the trek. But now in the even deeper shadows as twilight gave way to night, the almost human-like screams sent chills down John's spine. "Sherlock, when you told Fletcher your plan needed darkness, I hadn't thought you were serious," he said, watching his feet as they went over some particularly rocky ground on a slope.

"This was always part of the plan," Sherlock returned. "Had to investigate the scene of the crime."

"But at night?" John asked.

"Best way to potentially run into the assailant, so long as it still exists," Sherlock said.

"You still don't believe me?" Henry asked, pausing as he turned.

"It's not a question of believing you," Sherlock answered. "It's a question of life expectancy. Some breeds in the canine family can live up to ten years, occasionally make it to twenty. But usually they die before they reach ten or between the ages of ten and twenty. If your hound still exists, it would have to be rather aged, or be part of a pack of similar hounds. Unless it is some genetically mutated creature, giving it long life. Frankly, I'm not sure what exactly we will find."

John shook his head. Trust Sherlock to have stored all sorts of information concerning dogs in his mind palace. He half-smiled as an insane idea came to him. Oh, he'd have to talk to Mycroft, do some research, and ask Mrs. Hudson about her rent policies. But he just had the crazy yet fitting image of an Irish Setter bounding around Sherlock's feet. He quickly punched a note in his phone as a reminder.

That done, he brought his focus back to the task at hand. It certainly wouldn't do to be distracted if some hound leapt upon them.

Henry and Sherlock were heading into the woods now, night fully upon them aside from darkest blue still clinging to the western horizon. No stars were visible tonight, meaning no moon to lend its light.

Something rustled in the bushes, drawing John's attention. It had sounded suspiciously like footsteps. He walked over, searching for the source. But for all his careful examination, his torch revealed nothing.

Then a flicker caught his eye. Far off on another hill, a light winked in the darkness. Someone signaling?

Reaching for his notebook, he started, "Sher—" There was no one. Sherlock and Henry had continued on. A quick check with his flashlight revealed that they were truly out of sight. Well, Sherlock had earlier praised him for taking note of everything, even if he didn't understand a word of it. Time for him to do that now. He could tell Sherlock about it later.

The light was signaling in Morse Code. He jotted the letters down in his notebook. "U . . . M . . . Q . . . R . . . A." He waited a moment, but the lights were finished for the time being. That should be enough to start right? Even if he had only caught the end of the intended message. He read the letters again. "U, M, Q, R, A," he whispered. "Umqra?" He tried pronouncing it a couple different ways before giving up. Sherlock would have to figure it out.

Now, to catch up with him and Henry. "Sherlock," John called, but something, some dread of the unknown kept him from raising his voice above a quiet shout. He continued down the path through the trees, praying that he could find his friends before the hound did. Or before the hound found him.