The Question of Faith in Baskerville

Chapter Nine: Comforts and Betrayals

John searched frantically through the woods. "God, help me find them," he prayed desperately. Then, up ahead. "Oh, thank you," he gasped out, barely breaking stride in relief as he rushed the final few meters. "Did you hear that?" he asked.

Sherlock brushed past him.

John nearly fell backward at the intense terror and horror that rolled off of his friend. Overshadowing it all was a futile denial of whatever had happened.

"We saw it," Henry cried. A unique blend of terror and jubilation sprinkled with validation whirled round the young man like a hurricane. "We saw it."

"No," Sherlock countered, as John and Henry tried to keep up with him. "I didn't see anything."

"What?" Henry gasped, almost stumbling in shock. "What are you talking about?"

"I didn't. See. Anything," Sherlock insisted.

"Just drop it for now, Henry," John advised quietly. "We'll get to your house and talk about it properly there, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," Henry said.

Unfortunately, Sherlock sped through the moors like a runaway train, leaving John with his shorter legs and the shaken Henry in the dust.

John shook his head, easing his pace, knowing that he couldn't keep up.

"Why?" Henry asked, stopping, dejectedly. "Why did he—?"

"I don't know," John answered. "Come on, let's get you home." He knew Sherlock was lying. That bitter bite underlying his emotions, embedded in the denial. But for now, his focus couldn't be on Sherlock. He had to make sure that Henry was okay and got home safely.

When they finally got back to Henry's house about an hour later, John was disappointed to see that the Land Rover was gone. Well, at least it shouldn't be a bad walk back to Grimpen. However, throughout the entire walk back, Henry had been working himself into a near-hysterical mess. He didn't really say anything, but his erratic gestures, his quickened pace as they neared the house. It bothered him that Sherlock had denied everything. John even suspected a bit that Henry had hoped to confront Sherlock and demand why Sherlock had lied. John thanked God that Sherlock had gone off if that was the case. Henry was in a fragile state right now and Sherlock could easily break him. Like a bowling ball against fine china.

An automatic light blinked on as they entered the conservatory. And it seemed to break the dam that was Henry's frantic silence. "Look, he must have seen it," he told John. "I saw it – he-he must have. I can't – Why? Why?" Henry finally came to a stop inside, collapsing back against the doorframe leading into the sitting room. He turned to John, his face as grief-stricken and betrayed as a child who is first told that Santa and the Easter Bunny are not real. "Why would he say that?" he pleaded. "It-it it was there. It was."

"Henry," John said, gently but firmly, "Henry, I need you to sit down, try and relax, please. I know this is upsetting. Honestly, I'm not too pleased with his behavior either. But you need to relax." Even as he spoke, he guided Henry to the couch.

"I'm okay," Henry said, sitting down. "I'm okay." But whether he really was or was trying to convince himself and John of that wasn't clear.

"Listen," John said, "I'm gonna give you something to help you sleep, alright?" He moved to a corner desk where a bottle of water sat as he stuffed his gloves into his pocket.

Even as he moved to pick the bottle up, Henry said, "This is good news, John. It's, it's, it's good. I'm not crazy."

Ah, that explained the relief and validation John could still sense rippling over him.