Chapter Sixteen: Slaying the Ghost

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Henry half-stumbled down into the Hollow. This was where his madness had started. Such a fitting place to end it. Tears choked him, but he was beyond the ability to shed them. He was numb from too much fear, too much pain.

He would never recover. He was a monster. He had nearly killed an innocent woman. He couldn't allow himself to put anyone else in any danger. He wished he could have been able to answer the questions as to what had murdered Dad, but he would be denied that.

He stopped in the midst of the Hollow, the Devil's Hollow. This is where it would end. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm so sorry, Dad." He crouched, tilting his dad's gun into his mouth. His finger tightened on the trigger.

John ran, managing to keep just a couple steps behind Sherlock. Molly scrambled behind him. Her desperation and worry seemed to pound in time to her feet.

Determination and hopes to liberate flowed through Sherlock.

All around them, ever since they piled out of the Land Rover at the forest's edge, John had felt the remnants of horror and despair with a strong undercurrent of sickening resolve. Lord God, let us reach him in time, John pleaded.

John nearly fell headlong into the Hollow, Sherlock's long arm, just barely stopping him.

Henry crouched at the bottom, a gun in his mouth.

"No, Henry, no!" Sherlock shouted, scrambling down. "No!"

John scrambled down, less than a meter behind him, Molly almost on top of him.

"Get back," Henry shouted, half-mad, pointing the gun at them. "Get – get away from me!"

"Easy, Henry," John said calmly, finally reaching the bottom. He held his free hand out to Henry as he kept his torch pointed in Henry's general direction. "Easy. Just relax. It's gonna be okay."

"I know what I am," Henry protested. "I know what I tried to do!"

"I understand, Henry," John said. Lord, help me to get through to him. "I just need you to put the gun down. It's gonna be okay. I promise."

"No, no!" Henry cried out in absolute anguish. "I know what I am!"

"Yes, I'm sure you do, Henry," Sherlock said.

John had to resist the urge to react in surprise. For once, Sherlock honestly sounded and felt so empathetic and reassuring. Thank the Lord for small miracles.

"It's all been explained to you, hasn't it?" Sherlock continued. "Explained very carefully."

"What?" Henry asked, traces of surprise starting to slip in.

"Someone needed to keep you quiet," Sherlock said. "Needed to keep you as a child to reassert the dream that you'd both clung on to, because you had started to remember." He eased closer, not quite within arm's reach but close. "Remember now, Henry," he urged. "You've got to remember what happened here when you were a little boy."

Henry lowered the gun a moment, but only for a moment as flickers of emotion and the struggle of searching his mind raced over his face. "I thought it had got my dad – the hound. I thought . . ." He screamed, swearing. "I don't—I don't know anymore!" He bent down again almost falling as he aimed the gun into his mouth.

"No!" Molly cried even as John shouted, "Henry!"

"Henry, remember," Sherlock urged, almost demanded. "'Liberty In.' Two words. Two words a frightened little boy saw here twenty years ago."

Henry remained where he was, but something was coming over him, a calm as he was given a focus.

John however remained tightly coiled, not willing to let the young man kill himself. He'd seen enough people die, far too many.

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