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Chapter 2 - The Hounds of Baskerville

A man sits in John's chair as the four of us watch a documentary, the footage shows scenes of Dartmoor, I glance over at Sherlock, who's face just reads complete boredom.

"Dartmoor," A man's voice starts. "It's always been a place of myth and legend, but there is something else lurking out here - something very real? Because Dartmoor's also home to one of the government's most secret of operations...the chemical and biological weapons research centre which is said to be even more sensitive than Porton Down. Since the end of the second World War, there've been persistent stories about the Baskerville experiments - genetic mutations, animals grown for the battlefield. There are many who believe that within this compound, in the heart of this ancient wilderness, there are horrors beyond imagining. But the real question is - are all of them still inside?"

The footage switches to our client, Henry Knight.

"I was just a kid. It-it was on the moor. It was dark, but I know what I saw. I know what killed my father."

Sherlock picks up the remote and switches the TV off.

"What did you see?" Sherlock asks him.

Henry points to the TV. "I...I was just about to say."

"Yes, in a TV interview. I prefer to do my own editing."

"Yes. Sorry, yes of course." Henry says. "Excuse me." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a paper napkin, wiping his nose on it.

"In your own time." John says.

"But quite quickly." Sherlock adds.

Henry lowers the napkin. "Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

"It's an amazing place, it's like nowhere else. It's sort of...bleak, but beautiful."

"Mm," Sherlock says. "Not interested. Moving on."

"We used to go for walks, after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we'd go out onto the moor."

"Yes, good. Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?"

John and I glance at one another at this question.

"There's a place. It's...it's sort of local landmark called Dewer's Hollow." He looks at Sherlock, as if he's supposed to know what it means. "That's an ancient name for the Devil."

"So?"

"Did you see the Devil that night?" John asks.

Henry's face pales as he remembers. "Yes." He manages. "It was huge, coal-black fur with red eyes. It got him, tore at him. Tore him apart. I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad's body was never found."

"Hm," John says. "Red eyes, coal-black fur, enormous - dog? Wolf?"

"Or a genetic experiment." Sherlock suggests before looking away off in my direction, biting back a smile, I narrow my eyes at him. Now is not the time, Sherlock.

"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Why, are you joking?" Sherlock replies.

"My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville, about the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him, at least the TV people took me seriously."

"And, I assume, did wonders for Devon Tourism."

"Yeah..." John says, a bit uncomfortably. "Henry," He leans forward, trying to take control of the conversation as well as stop Sherlock's sarcastic comments, Sherlock rolls his eyes when he notices the exact same thing. "Whatever did happen to your father, it was 20 years ago. Why come to us now?"

"I'm not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find it all so funny." Henry says, looking at Sherlock. He stands and starts towards the door.

"Because of what happened last night." Sherlock speaks up, Henry stops and turns to him.

"Why what happened last night?" John asks.

"You've just started it." I mutter, looking at John, he looks at me.

"How...how do you know?" Henry asks.

"Here he goes." I mutter.

"You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the sea across the aisle fancied you, although you were initially keen, you've now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight, and do please smoke. I'd be delighted." Sherlock says quickly, almost in one breath.

Henry stares at him, John heaves a sigh, knowing exactly what I meant now. Henry hesitantly walks back to the chair and sits down.

"How on earth did you notice all of that?"

"It's not important-" John tries.

"Punched-out holes where your ticket's been checked."

"Not now, Sherlock." John tries again.

"Oh please, both of you, have a heart - I've been cooped up in here for ages." Sherlock says to both of us, John and I look at one another, knowing we can't win.

"You're just showing off." John says, looking back at Sherlock.

"Of course. I am a show-off. That's what we do." Sherlock says quickly, looking back at Henry. "The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee, the strength of the stain shows that you didn't take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast, or the nearest thing trains can manage. Probably a sandwich."

"How did you know it was disappointing?" Henry asks in awe.

"Is there any other type of breakfast on a train?" Sherlock asks. "The girl. Female's handwriting quite distinctive, wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later, after she got off, I imagine, you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You've been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you're not that into her after all. Then there's the nicotine stains on your fingers, your shaking fingers. I know the signs." He says. "No chance to smoke one on the train, no time to roll one before you got a cab here." He adds intensely before glancing at his watch. "It's just after 9:15, you're desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at 5:46 AM, you got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?"

Henry stares at Sherlock before drawing in a shaking breath. "No."

Sherlock looks at me and smirks.

"You're right." Henry continues in awe. "You're completely, exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick."

"It's my job." Sherlock leans forward in his seat. "Now shut up and smoke."