The Side of The Angels (A Sherlock Holmes Fan-Fiction)

Chapter Twenty-One: The Hounds of Baskerville

"Dartmoor. It's always been a place of myth and legend..." Our client, a Mr. Henry Knight, had brought with him to this breifing the most boring documentary known to man. I sat on the arm of Sherlock's chair, instead of in my own, for the sake of everyone being able to see the TV. I had his hand in my lap and I was playing absently with his fingers, opening them and closing them, ocasionally tracing the lines on his palm with my finger tips. He glanced at my every so often, but mostly kept his eyes on Henry as he watched the film. "but is there something else lurking out here? Something very real. Because, Dartmoor is also home to one of the government's most secret of operations, the chemical and biological weapons research center, which is said to be even more sensitive than Porton Down. Since the end of the second World War, there have been persistant stories about the Baskerville experiments. Genetic mutations, anibals 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 camera cut to our client.

"I was just a kid.  It was on the moor. It was dark, but  I know what I saw. I know what killed my father." Sherlock removed his hand from my lap, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off.

"What did you see?" Sherlock asked him.

"Oh, I was just about to say."

"With all due respect Henry, you were about to say in a TV interview. Sherlock prefers to do his own eiditing, if you will." I explained with a reassuring smile.  He returned it with a shy smile of his own.

"Yes. Sorry, yes, of course. Excuse me." He removed a napkin from his pocket, blowing his nose.

"In your own time." John assured him.

"But quite quickly."

"Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

"I've visited once or twice, a long time ago. It's beautiful in a bleak sort of way." I threw in.

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

"Mm, not interested, moving on." Sherlock stated.

"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?" I smacked him on the back of the head once again. He scowled at me and I smiled back, returning my attention to Henry.

"There's a place. It's sort of a local landmark, called Dewer's Hollow. Are you familiar with it, Claudia?" i shook my head.

"I can't say that I am, no."

"That's an ancient name for the devil."

"So?" Sherlock asked.

"Did you see the devil that night?" John threw in. Henry nodded.

"Yes. 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." I went over, stitting on the arm of John's chair and putting a hand on Henry's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry." I told him. He nodded.

"Thank you."

"Red eyes, Coal black fur, and enormous...dog? Wolf?" John asked Sherlock.

"Or a geneti experiment." Sherlock stifled a smile. I shot him a look.

"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?" I shook my head.