The Hounds of Baskerville [Reader Insert]

Baby in a Trench Coat

 Hello! I am a mess. But ykw? I find comfort in the fact that a lot of other writers here are just as bad if not worse (although there are the enviable talented writers out there). So I'll just chill, get this out and over with, and then move on. 

I've been having authorly doubts mainly due to inconsistency, the kind of doubts that make me want to bang my head against the desk until I break my skull.

   When the group got back to the inn, John decided it was is doctorly duty to go put Henry to sleep. The poor lad was having a sort of breakdown, repeating "We saw it, we saw it," and on the verge of tears. Before John left, however, you caught him giving you a look.

      You stared back blankly. "What?"

    John jerked his head in the detective's direction, then looking back pointedly to you. Sherlock (who was stalking off at the moment) had not spoken a word since the hollow. Much as you'd have liked to not do what John told you, you didn't have much a choice when he headed off with Henry without another word. So you followed Sherlock into the inn. Inside, there was a rosy warmth to the air that wasn't all displeasing, but still a sudden change from the damp, cool air outdoors. 

     Most of the groups seated enjoying their evening meals were couples, a few of them close family. Instantly, your mind was rattling off detuctions, but when you seated yourself at the second of two armchairs by the fireplace- the first being occupied by the dark-haired detective in distress- everything faded to just you... and Sherlock.

    He had his hands in the prayer position in front of his mouth,  staring just above the fire with a distant look; yet by the way his eye flickered ever so slightly to his right and his hand twitched infinitesimally, you could tell he noticed your presence. Still, his gaze never faltered from the light and from the way it shifted and swam against the browns and reds of bricks.

    You silently sat there for a few heartbeats, unsure of just what to do. John, as a generally-speaking normal person, was much better with people than you were. Then again, who in the world was good with talking to Sherlock Holmes? Mrs. Hudson, sure. Thinking about it, at least you hadn't been assigned to comforting Henry, in which case things would have been much worse.

    "Sherlock..." you tried, and Sherlock glanced at you for a moment, then went back to watching the fire with wide eyes. Although you weren't entirely sure he was more than half-listening, you continued to speak. "I don't know what happened, out there on the moor, but obviously you saw something. Whether that something was a mutant super-dog... Well, I think we can both agree that the supernatural is quite impossible, correct?"

     Sherlock clenched his jaw and shut his eyes for a moment, taking a deep, shaky breath as if trying to fend off a panic attack. When he opened his eyes and returned the fire's angry glare, you realized for the first time the way his eyes were glistening. The tiniest curl of doubt spawned in your mind.

    "Sherlock, the supernatural... is impossible. You know that, right?" 

   Sherlock's only reaction was a rapid blinking and a slight tremble. You frowned. "Maybe we should just look for whoever's got a big dog, I mean-"

    "Henry's right," Sherlock blurted, his voice shaky.

    You sat forward. "Pardon?"

    "I saw it too." 

    You were all too wary of the unspoken specification, yet asked anyway, if out of nothing more than a foolish flicker of hope: "Saw what?"

    For the first time, the detective met your eye. His face was twisted in a painful self-loathing, and through gritted teeth, he spoke. "A hound. In the hollow, we saw... A gigantic hound." Finally out with the painful confession, he let himself focus on the floor.