Sherlock What Happened at the Hollow

**Hey, all!**

**This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so I hope you guys enjoy! This came into my mind after watching _The Hounds of Baskerville_ the first time (I think it's my favorite episode). Of course, things kept happening, and so this story got finished much later than I intended to. **

**Anyhoo, it's here now, so all's well that end's well and bla, bla, bla, etc., etc.**

**If there's anything you think I should change, let me know! You know, writing out of character, not making sense, etc. Anything to make the story better I guess.**

**Allons-y, and may God bless!**

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Of course he waited until it was nighttime to go out onto the freaky moor. Who in their right mind would go to a rumored-to-be-haunted moor in the daytime? That was just ridiculous.

The darkness penetrated everything. There were no street lights, no buildings, no sign of life. Whatever was out there, on the moor, was blanketed in darkness and obscured in a light mist. The beams of their flashlights seemed to barely pierce the blackness which surrounded them. The only noises to be heard were the occasional chirping cricket, a heaving breath and the crunch of a shoe making contact with a twig.

The three of them, on the freaky moor, seeking out a bloodthirsty, man-slaughtering hound. Oh, and not only did they want to find it, the genius detective, the one-and-only Sherlock Holmes, wanted this creature (if it even existed) to _attack them._ Talk about massive intellect.

Yes, Sherlock was there. In fact, he was the reason why _anyone_ was traipsing around Dartmoor in the middle of the night in the first place. He stood taller than his two companions, coat collar turned up, blue scarf tied securely around his neck. If he had bothered to consider at all the possibility of it being so darn cold on the moor, he may have even worn a hat. Not an ear-hat. Oh, gosh, no. Anything but _that_ (it wasn't even his hat to begin with). Walking almost side-by-side with Sherlock was Henry Knight, the fellow who had been haunted for so long with memories of a red-eyed, monstrous hound. The very beast, he claimed, who was responsible for taking the life of his father so many years ago. Needless to say, he was probably the least excited out of the three to be going to the hollow at night. Taking up the rear was Dr. John Watson, Sherlock's faithful, albeit often annoyed and sometimes freaked-out colleague. They were quiet, each reflecting on his own thoughts.

Sherlock's mind reeled. It always did, to some degree. Millions of thoughts, fragments of ideas and snippets of past conversations regarding the Hound of Baskerville bounced around in his mind. Mentally, he chose the information relevant to the case, pushing everything else aside.

_"I was just a little kid at the time, but I know what I saw."_

_ "Well, we know that Dr. Stapleton has been doing secret experiments. The question is, has been experimenting on something deadlier than a rabbit?"_

_ "He was white as a sheet. He said that he had seen horrible things in the there. Rats, the size of dogs…"_

_ "Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!"_

_ "…And dogs, the size of horses."_

The hound. _The hound._ It would be a lie to say that Sherlock didn't think about the hound itself. It was hard not to, considering he had taken up a case which directly involved it, and they were now heading to where it supposedly lived. Henry's description wasn't too detailed, but the imagination filled in the blank spaces easily. Holmes could almost see it; huge, black fur, red eyes, fangs dripping acid. A truly horrendous monster. Were the others thinking about this hound, he wondered. Probably.

* * *

Henry Knight could think of little else. The beast which had killed his father before his very eyes, the creature that haunted his memories every time he came to this place. It was there; oh, it was always there. When he closed his eyes, the picture of a black beast swam into his mind. At night, he was chased by a growling thing, getting closer every second, ready to tear him to pieces if he didn't wake up in time. Why Sherlock thought it was a grand idea to go to the haunted hollow at night was beyond Henry. This decision seemed only to prove that poor Mr. Sherlock was a mad- no; he wasn't. He didn't know. He had never seen this hound. Of course he would have no problem going hound-hunting. Henry sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse. This was for the best. Sherlock was helping him (or, even if he wasn't, he was sincerely trying to). Sherlock was not the type of person to this sort of thing just because. No, Henry assured himself, the detective knew what he was doing.

_Or did he? Did he really? He had never seen the hound. Did Sherlock really know what he was doing?_

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John Watson was thinking about the hound. He was also thinking about how cold it was, how he was going to be tired the next morning (he'll need coffee for sure), and internally beating up on Sherlock. He did this when he became annoyed with his detective flat-mate (which was a lot). To be fair, it was rather chilly, it was the middle of the night, and this plan didn't seem entirely safe. Then again, when did _any_ idea of Sherlock's guarantee _any _amount of safety? Still, John knew that he wouldn't have traded in this dangerous, aggravatingly inconvenient lifestyle for any other. And sometimes he nearly hated himself because of this.

The doctor's thoughts were interrupted by a strange sound, a scuffling in the underbrush. Something, just out of sight, had scuttled through the bushes. It wasn't loud enough for a full-grown person; besides, who would come here of all places on a dreary, cold night? John peered through the darkness, the beam of light from his flashlight shifting from place to place.

"Sherlock-" John whispered, turning to his companions. Far ahead, he could see two lights bouncing from the trees to the ground. John huffed. He was used to Sherlock becoming so wrapped up in a mystery that he hardly noticed what was going on around him. Still, he didn't like how easily Sherlock was able to forget his presence. He was bracing himself to run after the two men when a pinpoint of light made him stop. On a rise of land on the horizon, a prick of light flashed. Pulling out a notebook and pencil-stub, John hurriedly scribbled the number of light flashes, and the pauses in between.

"UMQRA…?" he wondered out loud. "Sher-" he stopped in mid-word. He was alone.

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Henry Knight made a few attempts at small talk, mostly to calm himself. Sherlock, however, either didn't like small talk, or was so involved in his own thoughts that he didn't take much part in the conversations. He pressed on, swinging his flashlight to-and-fro, senses wired, body tense, thoughts pounding like pistons in his mind. Only when they reached the edge of the hollow, Dewer's Hollow, (the name given to it years ago by superstitious inhabitants) did he come to a halt. They both looked down.

It was a large depression; a basin spilling over with fog. Moss lined the bottom of the hollow like green down. Dead leaves carpeted the base; they crunched and snapped as Sherlock slithered down the side of the hollow. Several rock formations towered upward; mist clung to everything in the hollow like a cloak. More rustles and cracklings as Mr. Knight slid down the steep slope, almost running into Sherlock at the bottom. The detective had wasted no time; he had already begun to scan the ground. He was searching, searching for clues, for signs, for something that would either prove or disprove the presence of a large creature living there. A part of him remained skeptical; there could very well _not_ be a dog, or anything, living down here. He turned in all directions, the light from his flashlight dancing around the floor of the hollow.

His pulse began to race at the sight of the footprints. They were enormous, littering the moor's bottom. Whatever lived here knew it well, and had explored the moor's every crook and cranny. Silently the mist crept forward, as if advancing on an unsuspecting enemy.

While Sherlock scanned the earth beneath his feet, Henry kept his eyes trained upward. He could faintly hear a rustling sound; something other than he and Sherlock. Whatever it was, it was moving swiftly, coming at them from above. The beam from Henry's flashlight quivered on the steep bank. The poor man was taking deep breaths, trying to stop his hand from shaking. A large shadow passed by the light. Henry gasped, trying to make out what he had seen. Sherlock hadn't noticed; he was still running around, looking at the ground. Again, Henry saw it. It was coming closer. It didn't seem frightened of the light. On the contrary, it stood right in the full glare of the flashlight's beam. It took Mr. Knight several seconds to muster up enough breath for one word:

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned. Henry's voice was hoarse, a scratchy whisper. Now he was standing, frozen, staring upwards. Sherlock aimed his flashlight at the top of the bank. Then he too stared. The hound looked down at them. _The hound._ It was exactly as Sherlock had imagined it, except that it wasn't a hound of any kind; it was a genetically enhanced beast. Even from where they stood, at the bottom of the bank, Sherlock could see the drool hanging off the hound's chin. Its red eyes gleamed, freezing them with its demonic glare. The fur on its back and neck was ruffled and risen; its lips curled back in a snarl. From somewhere deep inside the creature, a deep, rumbling growl resounded through closed jaws. How long they stood there Sherlock never knew. It could've been seconds; to him, it seemed like hours. In a moment, though, he snapped himself back. For a second longer, he looked at the hound. Then he did the impossible. While his mind screamed at him, demanding an explanation, while his every instinct, finely tuned with years of life-risking, told him to remain, he ran. The great Sherlock Holmes ran. Instinct had taken over in this moment. He turned tail and fled. Up the side of the bank he leapt, Henry close behind. Every stride took him further away from the moor, the case, and the nightmare.

* * *

"We. Didn't. See. Anything."

He could feel John's and Henry's eyes boring holes in his head, but he could care less right now. His mind reeled, his head throbbed. Every part of his being was protesting; this wasn't true. What he had seen wasn't there. A beast like that simply couldn't exist. Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't dispel the vision. How could he deny what he had seen with his own two eyes? His flashlight quivered; he hadn't realized how much his hand was shaking until that moment. He could hear his breath: loud and raspy. He kept walking, determined not to show how utterly afraid he was. He couldn't remember a time when he was so afraid. So afraid that he ran away, going completely against everything he had trained himself for.

The great Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, was terrified. Terrified and confused. John and Henry kept looking at the detective, but didn't say anything. The three silent figures made their way through the cool night, away from the freaky moor and towards civilization. In the chill of the night, the only noises to be heard were the crickets chirping and their panting breaths as they hurried through the dew-laden grass. The only thing to be seen was the creeping mist, shrouding everything in obscurity. It followed them like a predator, just waiting to be noticed by its prey.

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**So...there you go. Again, hope you enjoyed, and all that nonsense. **


End file.

Sherlock, Adventure, Suspense