I am so, so sorry for the time it's taken me to update this story (actually all my stories). I'm afraid that updates will start being rather slow, because school is utterly overwhelming me, but hopefully I should get the next chapter of this story up sometime in the next few weeks, instead of the next few months.
Also, I know I said that this was kind of a 'missing scenes from The Hounds of Baskerville' but this chapter focuses on what we see on screen. But I promise that next chapter will be very Irene centric.
And lastly, a HUGE thanks to all the lovely people who took the time to review!
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Sherlock wasn't sure just how long he sat in front of the fire, and retreated to his mind palace to attempt to expel the images from his mind. Slowly he became less unaware of his surroundings, and slipped into a welcome numbness until John sat down opposite him. As soon as he registered his flatmate's presence it all came rushing back to him again, the hound with its horrific eyes and Irene, somewhere upstairs in his bedroom, only confusing his emotions further.
He briefly took in his flatmate: John was calm, collected, with no sign of fear in his eyes as he talked about Henry being crazy. Sherlock felt sudden anger when John mentioned the monster dog and then an overwhelming sense of need to talk about his experience that evening. Originally he hadn't planned on mentioning it, but now it was almost impossible not to say anything.
"Listen," John continued, completely unaware that Sherlock's breathing had suddenly heightened, "on the moor I saw someone signalling. Morse- I guess it's Morse. Doesn't seem to make much sense. U.M.Q.R.A – does that mean anything?"
Sherlock didn't reply, and John finally looked up, surprised that his friend wasn't acting like a know-it-all. Instead he saw, with great surprise, that Sherlock looked tense, the colour had drained from his face, his eyes were screwed shut and he was taking deep breaths. He frowned in confusion. He hadn't seen Sherlock like this before, but he supposed that the detective was probably considering something important and decided to continue with the case.
"So, okay, what have we got?" he said, attempting to wake Sherlock from his trance. "We know there are footprints, because Henry found them; so did the tour guide. We all heard something."
Sherlock shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge the image of gigantic footprints…even that scared him now. He felt his sweat slowly break out on his face, his breaths suddenly panicked.
"Henry's right." He finally managed to gasp out, interrupting John. His flat mate looked startled.
"What?" he asked, just to make sure he'd heard properly.
"I saw it, too."
John shook his head. No, no no, this couldn't be happening. Sherlock didn't believe in this kind of stuff. "What?"
"I saw it too, John." Sherlock repeated, working on keeping his voice steady and trying to reign in his emotions. They made no sense, he should have been able to dismiss them, but they wouldn't go away.
"Just…just a minute." John repeated, still slightly dazed by Sherlock's statement. "You saw what?"
"A hound. Out there in the hollow. A gigantic hound!"
John shook his head, this was ridiculous. Sherlock was probably tired (the man hadn't slept in days, and coffee could keep people awake forever, and, judging from the glass beside him, he had been consuming alcohol.)
"Um…look Sherlock," he began, trying to keep his small, bemused smile off his face. "We have to be rational about this, okay? Now you, of all people, can't just…Let's just stick to what we know, yes, stick to the facts." But Sherlock shook his head. No, it couldn't be. He knew what he had seen in the hollow, hell, he could still see the gigantic monster in his mind. John had missed it, but it had been there.
He breathed out, a strange sort of calm descending on him due to his sudden conviction. He wasn't mad, not yet, that was one emotion less to control.
"Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be true." He said softly, while John just looked confused.
"What does that mean?"
Sherlock shook his head and picked up his whisky glass, the calmness disappearing as suddenly as it had arrived. Instead, he could see the remainder of the warm brown liquid splashing in its glass and it took him a moment to realise that his hands were shaking. The realisation almost made him want to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
"Look at me, I'm afraid, John. Afraid." He spat bitterly. "Always been able to keep myself distant, divorce myself from feelings." Once again, he felt a nearly manic laugh spill from his lips, because who was he kidding? John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Irene; all people he cared for somehow, who he had let in. And now this. He wasn't in control of his feelings, far from it.
"But you see," he added, suddenly needing to describe what he was thinking to try and make sense of it, "my body is betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions. The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."
John shook his head, deciding that sleep deprivation and alcohol really weren't a good mix. "You've been pretty wired lately, you know you have. I think you've just gone out there and got yourself a bit worked up," he said, his thoughts flying subconsciously to Irene. She had been the one to provoke Sherlock's sentimental side all those months ago, and no matter how much Sherlock had denied it, he knew that she had had an effect on him, and it wasn't one he had liked. She was dead, but there were times when John still attributed Sherlock's occasional emotional instability to her actions and manipulation.
But Sherlock had had enough. His thoughts weren't far from John's, Irene also dominated them. He hated the confusion and terror he felt, it didn't make sense, and he didn't know what to do. He hadn't been aware of it, but slowly this desperation and frustration and fear had manifested itself into something bigger, and rage and madness suddenly threatened to overwhelm him.
"Worked up?!" he spat furiously, and watched John lean forward, probably trying to console him.
"It was dark, and scary."
"Me?!There is nothing wrong with me!" Sherlock felt like yelling, his head was clouded and he couldn't think straight, but he knew he had to stay clear minded and objective. He couldn't fall prey to such emotions as other men, he was so much more than them.
It was at this point that he couldn't take it anymore, and even John could finally see that something was horribly wrong. In fact, as he carefully examined his flat mate he was shocked to discover that Sherlock seemed to be experiencing the symptoms of a panic attack.
"Sherlock?" he asked softly, uncertainly, talking to him like he was one of his patients. It finally drove Sherlock over the edge.
"There is nothing wrong with me! Do you understand?!" he yelled, and John recoiled, shocked. Sherlock gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, taking a deep breath to calm himself.
"You want me to prove it, yes? We're looking for a dog, yes, a great big dog? That's your brilliant theory. Cherchez le chien? Good, excellent, yes. Where shall we start? How about them?" he jabbed a finger at the pair sitting at the table nearest to them. "The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman? The answer's yes!"
John groaned and braced himself, ready for one of Sherlock's long deductions to prove that he was fine. But this time, even he was surprised.
Sherlock opened his mouth and let the torrent of words flow out, his mind processing and noting every detail about the two people he could find. He no longer tried to exercise any control over what he was saying, his only objective was to keep talking, to keep observing and show John that he was fine, he was infallible, and he wouldn't be stopped by certain weak and fleeting human emotions.
Subconsciously, a deeper need resided. John had irritated him by trying to make him admit something was bothering him and that he may have succumbed to fear and panic. But he wasn't only trying to prove the fact that he was unaffected to John, he needed to prove it to himself. And so he kept talking and talking, his words getting faster and faster, his body whirring with sudden energy.
"So you see," he all but snapped at John when he finished detailing the mother and son's life out to his flatmate, who was looking at him with a mix of shock and astonishment, "I am fine, in fact I've never been better. So just leave me alone!"
He let out a breath at the end of his monologue and sat back in his chair, the sudden agitated energy leaving him, and before he knew it, he saw the hound before his eyelids again, with its horrifying red eyes harrowing into him. His hands curled into fists, enraged beyond words. Why did this image have to keep returning? What was wrong with him, since when had sentiment, abhorred, horrible sentiment, played such a big role in his emotions? Feeling like he was about to scream, his harsh breathing returned, and he fell back into his panicked trance. He only barely registered John's words breaking through the haze that surrounded him.
"Yeah, okay. Okay. Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."
Sherlock snapped, John's statement finally sending him over the edge. How dare John assume that he was dependable on other people? How dare he think that he, the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, needed someone to help him cope with this? How dare he?
"I don't have friends!" he spat angrily, tension and fury coursing through his body, his face etched into a snarl, his eyes wild. But John barely saw the madness and desperation in his eyes, instead his body suddenly went rigid, affronted by the insult. Unlike Sherlock, he managed to keep his reactions in control.
"No." he agreed as calmly as he could, turning to go. "Wonder why…"
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Thank you for reading and please review!
Ooh, and on a different note, have any of you started watching Elementary, with Johnny Lee Miller? I would love to know your opinions on it (I've already seen all six episodes).
Laura x