Some time later at Henry’s house, Henry and John hurry indoors. Sherlock has disappeared off elsewhere. HENRY: Look, he must have seen it. I saw it – he must have. He must have. I can’t ... Why? Why? (He stops in the doorway of the sitting room, turning back to John in anguish.) HENRY: Why would he say that? It-it-it-it it was there. It was. (Taking off his gloves, John ushers him across to the sofa.) JOHN: Henry, Henry, I need you to sit down, try and relax, please. HENRY (sitting on the sofa): I’m okay, I’m okay. JOHN: Listen, I’m gonna give you something to help you sleep, all right? (He looks around the room and sees a bottle of water on a bureau nearby. He goes over to get it, while Henry unwraps his scarf from his neck, smiling.) HENRY: This is good news, John. It’s-it’s-it’s good. I’m not crazy. There is a hound, there ... there is. And Sherlock – he saw it too. No matter what he said, he saw it.
Later, Sherlock is back at the inn. Sitting in an armchair by a roaring open fire, his face is still full of shock and disbelief. Unaware of his distress, other patrons sit at nearby tables having their evening meal. John comes in and sits down in the armchair on the other side of the fire. JOHN: Well, he is in a pretty bad way. He’s manic, totally convinced there’s some mutant super-dog roaming the moors. (With his hands in the prayer position in front of his mouth, Sherlock glances nervously at John for a moment, then continues to gaze in the direction of the fire, lost in thought.) JOHN: And there isn’t, though, is there? ’Cause if people knew how to make a mutant super-dog, we’d know. (Sherlock clasps his fingers together, closing his eyes and breathing heavily as if trying to fend off a panic attack.) JOHN: They’d be for sale. I mean, that’s how it works. (He remembers something and reaches for his notebook.) JOHN: Er, listen: er, on the moor I saw someone signalling. Er, Morse – I guess it’s Morse. (Sherlock blinks rapidly and repeatedly.) JOHN (looking at his notes): Doesn’t seem to make much sense. (Sherlock pulls in a sharp breath through his nose and then blows the breath out again through his mouth.) JOHN: Er, U, M, Q, R, A. Does that mean ... anything ... (He finally realises how distressed his colleague is looking and pauses for a moment, then decides that he can’t be right. He puts his notebook away again and sits back in his chair.) JOHN: So, okay, what have we got? We know there’s footprints, ’cause Henry found them; so did the tour guide bloke. We all heard something. (Sherlock blows out another shaky breath. John looks across to him and frowns momentarily.) JOHN: Maybe we should just look for whoever’s got a big dog. SHERLOCK: Henry’s right. JOHN: What? SHERLOCK (his voice shaking): I saw it too. JOHN (shocked): What? SHERLOCK: I saw it too, John. JOHN: Just ... just a minute. (He sits forward.) You saw what? (Sherlock finally meets his gaze but his face is twisted with self-loathing as he forces himself to admit the truth.) SHERLOCK: A hound, out there in the Hollow. (He talks through gritted teeth.) A gigantic hound. (John almost laughs as Sherlock looks away, trying unsuccessfully to blink back tears. John sits back in his chair again, not quite able to cope with this strange reaction from his friend.) JOHN: Um, look, Sherlock, we have to be rational about this, okay? Now you, of all people, can’t just ... (Sherlock blows out another breath.) JOHN: Let’s just stick to what we know, yes? Stick to the facts. (Sherlock looks round at him.) SHERLOCK (softly): Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be true. JOHN: What does that mean? (Looking away again, Sherlock reaches down and picks up a drink from a nearby table. Looking down at his trembling hand, he sniggers.) SHERLOCK: Look at me. I’m afraid, John. Afraid. (He takes a drink and then holds up the glass again, his hand still shaking.) JOHN: Sherlock? SHERLOCK: Always been able to keep myself distant ... (he takes another drink from the glass) ... divorce myself from ... feelings. But look, you see ... (He holds up the glass and glares at his shaking hand.) SHERLOCK: ... body’s betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions. (He slams the glass down onto the table.) The grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment. JOHN: Yeah, all right, Spock, just ... (Realising that he is starting to raise his voice, he looks around at the other people in the restaurant behind him and then looks back to Sherlock.) JOHN (more softly): ... take it easy. (Sherlock is blowing out a few more breaths and still failing to bring himself under control. He glances panic-stricken at John.) JOHN: 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. SHERLOCK: Worked ... up? JOHN: It was dark and scary ... SHERLOCK (laughing sarcastically): Me?! There’s nothing wrong with me. (He looks away, almost beginning to hyperventilate, then puts his fingertips to his temples, groaning in anguish. John looks at him in concern.) JOHN: Sherlock ... (Sherlock begins blowing out breaths again, his fingers trembling against his skin.) JOHN: Sher... SHERLOCK (loudly, furiously): THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! (He glares round at John.) SHERLOCK: DO YOU UNDERSTAND? (He looks round at the other patrons, all of whom are now staring at him. He looks away again, then looks at John.) SHERLOCK: You want me to prove it, yes? (He pulls in a deep breath, trying to get himself under control.) SHERLOCK: 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? (The patrons have gone back to their eating. Sherlock looks over his shoulder and points towards a man and woman sitting opposite each other at a table in the corner of the restaurant. His voice becomes savage and relentless as he goes into deduction mode.) SHERLOCK: How about them? The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman. The answer’s yes. JOHN: Yes? SHERLOCK: She’s got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we’re looking for. JOHN (quietly): Oh, Sherlock, for God’s sake ... (Sherlock looks briefly across at the man and his jumper with reindeer and holly leaves knitted into it before turning away again.) SHERLOCK (quick fire): Look at the jumper he’s wearing. Hardly worn. Clearly he’s uncomfortable in it. Maybe it’s because of the material; more likely the hideous pattern, suggesting it’s a present, probably Christmas. So he wants into his mother’s good books. Why? Almost certainly money. (He takes another quick glance at the man.) SHERLOCK (quick fire): He’s treating her to a meal but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he’s trying to economise on his own food. JOHN: Well, maybe he’s just not hungry. SHERLOCK (quick fire, becoming almost frenetic): No, small plate. Starter. He’s practically licked it clean. She’s nearly finished her pavlova. If she’d treated him, he’d have had as much as he wanted. He’s hungry all right, and not well-off – you can tell that by the state of his cuffs and shoes. (He asks the question he’s expecting to come from John at any moment.) SHERLOCK: “How d’you know she’s his mother?” (John, who until now has been looking at his colleague with concern as Sherlock’s voice – while lowered – has become increasingly intense, smiles briefly.) SHERLOCK (quick fire): Who else would give him a Christmas present like that? Well, it could be an aunt or an elder sister, but mother’s more likely. Now, he was a fisherman. Scarring pattern on his hands, very distinctive – fish hooks. They’re all quite old now, which suggests he’s been unemployed for some time. Not much industry in this part of the world, so he’s turned to his widowed mother for help. “Widowed?” Yes, obviously. She’s got a man’s wedding ring on a chain round her neck – clearly her late husband’s and too big for her finger. She’s well-dressed but her jewellery’s cheap. She could afford better, but she’s kept it – it’s sentimental. Now, the dog ... (he looks at the thick wiry hairs on the lower part of the woman’s black trousers) ... tiny little hairs all over the leg from where it gets a little bit too friendly, but no hairs above the knees, suggesting it’s a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact it is – a West Highland terrier called Whisky. “How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?” ’Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name and that’s not cheating, that’s listening. I use my senses, John, unlike some people, so you see, I am fine, in fact I’ve never been better, so just Leave. Me. Alone. (He glares at John, who stares back at him in shock.) JOHN: Yeah. (He clears his throat.) JOHN: Okay. Okay. (Distressed by his colleague’s venom, he tries to settle back in his chair while Sherlock stares towards the fire, breathing heavily.) JOHN: And why would you listen to me? I’m just your friend. SHERLOCK (savagely): I don’t have friends. JOHN (softly): Naah. Wonder why? (He gets up and walks away.)
Shortly afterwards, John storms out of the pub and stops just outside, breathing heavily. He gazes up into the sky and blows out a breath, pulling himself together, then looks into the distance and his eyes narrow. The flashing light is back on the hillside. As it continues to flash, he starts to walk in its direction.
HENRY’S HOUSE. Henry is asleep on the sofa at the edge of the kitchen. He has a duvet over him and a pillow under his head, presumably brought in by John after giving him a sleeping pill. Now he wakes, sits up and rubs his hands over his face, sighing. He stands up and walks over to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors and looks out into the dark garden. Still half asleep, he has a sudden mental flash of the word “Liberty” stitched into material, and then the following “In” word. Recoiling from the memory, he buries his face in his hands and sighs in anguish.
MOORS. Using his torch to illuminate the way, John is walking towards the flashing light on the hillside. As he reaches the top of the hill he can hear a rhythmic squeaking noise, and then as he shines his light around he realises that there are several cars parked up there. The drivers sitting in each car flinch and hold up their hands to shield their faces from the beam from John’s torch, but they are also trying to avoid being identified and John now realises why when he turns his beam onto a car which has slightly steamed-up windows and which is rocking from side to side. Its headlights are intermittently flashing on and off. A woman’s voice comes from inside the car. WOMAN’s VOICE: Oh! Mr Selden! You’ve done it again! MAN’s VOICE: Oh, I keep catching it with my belt. (As the inhabitants of the car groan and continue about their ... ahem, business, John lowers his torch.) JOHN: Oh, God. (He hesitates and squints at the car, half-raising his torch again as if almost tempted to take another look, but then it fully hits him that the Morse messages he wrote down were nothing more than the random flashings of a car’s headlights during the sexual goings-on of a dogging site. He turns and heads back towards the pub.) JOHN: Sh... (As he walks away from the hillside his phone trills a text alert. He gets out the phone and looks at the message:
Henry’s therapist currently in Cross Keys Pub S
John writes a brief reply in capital letters, speaking it aloud as he types.) JOHN: So? (The reply comes almost instantly:
Interview her?
John answers:
WHY SHOULD I?
After a moment he gets another alert:
Downloading image ...
Shortly afterwards the image arrives and he opens it. It’s a covertly-taken photograph of Louise Mortimer standing at the bar. She’s pretty, and around John’s age. He looks at the photo for a moment and then walks on.) JOHN: Ooh, you’re a bad man. (It’s not clear, however, whether he’s talking to himself or to Sherlock.)
HENRY’S HOUSE. Henry has sat back down on the sofa and has wrapped the duvet around himself. The television is on nearby but he is dozing and not paying attention to it. He wakes a little and looks out in the dark garden again, his eyes tired and heavy, then he turns to look at the TV. An old black and white film is showing several dogs running around somewhere dark and spooky-looking. Henry quickly changes the channel to a less threatening film that looks as if it’s set in a rural village during the 1940s. Suddenly the security lights outside the house come on. Henry looks anxiously into the garden but can see nothing moving in the bright lights. A few seconds later the lights fade out again. Henry turns his head away and instantly – unseen by him – something moves quickly across the garden near the back fence. Henry changes the TV channel again and picks the worst possible choice as a wolf snarls straight into the camera while a woman screams in terror offscreen. Recoiling in annoyed frustration, Henry turns off the TV. Instantly the security lights come on again. There still appears to be nothing out there but Henry gets up and walks closer to the glass doors. Just as the lights begin to fade again, a huge shape flicks across the garden at the far end. It moves so fast that it’s impossible to see what it is, except that it appears to be fairly low to the ground. Henry recoils in horror and looks across to a small cabinet on the other side of the room. He hesitates, almost afraid to move, but then runs across and scrabbles in the cabinet before pulling out a old-looking pistol. Panting in terror, he turns and looks out into the dark garden again and then, in a move that has every viewer yelling at the screen, “Never go nearer to the danger, you idiot!” he walks slowly towards the glass doors. Just as he has almost got his nose pressed to the glass the lights blaze again and a massive shape, most definitely looking like the head of a huge dog, slams against the glass on the other side and then immediately vanishes again. Screaming and wailing in panic, Henry stumbles back and aims his pistol at the glass. The lights fade out again. Henry sobs and a couple of seconds later the lights flash on yet again. His eyes rake over the garden but there’s nothing to be seen. The lights fade one more time and by now Henry has sunk to the floor, his hands over his face while he sobs in absolute terror.
CROSS KEYS INN. John is sitting at a table in the pub with Louise Mortimer. They are chatting and laughing. MORTIMER (giggling): That’s so mean! (John picks up a half-empty wine bottle from the table.) JOHN: Um, more wine, Doctor? MORTIMER: Are you trying to get me drunk, Doctor? JOHN: The thought never occurred! (He refills her glass.) MORTIMER: Because a while ago I thought you were chatting me up. JOHN (refilling his own glass): Ooh! Where did I go wrong? MORTIMER: When you started asking me about my patients. JOHN: Well, you see, I am one of Henry’s oldest friends. MORTIMER: Yeah, and he’s one of my patients, so I can’t talk about him. JOHN: Mmm. MORTIMER: Although he has told me about all his oldest friends. (She looks at him thoughtfully.) Which one are you? JOHN (hopefully): A new one? (She scoffs.) JOHN: Okay, what about his father? He wasn’t one of your patients. Wasn’t he some sort of conspiracy nutter ... (he quickly corrects himself) ... theorist? MORTIMER: You’re only a nutter if you’re wrong. JOHN: Mmm. And was he wrong? MORTIMER: I should think so! JOHN: But he got fixated on Baskerville, didn’t he? With what they were doing in there ... Couldn’t Henry have gone the same way, started imagining a hound? (Louise looks at him pointedly.) MORTIMER: Why d’you think I’m going to talk about this?! JOHN (laughing in acknowledgement of her seeing through him): Because I think you’re worried about him, and because I’m a doctor too ... (His face becomes more serious.) JOHN: ... and because I have another friend who might be having the same problem. (They lock eyes for a long moment and finally Louise sighs. She has apparently decided to tell him more than she really ought to ... but before she can even begin a hand claps down onto John’s shoulder from behind him. John looks round and sees Bob Frankland grinning down at him.) FRANKLAND: Doctor Watson! JOHN (unhappily): Hi. FRANKLAND (to Louise): Hello. (To John) How’s the investigation going? JOHN (doing everything but roll his eyes in dismay): Hello. MORTIMER: What? Investigation? FRANKLAND: Didn’t you know? Don’t you read the blog? Sherlock Holmes! JOHN: It’s ... MORTIMER: Sherlock who? JOHN: No, it’s ... FRANKLAND: Private detective! (He claps John on the shoulder again.) This is his PA! JOHN: PA? FRANKLAND: Well, live-in PA. JOHN: Perfect(!) MORTIMER: Live-in. JOHN: This is Doctor Mortimer, Henry’s therapist. FRANKLAND: Oh, hello. (He shakes hands with her.) Bob Frankland. (He turns back to John. As he speaks, Louise is already twisting on her chair to take her coat off the back.) FRANKLAND: Listen, tell Sherlock I’ve been keeping an eye on Stapleton. Any time he wants a little chat ... right? JOHN: Mmm. (Frankland laughs heartily, claps John on the shoulder yet again and then walks away. John looks at Louise and realises that she has got her coat in her hands.) JOHN: Oh. MORTIMER: Why don’t you buy him a drink? I think he likes you. (She stands up and leaves. John sighs.)
DAY TIME. THE MOORS. Sherlock is back on the stony outcrop again, staring towards Baskerville. His eyes flick between the complex and Dewer’s Hollow, then he turns and looks back towards Grimpen Village.
HENRY’S HOUSE. Henry goes to the door at the sound of a knock. As soon as he opens it Sherlock surges though, being loudly cheerful. SHERLOCK: Morning! (He seems about to head for the kitchen but suddenly turns around and clasps Henry by the shoulders.) SHERLOCK: Oh, how are you feeling? (Henry looks terrible. Sherlock ducks his head down to get a better look into his face.) HENRY (exhaustedly): I’m ... I didn’t sleep very well. SHERLOCK: That’s a shame. Shall I make you some coffee? (He looks up at the ceiling above the door and points.) Oh look, you’ve got damp! (He grins falsely at him until Henry turns his head to look at the ceiling, then drops the smile and turns and walks away towards the kitchen. Hurrying over to the cupboards, he starts opening and closing each one rapidly. Finally he finds the metal jar that he’s looking for and takes it out, rummaging inside it while he elbows the cupboard door closed. Tucking something from the jar inside his coat, he goes over to the sink and picks up a couple of mugs, taking them over to the central island just as Henry tiredly wanders in.) HENRY: Listen ... last night. (Sherlock gives him that horrifying attempt at a friendly smile while he takes the top off the coffee tin.) HENRY: Why did you say you hadn’t seen anything? I mean, I only saw the hound for a minute, but... (Sherlock has been dumping spoonfuls of coffee into the mugs without even looking, his eyes locked on Henry’s, and now he slams the coffee tin down onto the surface and steps closer to him, his eyes back to their normal intensity.) SHERLOCK: Hound. HENRY: What? SHERLOCK: Why do you call it a hound? Why a hound? HENRY: Why – what do you mean? SHERLOCK: It’s odd, isn’t it? Strange choice of words – archaic. It’s why I took the case. “Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound.” Why say “hound”? HENRY: I don’t know! I ... SHERLOCK: Actually, I’d better skip the coffee. (He flares out of the kitchen. Henry sighs wearily.)
Later, Sherlock is walking back through the village but stops when he sees John in the church graveyard, sitting on the steps of a war memorial and looking through the notes in his notebook. Sherlock goes through the kissing gate [shut up, my imagination ...] and walks along the path towards John, who looks up as he hears him approach. John’s expression becomes uncomfortable as he tucks his notebook into his pocket. Grimacing briefly, Sherlock stops in front of him, also looking awkward. SHERLOCK: Did you, er, get anywhere with that Morse code? JOHN (stepping down): No. (He starts to walk away.) SHERLOCK: U, M, Q, R, A, wasn’t it? (John keeps walking and Sherlock follows along behind him. He voices the initials as a word.) SHERLOCK: UMQRA. JOHN: Nothing. (In Sherlock’s mind, he puts full stops in between the letters but still voices it as a word.) SHERLOCK: U.M.Q... JOHN: Look, forget it. It’s ... I thought I was on to something. I wasn’t. SHERLOCK: Sure? JOHN: Yeah. SHERLOCK: How about Louise Mortimer? Did you get anywhere with her? JOHN: No. SHERLOCK: Too bad. Did you get any information? (John smiles briefly and glances over his shoulder but still keeps walking.) JOHN: You being funny now? SHERLOCK: Thought it might break the ice a bit. JOHN: Funny doesn’t suit you. I’d stick to ice. (Sherlock looks at John’s retreating back, his face full of pain.) SHERLOCK: John ... JOHN: It’s fine. SHERLOCK: No, wait. What happened last night ... Something happened to me; something I’ve not really experienced before ... JOHN: Yes, you said: fear. Sherlock Holmes got scared. You said. (Sherlock catches him up, takes hold of his arm and pulls him round to face him.) SHERLOCK: No-no-no, it was more than that, John. It was doubt. I felt doubt. I’ve always been able to trust my senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night. JOHN: You can’t actually believe that you saw some kind of monster. SHERLOCK: No, I can’t believe that. (He grins bitterly for a moment.) But I did see it, so the question is: how? How? JOHN: Yes. Yeah, right, good. So you’ve got something to go on, then? Good luck with that. (He turns and starts to walk away again. Sherlock turns and calls after him.) SHERLOCK: Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it. (John stops and turns back to face him.) SHERLOCK: I don’t have friends. (He bites his lip briefly.) SHERLOCK: I’ve just got one. (John looks away as he takes in that statement for a moment, then he nods briefly and glances back at Sherlock.) JOHN: Right. (He turns and walks away again. Sherlock looks down, then instantly raises his head again and his eyes begin to flicker in realisation of something.) SHERLOCK: John? John! (He starts to chase after him.) SHERLOCK: You are amazing! You are fantastic! JOHN (not stopping): Yes, all right! You don’t have to overdo it. SHERLOCK (catching up and overtaking him, then walking backwards in front of him): You’ve never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable. JOHN: Cheers. ... What? (Sherlock turns round and walks beside him, taking out his own notebook and starting to write in it.) SHERLOCK: Some people who aren’t geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others. JOHN: Hang on – you were saying “Sorry” a minute ago. Don’t spoil it. Go on: what have I done that’s so bloody stimulating? (Sherlock stops just outside the pub door and turns back to John, showing what he has just written in his notebook:
HOUND
JOHN: Yeah? SHERLOCK (pulling the notebook back and writing in it again): But what if it’s not a word? What if it is individual letters? (He shows him the page of the notebook again, which now reads:
H.O.U.N.D.
JOHN: You think it’s an acronym? SHERLOCK (putting his notebook away): Absolutely no idea but ... (He turns towards the pub door and trails off when he sees a familiar figure standing inside at the bar. Wearing grey trousers and a grey shirt with a light jacket over the top, heavily suntanned and with sunglasses on, Detective Inspector Lestrade has his hands in his trouser pockets and is looking the absolute epitome of casual drop-dead gorgeousness. Fandom’s underwear simultaneously explodes worldwide and hello, Inspector, have you come to take down my particulars? Your transcriber sticks her head into a bucket of cold water for a minute and then gets back to work as Sherlock storms into the pub.) SHERLOCK: What the hell are you doing here? LESTRADE: Well, nice to see you too(!) I’m on holiday, would you believe? SHERLOCK: No, I wouldn’t. LESTRADE (taking off his sunglasses as John walks over to the bar): Hullo, John. JOHN: Greg! LESTRADE: I heard you were in the area. What are you up to? You after this Hound of Hell like on the telly? SHERLOCK: I’m waiting for an explanation, Inspector. Why are you here? LESTRADE: I’ve told you: I’m on holiday. SHERLOCK: You’re brown as a nut. You’re clearly just back from your ‘holidays.’ LESTRADE (trying to look nonchalant): Yeah, well I fancied another one. SHERLOCK: Oh, this is Mycroft, isn’t it? LESTRADE: No, look ... SHERLOCK: Of course it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to ... to spy on me incognito. Is that why you’re calling yourself Greg? JOHN: That’s his name. SHERLOCK (frowning): Is it? LESTRADE: Yes – if you’d ever bothered to find out. Look, I’m not your handler ... (he turns away to pick up his pint from the bar) ... and I don’t just do what your brother tells me. JOHN: Actually, you could be just the man we want. SHERLOCK: Why? JOHN: Well, I’ve not been idle, Sherlock. (He rummages in his trouser pocket.) I think I might have found something. (He shows Sherlock the sales invoice from Undershaw Meat Supplies which he stole off the bar while he was checking in.) JOHN: Here. Didn’t know if it was relevant; starting to look like it might be. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant. SHERLOCK: Excellent. JOHN (looking at Greg): Nice scary inspector from Scotland Yard who can put in a few calls might come in very handy. (Sherlock and Greg exchange a look, and John slaps his hand down on the bell on top of the bar.) JOHN: Shop!
Later, in the small Snug next to the bar, Greg is sitting at a table looking through paperwork – presumably previous invoices from Undershaw – while Gary the manager and Billy the chef sit at the other side of the table looking at him anxiously. Nearby, Sherlock has poured a cup of coffee from a filter machine and is stirring it. He ostentatiously taps the drips off the spoon into the cup and then picks it up and carries it over to John, offering it to him. JOHN: What’s this? SHERLOCK: Coffee. I made coffee. JOHN: You never make coffee. SHERLOCK: I just did. Don’t you want it? JOHN: You don’t have to keep apologising. (Sherlock looks away with a hurt expression on his face. John relents and takes the cup and saucer.) JOHN: Thanks. (Sherlock smiles happily. John takes a mouthful and grimaces.) JOHN: Mm. I don’t take sugar ... (The hurt expression comes back onto Sherlock’s face as he looks away again. He’s like a puppy whose owner has just told him off for chewing his slippers. John looks at his face and feels that he has no choice but to take a longer drink from the cup.) LESTRADE: These records go back nearly two months. (Grimacing at the taste, John puts the cup back into the saucer and looks at Sherlock.) JOHN: That’s nice. That’s good. (He turns away to put the drink down while Greg continues interrogating Gary and Billy.) LESTRADE: Is that when you had the idea, after the TV show went out? BILLY: It’s me. It was me. (He turns to his partner.) I’m sorry, Gary – I couldn’t help it. I had a bacon sandwich at Cal’s wedding and one thing just led to another ... (Sherlock grins behind him. Greg is equally disbelieving.) LESTRADE: Nice try. GARY: Look, we were just trying to give things a bit of a boost, you know? A great big dog run wild up on the moor – it was heaven-sent. It was like us having our own Loch Ness Monster. LESTRADE: Where do you keep it? GARY: There’s an old mineshaft. It’s not too far. It was all right there. SHERLOCK: “Was”? GARY (sighing): We couldn’t control the bloody thing. It was vicious. (He sighs again.) And then, a month ago, Billy took him to the vet and, er ... you know. JOHN: It’s dead? GARY: Put down. BILLY: Yeah. No choice. So it’s over. GARY: It was just a joke, you know? LESTRADE: Yeah, hilarious(!) (He stands up and looks down at them angrily.) LESTRADE: You’ve nearly driven a man out of his mind. (He walks out of the room. John follows him. Sherlock watches him go, then peers into John’s coffee cup before following. John follows Greg across the bar and out of the pub.) JOHN: You know he’s actually pleased you’re here? (Greg throws him a disbelieving look.) JOHN: Secretly pleased. LESTRADE: Is he? That’s nice(!) I suppose he likes having all the same faces back together. Appeals to his ... his ... (He stops and searches for the right word. John provides an appropriate suggestion.) JOHN: ... Asperger’s? (Sherlock comes out of the pub and glowers at John, having heard the last word.) LESTRADE: So, you believe him about having the dog destroyed? SHERLOCK: No reason not to. LESTRADE: Well, hopefully there’s no harm done. Not quite sure what I’d charge him with anyway. I’ll have a word with the local Force. (He nods to the boys.) LESTRADE: Right, that’s that, then. Catch you later. (He smiles.) I’m enjoying this! It’s nice to get London out of your lungs! (John watches him walk away, then turns to Sherlock.) JOHN: So that was their dog that people saw out on the moor? SHERLOCK: Looks like it. JOHN: But that wasn’t what you saw. That wasn’t just an ordinary dog. SHERLOCK: No. (His gaze become distant.) It was immense, had burning red eyes and it was glowing, John. Its whole body was glowing. (He shudders, shaking off the memory, then turns and walks towards the car park.) SHERLOCK: I’ve got a theory but I need to get back into Baskerville to test it. JOHN: How? Can’t pull off the ID trick again. SHERLOCK: Might not have to. (He has just taken out his phone and hit a speed dial and now he lifts the phone to his ear.) SHERLOCK (insincerely into phone): Hello, brother dear. How are you?
