In woodland just before sunrise, seven year old Henry Knight is running through the trees panting heavily. He is repeatedly looking behind him and having flashbacks to the terrible scene he has recently witnessed where a man was being attacked by someone – or something. The man was screaming and crying out in terror, scrabbling at the ground as he tried to get away from his attacker, which was growling and snarling ferociously. Henry runs on, trying to get away from the horror. After some time, he has cleared the trees and is out on moorland. He runs up an incline just as an old woman comes over the top of the rise. She is walking her dog.

GRACE: Oh, hello.

(Henry stops and looks at her, but his attention is mostly focused on her dog – some kind of spaniel which just stands there pretty much ignoring him.)

GRACE: Are you all right?

(Still Henry stares at the dog, whose features are mostly obscured in shadow due to the sun rising behind it.)

GRACE: What is it, dear? Are you lost?

(The dog pokes its nose towards him in a friendly way. Henry screams in utter terror.)

Twenty years later, the young boy’s screams are echoing in adult Henry’s ears. He looks around blankly as if he doesn’t know where he is or how he got there, then his face fills with horror as he realises that he is standing in the middle of a deep hollow in the woods. He starts to stumble away.

OPENING CREDITS.

BAKER STREET. As the door to 221B slams closed on someone who has just gone inside, the camera pans across to show two nodding dogs in the window of Speedy’s café. Upstairs in the flat, the living room door bursts open and Sherlock charges in, stopping just inside the room and slamming the end of a long pole down onto the ground. Sitting in his chair, John looks round and his eyes widen at the sight of his flatmate, who is wearing black trousers and a white shirt and whose arms, chest and face are covered with blood – far too much blood for it to be his own – and who is holding a harpoon. He looks round to John, breathing heavily.

SHERLOCK: Well, that was tedious.

JOHN: You went on the Tube like that?!

SHERLOCK (irritated): None of the cabs would take me.

(He walks out of the room.)

Later he is back in the room having cleaned himself up and changed into a clean shirt and trousers with one of his blue dressing gowns over the top. He is still carrying the harpoon and is pacing rapidly between the door and the window, looking round repeatedly at John as he sits in his chair flicking through the newspapers.

SHERLOCK (impatiently): Nothing?

JOHN: Military coup in Uganda.

SHERLOCK: Hmm.

(John chuckles in amusement as he sees something in one of the papers.)

JOHN: Another photo of you with the, er ...

(He points to a photograph of Sherlock wearing the deerstalker hat. Sherlock makes a disgusted noise. John moves on to another newspaper.)

JOHN: Oh, um, Cabinet reshuffle.

SHERLOCK (furious): Nothing of importance?

(He slams the end of the harpoon onto the ground and roars with rage.)

SHERLOCK: Oh, God!

(He looks round at John intensely.)

SHERLOCK: John, I need some. Get me some.

JOHN (calmly): No.

SHERLOCK (intensely): Get me some.

JOHN (more loudly): No. (He points sternly at him.) Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what.

(Irritated, Sherlock leans the harpoon against the table.)

JOHN: Anyway, you’ve paid everyone off, remember? No-one within a two mile radius’ll sell you any.

SHERLOCK: Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?

(John looks round at him and clears his throat pointedly. Sherlock looks towards the door.)

SHERLOCK (shouting): Mrs Hudson!

(He starts hurling paperwork off the table as he searches desperately for what he needs.)

JOHN: Look, Sherlock, you’re doing really well. Don’t give up now.

SHERLOCK (frantically as he continues his search): Tell me where they are. Please. Tell me.

(As John remains silent, Sherlock straightens up and then turns his most appealing puppy-dog eyes on him, hesitating before he speaks and almost forming the word a couple of times before actually speaking it.)

SHERLOCK: Please.

JOHN: Can’t help, sorry.

SHERLOCK: I’ll let you know next week’s lottery numbers.

(John chuckles.)

SHERLOCK (exasperated): Oh, it was worth a try.

(He looks around the room, then gets inspired and hurls himself to the floor in front of the fireplace. Unearthing a slipper from the pile of papers in front of the unlit fire, he holds it up and scrabbles about inside as Mrs Hudson arrives at the door and comes in.)

MRS HUDSON: Ooh-ooh!

SHERLOCK (rummaging about in the fireplace as he speaks almost sing-song): My secret supply: what have you done with my secret supply?

MRS HUDSON: Eh?

SHERLOCK: Cigarettes! What have you done with them? Where are they?

MRS HUDSON: You know you never let me touch your things!

(She looks around at the mess.)

MRS HUDSON: Ooh, chance would be a fine thing.

SHERLOCK (standing up and facing her): I thought you weren’t my housekeeper.

MRS HUDSON: I’m not.

(Making a frustrated noise, Sherlock stomps back over to the harpoon and picks it up again. Behind him, Mrs Hudson looks down at John who does the universal mime for offering someone a drink. She looks at Sherlock again.)

MRS HUDSON: How about a nice cuppa, and perhaps you could put away your harpoon.

SHERLOCK: I need something stronger than tea. Seven per cent stronger.

(He glares out of the window, then turns back towards Mrs Hudson and aims the harpoon at her. She flinches.)

SHERLOCK: You’ve been to see Mr. Chatterjee again.

MRS HUDSON: Pardon?

SHERLOCK (pointing with the harpoon’s tip): Sandwich shop. That’s a new dress, but there’s flour on the sleeve. You wouldn’t dress like that for baking.

JOHN: Sherlock ...

SHERLOCK: Thumbnail: tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads, don’t we?

(He sniffs deeply as he finally stops aiming the harpoon at her.)

SHERLOCK: Mmm: Kasbah Nights. Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, wouldn’t you agree? I’ve written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It’s on the website – you should look it up.

MRS HUDSON (exasperated): Please.

SHERLOCK: I wouldn’t pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr. Chatterjee. He’s got a wife in Doncaster (he adopts a south Yorkshire accent to say the town’s name) that nobody knows about.

JOHN (angrily): Sherlock!

SHERLOCK: Well, nobody except me.

MRS HUDSON (upset): I don’t know what you’re talking about, I really don’t.

(She storms out of the flat, slamming the living room door closed as she goes. Sherlock leaps over the back of his chair from behind it, then perches on the seat, wrapping his arms around his knees like a petulant child. John slams his newspaper down.)

JOHN: What the bloody hell was all that about?

SHERLOCK (rocking back and forth): You don’t understand.

JOHN (sternly): Go after her and apologise.

SHERLOCK (staring at him): Apologise?

JOHN: Mmm-hmm.

SHERLOCK (sighing): Oh, John, I envy you so much.

(John hesitates, wondering whether to rise to the bait, but eventually asks.)

JOHN: You envy me?

SHERLOCK: Your mind: it’s so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine’s like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad. (Loudly, frantically) I need a case!

JOHN (equally loudly): You’ve just solved one! By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!

(With an exasperated noise, Sherlock jumps up in the air and then lands in the seated position on the chair.)

SHERLOCK: That was this morning!

(He starts drumming the fingers of both hands on the arms of the chair while stomping his feet on the floor.)

SHERLOCK: When’s the next one?

JOHN: Nothing on the website?

(Sherlock gets up and walks over to the table, collects his laptop and hands it to John, who looks at the message on there while Sherlock stomps over the window and narrates part of it.)

SHERLOCK: “Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I can’t find Bluebell anywhere. Please please please can you help?”

JOHN: Bluebell?

SHERLOCK (irritated): A rabbit, John!

JOHN: Oh.

SHERLOCK (sarcastically): Ah, but there’s more! Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous ...

(He adopts a little girl’s voice for the next three words.)

SHERLOCK: ... “like a fairy” according to little Kirsty; then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry ...

(He stops and his expression becomes more intense.)

SHERLOCK: Ah! What am I saying? This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade. Tell him there’s an escaped rabbit.

JOHN: Are you serious?

SHERLOCK: It’s this, or Cluedo.

JOHN: Ah, no!

(He closes the laptop and gets up to put it back on the table.)

JOHN: We are never playing that again!

SHERLOCK: Why not?

JOHN: Because it’s not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that’s why.

SHERLOCK: Well, it was the only possible solution.

JOHN (sitting down again): It’s not in the rules.

SHERLOCK (furiously): Then the rules are wrong!

(The doorbell rings. John holds up a finger thoughtfully as Sherlock looks towards the living room door.)

JOHN: Single ring.

SHERLOCK: Maximum pressure just under the half second.

JOHN and SHERLOCK (simultaneously): Client.

Not long afterwards, a recording of a documentary is playing on the TV. Sherlock has taken off the dressing gown and exchanged it for a jacket and is sitting in his chair. John has relocated to the dining table chair near Sherlock’s, and a man is sitting in John’s chair. The documentary footage shows scenes of Dartmoor. Sherlock instantly looks bored.

PRESENTER (voiceover): Dartmoor. It’s always been a place of myth and legend, but is there something else lurking out here – something very real?

(Footage of “Keep Out” signs.)

PRESENTER (walking along a narrow road): Because Dartmoor’s also home to one of the government’s most secret of operations ...

(Sherlock’s eyes flick repeatedly between the screen and the man in John’s chair as the footage shows a large sign saying:

AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING A RESTRICTED AREA

BASKERVILLE

By this time Sherlock’s eyes are permanently fixed on the newcomer – who we now see is Henry Knight – as he watches the documentary anxiously.)

PRESENTER (voiceover): ... the chemical and biological weapons research centre which is said to be even more sensitive than Porton Down. Since the end of the Second World War, there’ve been persistent stories about the Baskerville experiments: genetic mutations, animals 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 footage switches to an indoor scene where Henry is sitting in front of the camera talking to someone offscreen. A caption at the bottom of the screen shows him as “Henry Knight, Grimpen resident”.)

HENRY: I was just a kid. It-it was on the moor.

(There’s a cutaway to a child’s drawing of a huge snarling dog with red eyes. The caption says, “Henry’s drawing (aged 9)”.)

HENRY: It was dark, but I know what I saw. I know what killed my father.

(Sighing, Sherlock picks up the remote control and switches off the footage.)

SHERLOCK (to Henry): What did you see?

HENRY: Oh. (He points to the television.) I ... I was just about to say.

SHERLOCK: Yes, in a TV interview. I prefer to do my own editing.

HENRY: Yes. Sorry, yes, of course. ’Scuse me.

(He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a paper napkin and wipes his nose on it.)

JOHN: In your own time.

SHERLOCK: But quite quickly.

(Henry lowers the napkin.)

HENRY: Do you know Dartmoor, Mr. Holmes?

SHERLOCK: No.

HENRY: It’s an amazing place. It’s like nowhere else. It’s sort of ... bleak but beautiful.

SHERLOCK: Mmm, not interested. Moving on.

HENRY: We used to go for walks, after my mum died, my dad and me. Every evening we’d go out onto the moor.

SHERLOCK: Yes, good. Skipping to the night that your dad was violently killed. Where did that happen?

(John’s eyes raise skywards at Sherlock’s insensitive question.)

HENRY: There’s a place – it’s... it’s a sort of local landmark called Dewer’s Hollow.

(He gazes at Sherlock who tilts his head at him as if to say, “And...?”)

HENRY: That’s an ancient name for the Devil.

SHERLOCK (quirking an eyebrow): So?

JOHN: Did you see the Devil that night?

(His face haunted with memories, Henry looks across to him and nods.)

HENRY (in a whisper): Yes.

(Flashback to Henry’s father screaming as he is pulled off his feet by something while young Henry watches in horror nearby.)

HENRY (voiceover): It was huge. Coal-black fur, with red eyes.

(Henry’s father finally falls silent. The creature growls savagely and young Henry turns and begins to scramble away.)

HENRY (tearfully): It got him, tore at him, tore him apart.

(Sherlock watches him intensely.)

HENRY: I can’t remember anything else. They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad’s body was never found.

JOHN: Hmm. (He looks across to Sherlock.) Red eyes, coal-black fur, enormous: dog? Wolf?

SHERLOCK: Or a genetic experiment.

(He looks away, biting back a smile.)

HENRY: Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?

SHERLOCK: Why, are you joking?

HENRY: My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville; about the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him. At least the TV people took me seriously.

SHERLOCK: And, I assume, did wonders for Devon tourism.

JOHN (uncomfortably): Yeah ...

(In an attempt to stop Sherlock’s continuing sarcasm, he leans forward to Henry. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he realises what John is doing.)

JOHN: Henry, whatever did happen to your father, it was twenty years ago. Why come to us now?

(Henry sits forward, staring at Sherlock.)

HENRY: I’m not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find it all so funny.

(He stands up and walks around the chair, heading towards the door.)

SHERLOCK: Because of what happened last night.

JOHN: Why, what happened last night?

(Henry turns back towards them.)

HENRY: How ... how do you know?

SHERLOCK: I didn’t know; I noticed.

(John shuffles on his chair with an “Oh dear lord, here we go” expression on his face.)

SHERLOCK (quick-fire): You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you’ve now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight, and do please smoke. I’d be delighted.

(Henry stares at him, then glances across to John who averts his gaze and sighs. Hesitantly, Henry walks back to the chair and sits down, fishing in his jacket pocket.)

HENRY: How on earth did you notice all that?!

JOHN: It’s not important ...

(But Sherlock’s already off.)

SHERLOCK (looking at two small round white pieces of paper stuck to Henry’s coat): Punched-out holes where your ticket’s been checked ...

JOHN: Not now, Sherlock.

SHERLOCK: Oh please. I’ve been cooped up in here for ages.

JOHN: You’re just showing off.

SHERLOCK: Of course. I am a show-off. That’s what we do.

(He turns his attention back to Henry and the napkin that he’s still holding.)

SHERLOCK: The train napkin that you used to mop up the spilled coffee: the strength of the stain shows that you didn’t take milk. There are traces of ketchup on it and round your lips and on your sleeve. Cooked breakfast – or the nearest thing those trains can manage. Probably a sandwich.

(Henry half-sobs, over-awed.)

HENRY: How did you know it was disappointing?

SHERLOCK: Is there any other type of breakfast on a train? The girl – female handwriting’s quite distinctive. Wrote her phone number down on the napkin. I can tell from the angle she wrote at that she was sat across from you on the other side of the aisle. Later – after she got off, I imagine – you used the napkin to mop up your spilled coffee, accidentally smudging the numbers. You’ve been over the last four digits yourself with another pen, so you wanted to keep the number. Just now, though, you used the napkin to blow your nose. Maybe you’re not that into her after all. Then there’s the nicotine stains on your fingers ... your shaking fingers. I know the signs.

(His gaze becomes intense.)

SHERLOCK: No chance to smoke one on the train; no time to roll one before you got a cab here.

(He glances at his watch.)

SHERLOCK: It’s just after nine fifteen. You’re desperate. The first train from Exeter to London leaves at five forty-six a.m. You got the first one possible, so something important must have happened last night. Am I wrong?

(Henry stares at him in amazement, then draws in a shaky breath.)

HENRY: No.

(Sherlock smiles smugly. John takes a drink from his mug to hide his “oh bugger it” look.)

HENRY (awestruck): You’re right. You’re completely, exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick.

SHERLOCK: It’s my job.

(He leans forward in his seat and glares at Henry intensely.)

SHERLOCK: Now shut up and smoke.

(John frowns towards him. As Henry takes out a roll-up and lights it, John consults the notes he’s taken so far.)

JOHN: Um, Henry, your parents both died and you were, what, seven years old?

(Henry is concentrating on taking his first drag on his cigarette. As he exhales his first lungful, Sherlock stands up and steps closer to him.)

HENRY: I know. That ... my ...

(He stops as Sherlock leans into the smoke drifting up from the cigarette and from Henry’s mouth and breathes in deeply. Having sucked up most of the smoke, he sits down again and breathes out, whining quietly in pleasure.)

JOHN (trying hard to ignore him): That must be a ... quite a trauma. Have you ever thought that maybe you invented this story, this ...

(Henry has exhaled another lungful of smoke and Sherlock dives in to noisily hoover up the smoke again. John pauses patiently until he sits down again.)

JOHN: ... to account for it?

(Henry drags his eyes away from Sherlock.)

HENRY: That’s what Doctor Mortimer says.

JOHN: Who?

SHERLOCK: His therapist.

HENRY (almost simultaneously): My therapist.

SHERLOCK: Obviously.

HENRY: Louise Mortimer. She’s the reason I came back to Dartmoor. She thinks I have to face my demons.

SHERLOCK: And what happened when you went back to Dewer’s Hollow last night, Henry? You went there on the advice of your therapist and now you’re consulting a detective. What did you see that changed everything?

HENRY: It’s a strange place, the Hollow.

(He flashes back in his mind to when he was standing in the Hollow the previous night.)

HENRY: Makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid.

SHERLOCK (rolling his eyes): Yes, if I wanted poetry, I’d read John’s emails to his girlfriends. Much funnier.

(John sighs hard in an attempt to release the tension that might make him kill his flatmate.)

SHERLOCK (to Henry): What did you see?

HENRY: Footprints – on the exact spot where I saw my father torn apart.

(Looking exasperated, Sherlock leans back in his seat.)

JOHN: Man’s or a woman’s?

HENRY: Neither. They were ...

SHERLOCK (interrupting): Is that it? Nothing else. Footprints. Is that all?

HENRY: Yes, but they were ...

SHERLOCK (interrupting): No, sorry, Doctor Mortimer wins. Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring! Goodbye, Mr. Knight. Thank you for smoking.

HENRY: No, but what about the footprints?

SHERLOCK: Oh, they’re probably paw prints; could be anything, therefore nothing.

(He leans forward in his seat and flicks his fingers at Henry, gesturing him towards the door.)

SHERLOCK: Off to Devon with you; have a cream tea on me.

(Standing up and buttoning his jacket, he heads into the kitchen. Henry turns in his seat to look at him.)

HENRY: Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!

(Sherlock stops dead in his tracks, then slowly turns and comes back to the kitchen doorway and stares down at Henry.)

SHERLOCK: Say that again.

HENRY: I found the footprints; they were ...

SHERLOCK: No, no, no, your exact words. Repeat your exact words from a moment ago, exactly as you said them.

(Henry thinks for a second, then slowly recites his words back to him.)

HENRY: Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic ... hound.

(Sherlock raises his head.)

SHERLOCK: I’ll take the case.

JOHN (startled): Sorry, what?

(Sherlock adopts the prayer position in front of his mouth and begins to pace slowly across the living room.)

SHERLOCK: Thank you for bringing this to my attention. It’s very promising.

JOHN: No-no-no, sorry, what? A minute ago, footprints were boring; now they’re very promising?

SHERLOCK (stopping): It’s nothing to do with footprints. As ever, John, you weren’t listening. Baskerville: ever heard of it?

JOHN: Vaguely. It’s very hush-hush.

SHERLOCK: Sounds like a good place to start.

HENRY: Ah! You’ll come down, then?

SHERLOCK: No, I can’t leave London at the moment. Far too busy. Don’t worry – putting my best man onto it.

(He walks over to John and pats his shoulder.)

SHERLOCK: Always rely on John to send me the relevant data, as he never understands a word of it himself.

JOHN: What are you talking about, you’re busy? You don’t have a case! A minute ago you were complaining ...

SHERLOCK (interrupting): Bluebell, John! I’ve got Bluebell! The case of the vanishing, glow-in-the-dark rabbit! (He looks at Henry.) NATO’s in uproar.

HENRY: Oh, sorry, no, you’re not coming, then?

(Putting on a regretful expression, Sherlock shakes his head sadly. John groans.)

JOHN: Okay. (He stands up as Sherlock smiles smugly.) Okay.

(He walks over to the mantelpiece and picks up the skull, taking a packet of cigarettes from underneath it. Putting the skull down again, he turns and tosses the packet across to Sherlock, who catches it and instantly tosses it over his shoulder.)

SHERLOCK: I don’t need those any more. I’m going to Dartmoor.

(He walks out of the living room.)

SHERLOCK: You go on ahead, Henry. We’ll follow later.

HENRY (scrambling to his feet): Er, sorry, so you are coming?

(Sherlock turns and walks back into the room.)

SHERLOCK: Twenty year old disappearance; a monstrous hound? I wouldn’t miss this for the world!

Later, John carries two large bags out onto the street, shuts the front door and walks over to Sherlock who is holding a taxi door open. Next door in Speedy’s, Mrs Hudson is shouting angrily at an unseen Mr. Chatterjee.

MRS HUDSON: ... cruise together. You had no intention of taking me on it ...

(She throws something at the closed door. As it bounces heavily off the glass, John recoils.)

JOHN: Oh! Looks like Mrs Hudson finally got to the wife in Doncaster.

SHERLOCK: Mmm. Wait ’til she finds out about the one in Islamabad.

(John sniggers and gets into the taxi. Sherlock follows him in.)

SHERLOCK (to the driver): Paddington Station, please.

DARTMOOR. After many shots of the beautiful scenery which your transcriber is delighted to sit back and watch while resting her aching fingers, we find our boys driving across the moors in a large black Land Rover jeep. Sherlock is driving ... and if they’re not playing “Yellow Car” I shall be most disappointed. Some time later, away from the road, Sherlock is standing dramatically skylined on a large stone outcrop while John stands at the foot of it consulting a map. He points ahead of himself at a large array of buildings in the distance.

JOHN: There’s Baskerville.

(He turns and points behind them. Sherlock turns to look.)

JOHN: That’s Grimpen Village.

(He turns and looks ahead of them again, checking the map for the name of the heavily wooded area to the left of the Baskerville complex.)

JOHN: So that must be ... yeah, it’s Dewer’s Hollow.

(Sherlock points to an area in between the complex and the Hollow.)

SHERLOCK: What’s that?

JOHN: Hmm?

(He has binoculars round his neck and now he lifts them and looks more closely at the fencing and the warning signs.)

JOHN: Minefield? Technically Baskerville’s an army base, so I guess they’ve always been keen to keep people out.

SHERLOCK: Clearly.

Later, they drive into Grimpen Village and pull into the car park of the Cross Keys inn. They get out and walk towards the entrance of the pub, where a young man who is apparently a tour guide is talking to a group of tourists.

FLETCHER: ... three times a day, tell your friends. Tell anyone!

(The boys walk past the group and see that Fletcher is standing next to a large sign on which is painted a black image of a wolf-like creature with the words “BEWARE THE HOUND!” above it.)

FLETCHER (to the tourists): Don’t be strangers, and remember ... stay away from the moor at night if you value your lives!

(Sherlock has been pulling his overcoat around him as he walks towards the pub, and now he pops the collar. John looks round at him pointedly.)

SHERLOCK (trying and failing to look nonchalant): I’m cold.

(The tourist group walks away from Fletcher. Once their backs are turned he puts on a large shaggy wolf’s-head mask. Sherlock and John walk into the pub, which has a blackboard outside advertising “Boutique Rooms & Vegetarian Cuisine”. Fletcher runs over to a couple of the nearby tourists and roars. They flinch and the woman shrieks in surprise.)

Flashback to Henry Knight’s father being grabbed by something in Dewer’s Hollow, and young Henry’s horrified face. In the present, adult Henry flinches, his eyes closed as he sits half reclined on a comfortable armchair. The flashbacks continue to haunt him until he opens his eyes and sighs. A woman is sitting a short distance away with a notebook and pen on her lap.

HENRY: That part doesn’t change.

MORTIMER: What does?

(Henry runs his hands over his face.)

HENRY: Oh, there’s something else. It-it’s a word.

(Sighing heavily in concentration, he closes his eyes again and sees the word as if it is stitched or knitted into some fabric.)

HENRY: “Liberty.”

(He opens his eyes again.)

MORTIMER: Liberty?

HENRY (closing his eyes again): There’s another word. (He concentrates and sees the next word in the stitching.) “In.” I-N. “Liberty In.” (He looks at his therapist.) What do you think it means?

(She shakes her head. He sighs in frustration.)

CROSS KEYS INN. As Sherlock prowls around the pub, John is at the bar checking in. The manager and barman, Gary, hands him some keys.

GARY: Eh, sorry we couldn’t do a double room for you boys.

JOHN: That’s fine. We-we’re not ...

(He looks at the smug knowing smile on Gary’s face and gives up.)

JOHN (giving him some money for the drink he has just bought): There you go.

GARY: Oh, ta. I’ll just get your change.

JOHN: Ta.

(As Gary goes to the till, John’s glance falls on a pile of receipts and invoices which have been punched onto a spike on the bar. He frowns as he sees that one is labelled “Undershaw Meat Supplies”. Quickly he reaches out and rips it from the spike, putting it into his pocket as Gary comes back with his change.)

GARY: There you go.

JOHN: I couldn’t help noticing on the map of the moor: a skull and crossbones.

GARY: Oh that, aye.

JOHN: Pirates?!

GARY: Eh, no, no. The Great Grimpen Minefield, they call it.

JOHN: Oh, right.

GARY: It’s not what you think. It’s the Baskerville testing site. It’s been going for eighty-odd years. I’m not sure anyone really knows what’s there any more.

(Nearby, Sherlock is still prowling around and now seems to find something of interest at one of the tables.)

JOHN (to Gary): Explosives?

GARY: Oh, not just explosives. Break into that place and – if you’re lucky – you just get blown up, so they say ... in case you’re planning on a nice wee stroll.

(Sherlock loses interest in the table and wanders off again.)

JOHN: Ta. I’ll remember.

GARY: Aye. No, it buggers up tourism a bit, so thank God for the demon hound! (He chuckles.) Did you see that show, that documentary?

JOHN: Quite recently, yeah.

GARY: Aye. God bless Henry Knight and his monster from hell.

JOHN: Ever seen it – the hound?

GARY: Me? No.

(He points out the door past Sherlock, where Fletcher is just outside the pub and talking on his phone to someone.)

GARY: Fletcher has. He runs the walks – the Monster Walks for the tourists, you know? He’s seen it.

JOHN: That’s handy for trade.

(Gary turns to a man who is clearly the inn’s cook who has just arrived behind the bar. Meanwhile Sherlock turns and follows Fletcher as he walks away from the doorway.)

GARY: I’m just saying we’ve been rushed off our feet, Billy.

BILLY: Yeah. Lots of monster-hunters. Doesn’t take much these days. One mention on Twitter and oomph.

(He looks at Gary.)

BILLY: We’re out of WKD.

[Transcriber’s note: WKD is a brand of alcopop aimed at the trendy young – and mostly male – drinkers’ market.]

GARY: All right.

(He walks behind the bar again. Billy turns to John.)

BILLY: What with the monster and that ruddy prison, I don’t know how we sleep nights. Do you, Gary?

(Gary stops and puts a hand on his shoulder and looks at him affectionately.)

GARY: Like a baby.

BILLY: That’s not true. (He looks at John.) He’s a snorer.

GARY (embarrassed, trying to shut him up): Hey, wheesht!

BILLY (to John): Is yours a snorer?

JOHN: ... Got any crisps?

Outside, Sherlock swipes a half-drunk pint of beer from a nearby empty table and walks over towards Fletcher, noticing as he does so that he has a copy of the Racing Post in his trouser pocket. Fletcher has gone over to another of the tables and is just finishing his phone call.

FLETCHER: Yeah ... No. All right? Right. Take care. Bye.

SHERLOCK: Mind if I join you?

(Fletcher shrugs and gestures to the table. Sherlock puts his pint down and sits on the bench on the other side of the table.)

SHERLOCK: It’s not true, is it? You haven’t actually seen this ... hound thing. (He grins in a friendly way.)

FLETCHER (looking at him suspiciously): You from the papers?

SHERLOCK: No, nothing like that. Just curious. Have you seen it?

FLETCHER: Maybe.

SHERLOCK: Got any proof?

FLETCHER: Why would I tell you if I did? ’Scuse me.

(He stands up to leave just as John comes over with his own drink.)

JOHN: I called Henry ...

SHERLOCK (talking over him): Bet’s off, John, sorry.

JOHN (sitting down): What?

FLETCHER: Bet?

SHERLOCK (looking at his watch): My plan needs darkness. (He looks up at the sky.) Reckon we’ve got another half an hour of light ...

FLETCHER: Wait, wait. What bet?

SHERLOCK: Oh, I bet John here fifty quid that you couldn’t prove you’d seen the hound.

JOHN (catching on immediately and looking at Fletcher): Yeah, the guys in the pub said you could.

(Fletcher smiles and points to Sherlock.)

FLETCHER: Well, you’re gonna lose your money, mate.

SHERLOCK: Yeah?

FLETCHER: Yeah. I’ve seen it. Only about a month ago, up at the Hollow. It was foggy, mind – couldn’t make much out.

SHERLOCK: I see. No witnesses, I suppose.

FLETCHER: No, but ...

SHERLOCK: Never are.

FLETCHER: Wait ...

(He shows Sherlock a photograph on his smart phone.)

FLETCHER: There.

(Sherlock looks at the photograph which shows a dark-furred four-legged something in the distance but, with no scale amongst the surrounding vegetation, it’s impossible to tell the size – or even the species – of the animal. He snorts.)

SHERLOCK: Is that it? It’s not exactly proof, is it?

(Fletcher shows the photo to John.)

SHERLOCK: Sorry, John. I win.

(He picks up the stolen drink and makes as if to drink from it, although he never does.)

FLETCHER: Wait, wait. That’s not all. People don’t like going up there, you know – to the Hollow. Gives them a ... bad sort of feeling.

SHERLOCK: Ooh! Is it haunted?(!) Is that supposed to convince me?

(He puts the pint glass down again.)

FLETCHER: Nah, don’t be stupid, nothing like that, but I reckon there is something out there – something from Baskerville, escaped.

SHERLOCK (not really trying to hold back his sceptical snigger): A clone, a super-dog?(!)

FLETCHER: Maybe. God knows what they’ve been spraying on us all these years, or putting in the water. I wouldn’t trust ’em as far as I could spit.

SHERLOCK (nodding to the phone photograph): Is that the best you’ve got?

(Fletcher hesitates for a long moment, uncertain whether to continue, but eventually he speaks reluctantly, lowering his voice.)

FLETCHER: I had a mate once who worked for the MOD. One weekend we were meant to go fishin’ but he never showed up – well, not ’til late. When he did, he was white as a sheet. I can see him now. “I’ve seen things today, Fletch,” he said, “that I never wanna see again. Terrible things.” He’d been sent to some secret Army place – Porton Down, maybe, maybe Baskerville, or somewhere else.

(He leans closer.)

FLETCHER: In the labs there – the really secret labs, he said he’d seen ... terrible things. Rats as big as dogs, he said, and dogs ...

(He reaches into his bag and pulls something out, showing it to the boys.)

FLETCHER: ... dogs the size of horses.

(He is holding a concrete cast of a dog’s paw print – but the print is at least six inches long from the tip of the claws to the back of the pad. Sherlock stares at it in surprise. John immediately pounces.)

JOHN: Er, we did say fifty?

(As Fletcher smiles triumphantly, Sherlock gets out his wallet and hands John a fifty pound note.)

JOHN: Ta.

(Sulkily, Sherlock gets up and walks away. John finishes his drink and follows him.)

Later, Sherlock and John take the car to Baskerville, Sherlock still driving. As they approach the complex, he observes that there are very many military personnel guarding the place, walking the perimeter etc. He drives up to the gates and a military security guard holding a rifle raises a hand. As Sherlock stops the jeep, the man walks around to the driver’s window.

SECURITY GUARD: Pass, please.

(Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and hands him a pass.)

SECURITY GUARD: Thank you.

(He walks away with the pass. At the front of the vehicle, another security man encourages a sniffer dog to check the jeep, presumably for explosives.)

JOHN (quietly): You’ve got ID for Baskerville. How?

SHERLOCK (quietly): It’s not specific to this place. It’s my brother’s. Access all areas. I, um ... (he clears his throat) ... acquired it ages ago, just in case.

(The security guard swipes Sherlock’s pass through a reader at the gate room. The screen shows a fairly small photograph of Mycroft and names the card holder as Mycroft Holmes, giving him Unlimited Access and showing his security status as ‘Secure (No Threat)’.)

JOHN: Brilliant(!)

SHERLOCK: What’s the matter?

JOHN: We’ll get caught.

SHERLOCK: No we won’t – well, not just yet.

JOHN: Caught in five minutes. “Oh, hi, we just thought we’d come and have a wander round your top secret weapons base.” “Really? Great! Come in – kettle’s just boiled.” That’s if we don’t get shot.

(The gates begin to slide open as the security guard comes back over to the car.)

SECURITY DOG HANDLER: Clear.

SECURITY GUARD (handing Sherlock his pass): Thank you very much, sir.

SHERLOCK: Thank you.

(He puts the car in gear and eases the vehicle forward.)

SECURITY GUARD: Straight through, sir.

JOHN: Mycroft’s name literally opens doors!

SHERLOCK: I’ve told you – he practically is the British government. I reckon we’ve got about twenty minutes before they realise something’s wrong.

Sherlock drives up to the main complex at Baskerville, parks the car and he and John get out. Another soldier leads them through barriers and towards an entrance to the main building. As they walk, Sherlock looks around at all the military men patrolling the area, many of them armed. Even the scientists in lab coats are being escorted. As they approach the entrance, a military jeep pulls up and a young corporal gets out.

LYONS: What is it? Are we in trouble?

SHERLOCK (sternly): “Are we in trouble, sir.”

LYONS: Yes, sir, sorry, sir.

(Nevertheless, he steps in front of them and holds out his hands to prevent them getting nearer to the entrance.)

SHERLOCK: You were expecting us?

LYONS: Your ID showed up straight away, Mr. Holmes. Corporal Lyons, security. Is there something wrong, sir?

SHERLOCK: Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not.

LYONS: It’s just we don’t get inspected here, you see, sir. It just doesn’t happen.

JOHN: Ever heard of a spot check?

(He takes a small wallet from his pocket and shows the ID inside to the corporal.)

JOHN: Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

(Even before he finishes speaking, the corporal comes to attention and salutes. John crisply returns the salute. Fangirls faint.)

LYONS: Sir. Major Barrymore won’t be pleased, sir. He’ll want to see you both.

JOHN: I’m afraid we won’t have time for that. We’ll need the full tour right away. Carry on.

(The corporal hesitates.)

JOHN (instantly): That’s an order, Corporal.

LYONS: Yes, sir.

(He spins around and walks towards the entrance. Sherlock glances across to John with a proud smile on his face as they follow. At the entrance, which is marked “AUTOMATIC SECURITY DOOR”, Lyons swipes his pass through a reader, then waits for Sherlock to walk over and do the same with his own pass. The message “ACCESS GRANTED” appears on the reader. Lyons then presses a button and the locks on the door disengage. Sherlock checks his watch.)

(Elsewhere, probably a long way from Baskerville, a message flashes up on a screen:

CCV1 • security authorization requested •

holmes, mycroft • priority ultra

processing CCV1 •

5555*0000*x1 //5894

The security request begins to process. At Baskerville, the door swings open and Lyons leads the other two inside, taking off his beret as he goes. As he leads them towards the next security door, the boys talk quietly.)

SHERLOCK: Nice touch.

JOHN: Haven’t pulled rank in ages.

SHERLOCK: Enjoy it?

JOHN: Oh yeah.

(Reaching the door, Lyons swipes his pass and then steps aside for Sherlock to do likewise. As he does so and another “ACCESS GRANTED” message appears, the authorisation request is sent out again. The doors slide opens and reveal an elevator on the other side. Lyons leads them inside and Sherlock looks at the wall panel. The lift, now on the ground floor, only goes downwards to five floors marked -1, -2, -3, -4 and B. Lyons presses the -1 button and the doors close, opening shortly afterwards on the next floor down. Lyons leads them out into a brightly lit and white tiled laboratory. As they walk forward, various scientific staff dressed either in white coveralls including full breathing masks, or lab coats and face masks walk around the lab. There are large cages to the right of the elevator and as Lyons leads the way past them, a monkey screams and hurls itself at the bars towards them. Sherlock spins on his heel as he passes the cage, looking at the monkey and the chain around its neck.)

SHERLOCK: How many animals do you keep down here?

LYONS: Lots, sir.

(At the far end of the lab, a scientist wearing coveralls and a breathing mask comes out of another room and takes his mask off. Another scientist walks across the lab with a beagle on a lead.)

SHERLOCK: Any ever escape?

LYONS: They’d have to know how to use that lift, sir. We’re not breeding them that clever.

SHERLOCK: Unless they have help.

(The man who just took his mask off comes over to the group.)

FRANKLAND: Ah, and you are?

LYONS: Sorry, Doctor Frankland. I’m just showing these gentlemen around.

FRANKLAND (smiling at them): Ah, new faces, huh? Nice. Careful you don’t get stuck here, though. I only came to fix a tap!

(John chuckles politely as Frankland walks towards the lift. John turns to Lyons.)

JOHN: How far down does that lift go?

LYONS: Quite a way, sir.

JOHN: Mmm-hmm. And what’s down there?

LYONS: Well, we have to keep the bins somewhere, sir. This way please, gentlemen.

(Sherlock is watching Frankland as he reaches the elevator. Frankland in turn looks around to gaze with interest at the new arrivals. As Lyons leads John away, Sherlock walks backwards for a couple of paces before turning to follow.)

JOHN: So what exactly is it that you do here?

LYONS: I thought you’d know, sir, this being an inspection.

(Sherlock is looking at the various scientists around the room, a couple looking at a rat in a glass cage, another one doing something to the leg of a monkey on a leash which is sitting on a metal table. Nearby, another scientist picks up what looks ominously like a glass container of serum.)

JOHN: Well, I’m not an expert, am I?

LYONS: Everything from stem cell research to trying to cure the common cold, sir.

JOHN: But mostly weaponry?

LYONS: Of one sort or another, yes.

(He swipes his card through the reader of the door at the end of the lab, then steps aside for Sherlock to do likewise.)

JOHN: Biological, chemical ...?

LYONS: One war ends, another begins, sir. New enemies to fight. We have to be prepared.

(As the door releases, Sherlock checks his watch as the security authorisation message goes out again, the message changing slightly:

CCV1 • security authorization //5894

• query • query • query

CCV1 • 5555*0000*x1

Lyons leads them through the doors and into another lab where a monkey stands up on its back legs with one hand high in the air and shrieks before sitting down again on a high metal table. A female scientist looks at it and then turns to her colleague.)

STAPLETON: Okay, Michael, let’s try Harlow Three next time.

(As she walks away from the table, Lyons approaches her.)

LYONS: Doctor Stapleton.

SHERLOCK (thoughtfully): Stapleton.

STAPLETON: Yes? (She looks at Sherlock and John.) Who’s this?

LYONS: Priority Ultra, ma’am. Orders from on high. An inspection.

STAPLETON: Really?

SHERLOCK: We’re to be accorded every courtesy, Doctor Stapleton. What’s your role at Baskerville?

(Stapleton looks at him and snorts with disbelieving laughter.)

JOHN: Er, accorded every courtesy, isn’t that the idea?

STAPLETON: I’m not free to say. Official secrets.

SHERLOCK (smiling at her): Oh, you most certainly are free ... (his smile fades and his voice becomes ominous) ... and I suggest you remain that way.

(She looks at him for a moment.)

STAPLETON: I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up – genes, mostly; now and again actual fingers.

(Sherlock has had a lightbulb moment when she said the words ‘genes’ and is reaching into his pocket before she finishes the sentence.)

SHERLOCK: Stapleton. I knew I knew your name.

STAPLETON: I doubt it.

SHERLOCK: People say there’s no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead.

(He holds up his notebook to her on which he has written a single large word: “BLUEBELL”. She stares at it in amazement as Sherlock watches her face closely.)

STAPLETON: Have you been talking to my daughter?

SHERLOCK (putting his notebook away): Why did Bluebell have to die, Doctor Stapleton?

JOHN (bewildered): The rabbit?

SHERLOCK (to Stapleton, as she stares at him blankly): Disappeared from inside a locked hutch, which was always suggestive.

JOHN: The rabbit?

SHERLOCK: Clearly an inside job.

STAPLETON: Oh, you reckon?

SHERLOCK: Why? Because it glowed in the dark.

STAPLETON: I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Who are you?

(Even as she speaks Sherlock has been keeping a mental note of the time and now checks his watch again. Out in the security system somewhere, the authorisation request changes:

CCV1 • security authorization

•• alert •• alert ••

potential level 5 security breach

5555*0000*x1 //5894

Someone looking at the screen picks up the phone and lifts the handset to their ear. At Baskerville, Sherlock lowers his hand and turns to Lyons.)

SHERLOCK: Well, I think we’ve seen enough for now, Corporal. Thank you so much.

LYONS (surprised): That’s it?

SHERLOCK: That’s it. (He turns and heads briskly back towards the door, John following behind and Lyons trailing after them.) It’s this way, isn’t it?

STAPLETON (calling after them): Just a minute!

(John catches up to his friend and speaks quietly so that Lyons can’t overhear him. His tone suggests that he is not best pleased.)

JOHN: Did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?

(Sherlock reaches the door and swipes his card, then waits for Lyons to catch up to them and do the same with his own card. In Whitehall or somewhere similar, telephones begin to ring as a chain of calls relays the potential security breach and the message goes out:

• URGENT • URGENT • URGENT •

refer holmes, mycroft

Sitting in what can surely only be the Diogenes Club with a cup of coffee on the table beside him, Mycroft takes out his phone as it trills quietly. Looking at the message, he rolls his eyes in exasperation, gazes off into space with a “Good God – what now?!” look on his face for a moment and then begins to text.)

(At Baskerville, Sherlock walks swiftly through the security doors and heads for the lift as his phone trills a text alert. He takes out his phone without stopping and reads the message:

What are you

doing?

M

He laughs sarcastically.)

SHERLOCK: Twenty-three minutes. Mycroft’s getting slow.

(Reaching the lift doors, he swipes his card and Lyons does likewise. The doors open revealing Doctor Frankland standing inside as if he has been waiting there for them ever since they met. He smiles at them.)

FRANKLAND: Hello ... again.

(Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, Sherlock walks into the lift with the others. Very shortly afterwards, one floor up, the doors open again and reveal a bearded man in military uniform waiting for them. He does not look happy.)

LYONS: Er, um, Major ...

BARRYMORE: This is bloody outrageous. Why wasn’t I told?

JOHN: Major Barrymore, is it? (He steps out of the lift towards him.) Yes, well, good. Very good. (He offers him his hand to shake.) We’re very impressed, aren’t we, Mr. Holmes?

(Barrymore refuses to take John’s hand. Sherlock’s phone sounds another text alert and he reaches into his pocket for it again.)

SHERLOCK: Deeply; hugely.

(He walks past Barrymore as he looks at his text message which reads:

What’s going on

Sherlock?

M

The major follows along behind the boys as Sherlock hurries towards the exit door.)

BARRYMORE: The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense ...

SHERLOCK: I’m so sorry, Major.

BARRYMORE: Inspections?!

SHERLOCK: New policy. Can’t remain unmonitored forever. Goodness knows what you’d get up to. (Urgently and quietly to John) Keep walking.

(Lyons has briefly ducked into a side room but now hurries out again.)

LYONS: Sir!

(He slaps an alarm button on the wall. Alarms start to blare, red lights flash and the automated security door locks itself. The others turn back to him.)

LYONS: ID unauthorised, sir.

BARRYMORE: What?

LYONS: I’ve just had the call.

BARRYMORE: Is that right?

(He turns to Sherlock and John.)

BARRYMORE: Who are you?

JOHN: Look, there’s obviously been some kind of mistake.

(A little further back, Frankland is slowly walking towards the group, looking thoughtful. Barrymore holds out his hand for Sherlock’s ID card, which he gives to him. He looks at the card and then up at Sherlock.)

BARRYMORE: Clearly not Mycroft Holmes.

JOHN (getting out a notebook and starting to write): Computer error, Major. It’ll all have to go in the report.

BARRYMORE: What the hell’s going on?!

FRANKLAND: It’s all right, Major. I know exactly who these gentlemen are.

BARRYMORE: You do?

FRANKLAND: Yeah. I’m getting a little slow on faces but Mr. Holmes here isn’t someone I expected to show up in this place.

SHERLOCK: Ah, well ...

FRANKLAND (offering him his hand to shake): Good to see you again, Mycroft.

(John tries to mask his surprise. Smiling falsely, Sherlock shakes Frankland’s hand.)

FRANKLAND: I had the honour of meeting Mr. Holmes at the W.H.O. conference in ... (he pretends to think) ... Brussels, was it?

SHERLOCK: Vienna.

FRANKLAND: Vienna, that’s it.

(He looks at Barrymore.)

FRANKLAND: This is Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Major. There’s obviously been a mistake.

(Barrymore turns and nods to Lyons, who goes back to the alarm switch and turns it off. The lights stop flashing and the alarm falls silent. A moment later the entrance door’s lock disengages noisily.)

BARRYMORE (turning back to Frankland): On your head be it, Doctor Frankland.

FRANKLAND (laughing as he looks at the approaching Corporal Lyons): I’ll show them out, Corporal.

LYONS: Very well, sir.

(Sherlock spins on his heel and walks towards the now open entrance door. John and Frankland follow him while Barrymore glares after them unhappily. The boys go outside, John grimacing anxiously with an “Oh gods, I really hope we’re going to get away with this!” expression on his face. Frankland trots after them.)

SHERLOCK: Thank you.

FRANKLAND: This is about Henry Knight, isn’t it?

(They don’t answer him but he takes their silence as agreement.)

FRANKLAND: I thought so. I knew he wanted help but I didn’t realise he was going to contact Sherlock Holmes!

(Sherlock grimaces.)

FRANKLAND: Oh, don’t worry. I know who you really are. I’m never off your website. Thought you’d be wearing the hat, though.

SHERLOCK: That wasn’t my hat.

FRANKLAND (to John): I hardly recognise him without the hat!

(John tries unsuccessfully to bite back a smile.)

SHERLOCK (tetchily, sounding the ‘t’s loudly): It wasn’t my hat.

FRANKLAND: I love the blog too, Doctor Watson.

JOHN: Oh, cheers!

FRANKLAND: The, er, the Pink thing ...

JOHN: Mmm-hmm.

FRANKLAND: ... and that one about the aluminium crutch!

JOHN: Yes.

SHERLOCK (stopping and turning back to Frankland): You know Henry Knight?

FRANKLAND: Well, I knew his dad better. He had all sorts of mad theories about this place. Still, he was a good friend.

(He looks back the way they came and sees that Major Barrymore is standing some distance away and watching them. He turns back to Sherlock.)

FRANKLAND: Listen, I can’t really talk now.

(He takes a card from his coat pocket and hands it over.)

FRANKLAND: Here’s my, er, cell number. If I could help with Henry, give me a call.

SHERLOCK: I never did ask, Doctor Frankland. What exactly is it that you do here?

FRANKLAND: Oh, Mr. Holmes, I would love to tell you – but then, of course, I’d have to kill you!

(He laughs cheerfully.)

SHERLOCK (straight faced): That would be tremendously ambitious of you.

(Frankland’s smile fades and he shrugs in embarrassment.)

SHERLOCK: Tell me about Doctor Stapleton.

FRANKLAND: Never speak ill of a colleague.

SHERLOCK: Yet you’d speak well of one, which you’re clearly omitting to do.

FRANKLAND: I do seem to be, don’t I? (He shrugs.)

SHERLOCK (raising the card that Frankland just gave him): I’ll be in touch.

FRANKLAND: Any time.

(The boys walk away from him and head towards their Land Rover.)

JOHN: So?

SHERLOCK: So?

JOHN: What was all that about the rabbit?

(Smiling briefly, Sherlock pulls his coat tighter around him, flipping the collar up just as they reach the car. John rolls his eyes and turns to him.)

JOHN: Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?

SHERLOCK: Do what?

JOHN: You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and turning your coat collar up so you look cool.

(As he turns to go to the car door, Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but is apparently so disconcerted that for a moment he can’t find the words.)

SHERLOCK: ... I don’t do that.

JOHN: Yeah you do.

(They get into the car.)

Later, Sherlock is driving them across the moors.

JOHN: So, the email from Kirsty – the, er, missing luminous rabbit.

SHERLOCK: Kirsty Stapleton, whose mother specialises in genetic manipulation.

JOHN: She made her daughter’s rabbit glow in the dark.

SHERLOCK: Probably a fluorescent gene removed and spliced into the specimen. Simple enough these days.

JOHN: So ...

(He looks across to Sherlock and waits for him to continue the sentence.)

SHERLOCK: So we know that Doctor Stapleton performs secret genetic experiments on animals. The question is: has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?

JOHN: To be fair, that is quite a wide field.

(Sherlock looks round at John in startled surprise as he realises that that’s true.)

HENRY KNIGHT’S HOUSE. His home is enormous – a four-storey stone building that was probably a very important property in the area in the past. A large old-fashioned glass conservatory is attached to the rear of the building on the ground floor (and your transcriber looks round to her LJ friends who read her fic and whispers softly, “world’s smallest jungle ...” knowingly) and a modern two-storey glass extension has been built onto the side of the house to join it to another two-storey stone building nearby. Sherlock and John go into the conservatory, which looks very run-down and clearly hasn’t had a paint job in years, and walk across to the door on the opposite side. Sherlock rings the doorbell and Henry opens the door.

HENRY: Hi.

JOHN: Hi.

HENRY: Come in, come in.

(Wiping his feet on the doormat, Sherlock walks in and heads down the hallway. John follows more slowly, stopping to look into a large high-ceilinged sitting room before following Henry again.)

JOHN: This is, uh ... are you, um ...

(He searches for the right word for a moment before finding it.)

JOHN: ... rich?

HENRY: Yeah.

JOHN: Right.

(Henry leads off again. Sherlock throws a dark look at John before following him.)

Not long afterwards, in the kitchen in the glass extension, Sherlock puts two sugar lumps into his mug and stirs them in. He is sitting on a stool at the central island and John is sitting next to him. Henry is standing on the other side of the island gazing down at the work surface.

HENRY: It’s-it’s a couple of words. It’s what I keep seeing. “Liberty” ...

JOHN (reaching into his pocket for his notebook): Liberty.

HENRY (looking up to him): “Liberty” and ... “in”. It’s just that.

(He picks up the bottle of milk that’s on the island.)

HENRY: Are you finished?

JOHN: Mmm.

(Henry turns around to put the milk into the fridge. John looks at Sherlock.)

JOHN: Mean anything to you?

SHERLOCK (softly): “Liberty in death” – isn’t that the expression? The only true freedom.

(John nods in agreement as Henry turns back around, sighing. Sherlock takes a drink from his mug.)

HENRY: What now, then?

JOHN: Sherlock’s got a plan.

SHERLOCK: Yes.

HENRY: Right.

SHERLOCK: We take you back out onto the moor ...

HENRY (nervously): Okay ...

SHERLOCK: ... and see if anything attacks you.

JOHN: What?!

SHERLOCK: That should bring things to a head.

HENRY: At night? You want me to go out there at night?

SHERLOCK: Mmm.

JOHN: That’s your plan? (He snorts laughter.) Brilliant(!)

SHERLOCK: Got any better ideas?

JOHN: That’s not a plan.

SHERLOCK: Listen, if there is a monster out there, John, there’s only one thing to do: find out where it lives.

(He looks round to Henry and smiles widely at him before taking another drink from his mug. Henry does not look encouraged by this.)

DUSK. THE MOORS. As night begins to fall, Henry leads Sherlock and John across the rocks towards Dewer’s Hollow. All three of them have flashlights to light the uneven ground below their feet. Foxes scream repeatedly in the distance. By the time they reach the woods it is almost full dark and it becomes even darker as they head into the trees. John, bringing up the rear, hears rustling to his right and turns around to look. The other two don’t notice and continue onwards as John walks cautiously towards the sound he heard. He shines his torch into the bushes as an owl shrieks overhead, but he can see nothing. Raising his head he sees a light repeatedly winking on and off at the top of a hillside a fair distance away. He looks around to alert his friend.

JOHN: Sher...

(It’s only then that he realises that the other two have disappeared out of sight. He shines his flashlight in the direction they went but there’s no sign of them. He looks back to the light on the hillside, which is still intermittently flashing, and gets his notebook out of his pocket because he has instantly recognised that the flashes are Morse code. He starts to write down the letters while speaking them aloud.)

JOHN (softly): U ... M ... Q ... R ... A.

(The light stops flashing. John looks down at his notebook.)

JOHN (in a whisper): U, M, Q, R, A. (He tries it as a word.) Umqra?

(Shaking his head, he looks up to the hillside again but no more light comes from it. Shutting the notebook, he heads off in the direction of the other two.)

JOHN (whispering): Sherlock ...

(Henry and Sherlock are a long way ahead and Henry’s torch shows that they’re at the edge of the minefield with its fencing and warning signs. They make their way along the edge of the fencing as John trails a long way behind them, still whispering his friend’s name repeatedly.)

JOHN: Sherlock ... Sherlock ...

(Up ahead, Sherlock breaks the silence.)

SHERLOCK: Met a friend of yours.

HENRY: What?

SHERLOCK: Doctor Frankland.

HENRY: Oh, right. Bob, yeah.

SHERLOCK: Seems pretty concerned about you.

HENRY: He’s a worrier, bless him. He’s been very kind to me since I came back.

SHERLOCK: He knew your father.

HENRY: Yeah.

SHERLOCK: But he works at Baskerville. Didn’t your dad have a problem with that?

HENRY: Well, mates are mates, aren’t they? I mean, look at you and John.

SHERLOCK: What about us?

HENRY: Well, I mean, he’s a pretty straightforward bloke, and you ...

(Glancing back at Sherlock, he decides not to follow that line.)

HENRY: They agreed never to talk about work, Uncle Bob and my dad.

(He stops and turns to his left. As Sherlock stops and looks at him, Henry nods in the direction he’s looking.)

HENRY (unhappily): Dewer’s Hollow.

(Sherlock turns and looks at the steep drop in the land that leads down into a misty dark valley.)

(Some distance behind them, John is still following their trail.)

JOHN (whispering): Sherlock ...

(As he progresses onwards, he hears an eerie metallic thrumming sound. He stops and aims his flashlight in the direction of the sound, then goes to move onwards just as the thrum sounds again. The sound continues to repeat, now interspersed with a short metallic ping. John walks slowly towards the sound, then quietly chuckles as he sees a rusty metal container, possibly an oil drum, which is lying in the undergrowth. Water is dripping from the tree above it and causing the thrums and pings as it strikes the drum. As John looks at it and sighs with relief, something massive flashes past behind him. John spins and looks but it’s already gone, but a couple of seconds later an anguished howl sounds in the distance. John turns and begins to hurry to find the others.)

(Sherlock is heading down into the Hollow, being careful to keep his balance on the steep slippery ground. Henry follows him down more slowly. Sherlock reaches the bottom and shines his torch around, finding giant paw prints all around the ground. Some distance away, John is now running to get to the others. Another long anguished howl rings out. Still halfway down the slope, Henry pauses. Sherlock shines his torch up in the direction of the sound ... and his face begins to fill with horror at the sight that greets him. Unfortunately for the viewers, we can’t see what he is looking at, but whatever it is growls savagely from the top of the Hollow. As the beam from Sherlock’s flashlight flails along the Hollow’s rim, the whatever-it-is has already retreated. Sherlock recoils, his face confused and bewildered as he tries to take in what he just saw. From his position some distance away, Henry hurries down to join him.)

HENRY: Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Did you see it?

(Sherlock lowers his head, still unable to get his mind to accept the evidence of his eyes. He stares around, shaking his head, then shoves Henry out of his way and hurries back up the hillside. Henry follows him.)

(Very shortly afterwards, John finally meets up with the other two making their way back.)

JOHN (referring to the howling): Did you hear that?

(Sherlock storms straight past him. John turns and follows.)

HENRY: We saw it. We saw it.

SHERLOCK: No. I didn’t see anything.

HENRY (chasing after him): What? What are you talking about?

SHERLOCK: I didn’t. See. Anything.

(He hurries onwards with Henry and John trailing along behind him.)

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 his gloves off, 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. As he goes over to get it, 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.

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 tables nearby 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 colleague.)

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 the glass up 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?

(He looks over his shoulder and points at 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 knitted jumper with reindeer and holly leaves on 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: 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 as 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 their hands up 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 as 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, almost tempted to take another look and half-raising his torch again, but then it fully hits him that the Morse messages he wrote down yesterday 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 the phone out and looks at the message:

Henry’s therapist currently in Cross Keys Pub

S

John writes a brief reply, 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.)