In the time I had been staying at Baker Street, I had learned that Sherlock's idea of what constituted convalescence was very different to that held by the rest of the world. I'd spent time running 'badly' through the streets of London either towards trouble or away from it, poking at dead bodies, helping carry Sherlock's vast ego around and generally being astounded by his genius. But right now, I wondered if he had actually flipped. “Baskerville? No one in their right mind goes to Baskerville."
"I do, and James does," he said, basically proving my point because he was clearly a nutter as well as a genius. "And Sebastian is nearly panting to go and shoot squirrels."
"Mutant bloody squirrels that glow in the dark and will take your head off if the papers are to be believed," I protested, though I had to admit I was intrigued. No one went to Baskerville unless they were thrill seekers. The people who lived in Baskerville village were a strangely hardy folk and survivors, toughened by the conditions and proximity to one of the most unstable rift areas in all of Albion.
"Why are we going there?"
"Because." It was a sullen sort of answer that indicated Mycroft, or the Iceman as Seb insisted on calling him. "Because there is a mystery there."
archiveofourown.org/works/20396446
Кроссовер этюда в изумрудных тонах и бибисишной шерлокианы, ойблин тентакли без графичных подробностей, зато есть весьма неплохой Моран, его внезапная и адекватная сестренка, которая с эмоций моментально переключается на то, что нужно сделать, Шерлок и магоматематик Мориарти под одной крышей как коллеги, соревнующиеся в том, кто быстрее решит очередную загадку своим подходом - как ни странно, Бейкер-стрит еще не в руинах, чудище баскервильских болот ну и Ватсон, куда ж без него.