AN: Happy Birthday Silver!Verse, one year old this holiday season. What started out as my first fanfic to end my summer holidays boredom has evolved into a universe with three stories and a oneshot, and counting.

Now, we move onto the 'season two' topics/episodes - but be aware, updates may be a bit thin on the ground until Sherlock's Choice is finished (but I'm close to finishing so cross your fingers).

Thanks to all of you who have liked, favourited, and reviewed the four stories so far - here's a fifth!

Cheers - B.


"The Hound of Baskerville,"
"The what?"
"You're bloody joking,"

Sherlock sighed loudly, and his shoulders slumped visibly. He tried again to be polite and humour Lestrade: it was, contrary to how much of a big deal he chose to make out of this basic social interaction, actually becoming easier. Not that he'd admit that – not even to John.

He was losing the adrenaline that had kept him up last night, after the pool incident, and was even beginning to settle back into his tandem psychic conversations with his blogger, as if they'd never ceased.

Honestly, he clearly knows I don't know what he's talking about. Why would he persist with his triumph? – Sherlock doesn't know what I'm talking about, for once! Thus, I must be more intelligent than him! Oh frabduous day!
Alright! Ease back into the sarcasm gently, would you? It's a bit overwhelming. I'm having trouble keeping a straight face.
Now you know why I make the faces that I deem normal, and you deem 'overly dramatic'. Finally, you're realising what it's like to be me!

"Why don't you, um, give us a quick summary," John requested hastily, with a nervous glance at Sherlock, who looked to be quite annoyed. He needed a new case, to distract himself from just what had happened last night at the pool.

John could see the torment, the divided mind, all over his face: though he didn't want to bite, and see exactly what Moriarty had meant about 'seeing a man about a dog', which this case was undoubtedly linked to, he really wanted to see what the case had to offer. John knew he wouldn't be able to resist if it was in any way interesting. But why should he resist the case? Solving crime was good for Sherlock. If it stopped him climbing up the walls, and kept him behaving borderline-civilised, then John didn't mind if Satan himself recommended he take a case. He just wanted what was best for Sherlock right now.

'Quick' is not an option with these people, John. Believe me, I've learned that over the years.
Well then, you'll have a lot of data to work with. Just listen, will you?

Lestrade ushered them into his office, and encouraged them wordlessly to sit down. He seemed unable to sit still, and the beginnings of a smile played at the edges of his lips. It wasn't an entirely happy expression: more one of incredulity. Sherlock would have mistaken it for mere amusement at the fact he didn't know the story, but then way the DI's hand reached for his coffee and he sighed into it, trying to calm himself down from the stress of yet another unsolvable case, denoted something more.

They'd approached Scotland Yard totally of their own accord this morning, and Sherlock had – with a nudge from his blogger – let them know quietly that the bomber case was shelved; it was unlikely there would be any more bombs, nor kidnappings, in the near future.

They'd, surprisingly, only been met with a mild sense of relief; this gave way to Lestrade's earlier statement, which he now followed up:

"The Hound of Baskerville's quite a famous story. A big deal, round here, in the last few months,"
"Not that big a deal if I haven't heard of it,"
Sherlock! Be quiet. This will only take longer if you interrupt-
"Well, yeah, a big deal – it was very big where I grew up. Round the Dartmoor area where my grandparents lived, they said the tale went back hundreds of years. But it's only been an issue round here since about, November-time," He estimated.
"What happened then?" John asked, frowning, and leaning forward slightly.
"Charles Baskerville, the owner of a very successful bank, died. He and his wife Eleanor were involved in a fatal traffic collision – but there was nothing suspicious about it, before you ask,"
"What's that got to do with this?"

Lestrade organised his papers slightly on his desk, though it was like polishing the silverware on the Titanic, as far as John's sceptical eye was concerned. A military man always, he kept everything in its right place at home: folded socks and all. This system of filing clearly worked for Lestrade, though, so he tried not to judge him.

"There's always been this myth surrounding the Baskervilles-" Lestrade began, more enthusiastic about this case than most.
"Go on then, get it over with," Sherlock sighed. John shot him a stormy look. He wanted to remind him that he should be kinder to the only DI who looked upon him with a favourable eye, but the other man's psychic abilities were closed for business as he concentrated on Lestrade's narrative:

"So, the Baskerville family goes back for yonks, as I say," Lestrade began in his gravelly yet somewhat excited voice, "Back to Hugo Baskerville, in the early Victorian era, specifically. The legend has it that Hugo was living at Baskerville Hall, down in Dartmoor, when he started to fancy a farmer's daughter. He's a bit of a character, into drink and drugs and all sorts. Anyway, one night, he's drunk, and he decides he's going to get her, and lock her in one of the rooms of his house – but she escaped while he and his friends were busy getting even more wasted.
"The story goes that he was really pissed off, and said he'd give his soul to the devil if he could just outrun and catch her. So, he went out onto the moor to try and catch her with his friends and hunting hounds.
"He separated from the group, but in the morning, they found him and the girl, dead. She'd died from exhaustion, and he from blood loss. He had this horrible expression on his face, according to the myth – like he'd died of shock before he had a chance to be mauled. They said it looked like his dogs had done it, but they were well trained, and the bites were too big – ever since then, there's been a legend surrounding the Baskervilles. It says that all Baskervilles are stalked by a hell-hound, larger than any dog or wolf, and waiting to strike them down when they're alone at night,"

Sherlock and John were eerily silent for a moment, before John asked the obvious yet pressing question:
"So . . . What does that have to do with us?" He asked cautiously.
"Hang on – this is what I'm trying to tell you," Lestrade gestured wildly, "Just before he died, Sir Charles Baskerville, Hugo's descendant, had just moved down to London, to the old Baskerville cotton mill – it's been in their possession for as far as records go back. But when he died was when the trouble started,"
"Trouble?" John asked, with a curious quirk of the eyebrow.
"The hound?" Asked Sherlock, shifting unconsciously so he was sat slightly further forward in his seat.
"Well . . . That's what it looks like. More like a wolf, actually . . ." Lestrade finished, and then pursed his lips, looking between Sherlock and John. He began to withdraw several files from the teetering piles of paper around his desk with some difficulty. Simultaneously, the doctor and the sleuth were expressing their opinions to each other:

The hound of Baskerville Hall, in London? How did it get here?
Never mind that, Sherlock, how is it even bloody real?
When you have eliminated the impossible-
-Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I know, you've said so fifty-six times in a month!
And you've been counting, but in all that time, have failed to remember to apply the phrase. Come on, John – we must work to fulfil the first criteria!
Huh? What do you-
The esteemed detective inspector has several cases of assaults by what looks to be a giant dog in the Baskerville area for us to look out. We need to eliminate the impossible, so we can get to the truth.
So, wait – in this situation, the Hound doesn't count as impossible?
Oh, I envy you, John. You must sleep well at night, in the certain knowledge that your mutation must be the strangest thing out there.
It isn't the strangest thing?
Not by a country mile. Why, I thought you'd be a little more open to the possibility of a Hell Hound, or perhaps just the general concept of 'hell', considering what happened last night at the pool . . .
. . . Fine.

Sherlock looked at John, whose face had grown cold, and whose eyes had dropped to his shoes, at the mention of the pool. Sherlock shifted once more, regretting bringing the occasion up. He turned to Lestrade, who, after the couple of seconds' pause was waiting patiently for Sherlock's response, was itching to tell Sherlock about the case; the sleuth had obviously already read his mind, and knew the vague outline of it. The case file he'd extracted would provide the rest, obviously.

"Thank you, Lestrade. We'll read it on the way to the crime scene – not in the police car,"

Lestrade cast Sherlock a withering look, but eventually, nodded. John tensed inwardly at the audacity Sherlock had, removing police documents from the building and taking them potentially anywhere he pleased in the outside world. However, he conceded that he must be getting thoroughly used to Sherlock's appalling manners, because he still had the sense, before the sleuth swept dramatically out of the office, to ask:
"What's the address?"