Chapter One: Cream Pie

Lucy Buttersworth was in quite a predicament. She was sitting at her vanity, wearing nothing but her undergarments, brushing her long, lustrous black hair, thinking about her problems. Her limpid eyes sparkled sadly in the mirror; oh, what she wouldn't do for someone to listen to her problems and understand them. She stood and walked to her rumpled bed, her slender limbs pale in the flickering candelight. Her last guest of the evening had just left, leaving sticky stains on her sheets and a bad smell in her small room. Spying wasn't very lucrative these days; one had to find other ways to make ends meet, and making ends meet she was. Just not the financial ones.

Just then, a knocking came at the door, and Lucy went to answer it in her undergarments. It was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He gave but one glance to her undergarments, and then asked,

"Lucy, do you have any pie?"

Lucy did, but likely not the kind of pie he was looking for. She was about to vocalize this when he continued,

"I've been dying for a slice of cream pie lately."

Once again, Lucy opened her mouth to make a lewd comment, not befitting a lady of her status at all, but Sherlock interrupted her with,

"Do you happen to know anything about a missing iguana?" Finally able to get in a word edgewise, Lucy said,

"Come in, detective. I don't have any cream pie, but I can make you some..." She paused for dramatic effect. "Hair pie."

"That sounds lovely, Lucy," he replied, distracted, coming into her disheveled room. She sighed. The detective never seemed to notice her advances.

"About that iguana," he insisted, sitting on the semen stained bedclothes obliviously. "It's very ill. I'll need all your spying skills to make sure it gets home safely."

"You can count on me," Lucy said, smiling a tantalizing smile. This case would give her a chance to get close to the mysterious detective. If he would have her, then she could give up whoring forever - she'd only need one key to unlock her hole.

"The iguana went missing between one A.M. and three A.M. Its owner, Lady MacWiffel, fell asleep while caring for it, and it disappeared. She suspects foul play," the detective elucidated. Lucy, however, was distracted by a different thought.

"Where's Watson?" she asked. Lucy despised Dr. Watson; she and he were always contending for Sherlock's affection, and, more often than not, Watson won. Why couldn't the handsome detective see that Lucy Buttersworth was all he needed?

"He'll be here presently. He had to console the poor woman who lost her beloved pet." Lucy seethed.

"I'll go get dressed," she said, stalking off to her closet, perfect red mouth drawn down in a pout.

"Do," said Sherlock, nodding. "And then we can locate this sick iguana."

But who will locate my sick heart, thought Lucy sadly.