Title: A Study in Casper Town

Word Count: Around 1,500

Written By: Gloss and Cendi

Summary: Sherlock is in Casper Town. Now, we don't know how he got here, whether he's high or not, and exactly how OOC he's going to end up, but we hope he survives his stay.

Chapter One: The First Day

Let's have Sherlock come to (strike-through)Hell(/strike-through) Casper Town.

—Jo

Walking down the Main Street of the town, Sherlock spotted a girl, short, wearing some ridiculous coat.

Just turned down a marriage proposal.

She was shaking her head, her face somewhere between surprise, disgust, and hysteria. Her ring finger was red, probably from pulling the ring off too fast. Obvious.

When her eyes met Sherlock's, she face-palmed, grumbled something that looked suspiciously like 'stupid tourists', and called for her… assistant? adopted child? It sounded like she slipped with the name, so, maybe she had several children/assistants and couldn't be bothered to remember their names. Looking more closely, it seemed like assistant, the girl was taking notes and stayed a professional distance away from her employer.

"Obviously serial killer," He muttered, passing by a cute girl, around twenty—possibly 5'1'? who was arguing with a much taller male. Glancing at a few other people, "Everyone knows it, but she's too clever to leave any evidence which can be used to convict her."

The consulting detective watched as the girl literally ripped apart a passerby and began to nibble on the heart. The bloody body was left behind, and a black cat began dragging it away with its teeth. "Or possibly no-one cares."

"Hello!" The ridiculously cheerful girl in front of him—The same one that was the assistant before—smiled up at him. Young. Far too young for this job, unless child labor laws didn't apply here, they might not… He raised his eyebrow, waiting for her to speak.

"I'm Leaf. Or Silvie, that's what Ms Aerist calls me, so you can call me that too, if you like it better. You're new here, aren't you? And sane. You remind me of Zadi—that's my boss, with the trenchcoat—kind of. You look at all the Clues. But you know what they really mean, don't you? I don't think Zadi does, not really."

Sherlock watched the girl, Leaf, impassively, waiting for her to finish.

"But, uh, yeah. So, what's your name? Do you need a place to stay? I think the bed and breakfast has a room. So does WaGotP, but, well, that's Ms Aerist's house. You'll probably want to avoid her for a little while." The girl lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "She doesn't like newbies very much, see."

"Well, Miss Silver, I'm Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, it's Silvie, not Silve—oh, never mind. So, Sherlock. That's a cool name. A lot of people here have weird names like that, too, so you should fit in just fine. Once you aren't sane anymore, I mean. If you're sane, you stick out like a sore thumb. And then Ms Aerist kills you."

So then that cute girl must have been Ms Aerist. How many serial killers could live in a single town, after all?

Sherlock had an odd feeling, then, like the Universe was laughing at him. But that was impossible. Simply his imagination.

"Why is there a head in your refrigerator?"

It was two days later, and Silver, Silvie, whatever, was visiting his hotel room.

"Experiments."

"Oh. They say Miss Aerist has a huge laboratory in her house, the one With a Gargoyle on the Porch? 'Course, we just call it House WaGotP, 'cos it's easier. That's What Purple calls it, anyway. They do experiments in there."

Sherlock raised a curious eyebrow. "What sort of experiments?" Perhaps this Ms Aerist, serial killer though she might be (and it was hardly as though he minded that; he wasn't a murderer because killing was boring, not because of any sort of moral compunction), was a like-minded soul? He'd not met anyone here so far who seemed to care much about the scientific method.

Silvie shrugged. "I dunno. Zombies and stuff like that, probably? Ms Aerist is a Mad Scientist."

Sherlock was interested now. "And where's this House With a Gargoyle on the Porch, then?"

"Oh, right on the street main. You can't miss it, it's the one with the thunderclouds."

Sherlock frowned in confusion. What did thunderclouds have to do with anything?

Now that he was here, he definitely got it.

The cheery (and quite boring) normal house was completely inconspicuous, other than the fact that dark gray and black rain clouds hovered over the roof and—Was it just his imagination or did it say, 'Go the fuck away'?

Another girl than the one he expected popped out of the house, around thirteen.

She widened her eyes and shoved him to the ground.

"What the-"

"I thought I made Leaf tell you not to come here. YOU WILL DIE HERE GO AWAY."

Sherlock pulled away from the clinging young girl, dusting off his jacket as though she'd dirtied it.

A completely natural presumption, too, as the girl was covered nearly head-to-toe in blood. She had no wounds herself, but the person whose blood she wore certainly hadn't survived.

"GO!" shouted the girl, frantic. "GO BEFORE SHE KILLS YOU!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You aren't in shock, and you weren't victimized. Why, then, are you reacting this way? Surely you've seen Ms Aerist kill before, and you don't know me, so some sort of emotional connection can't be to blame."

The mystery girl laughed. "I don't know you? Are you kidding? Everyone knows you! You're Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective!"

"Well," he stated, "It appears that you know of me-"

"SHUT THE HELL UP AND GET OUT OF HERE!" With strength that really should not be possessed by a girl her age, she chucked him over to a little house with an old lady knitting on the porch…

"Oh, dear," said the old woman, setting her knitting down on the porch with a clink of steel from the needles. The blanket she was knitting was an obnoxious shade of orange, like a service dog's vest, and hurt his eyes to look at for more than a few minutes. "Are you perfectly alright? Purple can sometimes be a bit… overenthusiastic."

The lady reminded him of Mrs Hudson, a woman he'd helped clean up some difficulties with the law in America, all kindly smiles with a hint of steel underneath; Sherlock got the feeling she wasn't one to mess about with.

"So," she started, "I'm Old Lady Musa. Who might you be?"

Old Lady Musa. It was obvious from her accent that her first language wasn't English. She actually wasn't that old, he realized, but instead just acted like it. In reality she looked in her twenties, which led him to wonder just why she was acting so old. And why she was knitting the color orange. The knitting in question was very tight and professional, and her hands were moving even when she spoke. She didn't seem to favor the color much, judging by the distaste on her face. It was almost definitely for someone else.

"Sherlock Holmes. Who are you knitting for?" Musa seemed surprised for a moment, but he assumed it was because of his question.

"Mr. Holmes, do you know of a John Watson?"

"What? No. Answer my question."

She smiled in one of those disgusting smiles adults used to give him whenever he said… well. Anything. She knew something he didn't, and he didn't like it. "I'm knitting for the universe, dear. And do stay away from Cendi… She's a bit cheesed up in the head."

A teenaged Asian girl popped out of nowhere. She sparkled slightly. "WHO SUMMONED THE ALMIGHTY CHEESE-"

"Go away, Cheese."

"Oh~! A newb! I haven't seen one of you in awhile… Can I call you Steampipe?"

"I don't smoke."

"…I'll take that as a yes."

"Oh, hello."

Musa moaned. "Cendi, you have horrible timing."

"No, lovely, I have perfect timing. Really, dear, two of my favorite people just outside, and a newbie, too; you expect me to miss this?"

The girl who'd pushed him, apparently named Purple, murmured just at the edge of his hearing, "At least she's using punctuation."

Sherlock frowned, feeling he was missing something. He hated that feeling.

The newcomer was Ms Aerist, of course, the serial killer and Mad Scientist Apparent. Standing as close to her as he now was, he could see that she was even older than the so-called "Old Lady" Musa; still not particularly old, perhaps twenty-seven at the outside. She had an ageless, unreal quality about her, which made gauging it difficult. She, too, had an accent, but while Musa's he could place easily, hers was more difficult. It was a strange mixture, and just slightly off. It certainly wasn't English in any permutation, though there was an Estuary quality to her tees and aitches. The shape of her vowels were a bit Scottish, a bit Russian. Her consonants might have been Eastern European or perhaps Israeli; he'd need more data to narrow it down further.

In any case, the accent was heavy, indicative of English being at least a third language, if not later.

"Now, Sherlock Holmes— say, can I call you Sherly?" Cendi asked, almost innocently.