Holy poo, you guise.
So many reviews and it's only the third chapter.
Yipee-keeyay! c:

A PERSONAL RESPONSE TO ALL YOU SEXY PEOPLE (IN TIME ORDER)

Chaos - I'm probably going to jail for even thinking of these things. :) You get all the bitches, too. Hawt thang.
Raven - Don't ya dayurr tell Ah-reeeeen c: ahyup
Shadow of Crabs - Aww, that means a lot. I tried to make it hatful. So...uh, thanks for giving me crabs. :I
Tokyo - AWWW, sweet n' tender thaaang. Scout and Pyro do make great BFFs. (If you get suspended, it's not my fault.)
Mattsy - He does, doesn't he? He's a hippocrite too, because he can't pronounce anything right. (i know yer a girl sir c:)
Jinny - It...it was so Medic? AWWW! Thanks, I forgive you, and you are most definitely welcome. :D

And now back to the show.

The mystery-solving buddies were on the case.

"So, our first case is why Snipah is a fuckin' liar," declared Sherlock Scout, hat flapping with every step down the hallway. "HMMMMMM."

"Hmmw rhh whmm ghmnuh fghrrh thmmt uhmt?" asked Watson the Pyro, gingerly fixing the outer rim of the modest pile of hat.

A grin formed on the face of the young man, for he had the most flawless comeback possible. "Element'ry, my dear Watsin!" He then burst into such laughter that he was forced to bend over to let out the obnoxious guffaws. "BWAH HA HA HA HA HAAA! OH! OH MAN! AH AH HA HA HAAA!"

"...ymh mm-kmh, Shrmmlck?"

Scout gradually recovered from the giggling fit, wiping tears from his eyes. "Yeah. Sorry, Watsin. A'ight, so we gotta interview him. We gotta, like, ask him stuff, and you gotta write in down in dat journal I gave you. Is dat clear?"

Pyro nodded.

"LET'S DO DIS." The party had gotten itself started.

Soon enough, they'd reached the kitchen and Sniper was sitting there flipping through a golfing magazine, just as expected.

Sniper looked up briefly at the two REDs staring into his soul. "Uh, g'day, then."

Tick tock, concur o'clock. "I do concur dat ya just woke up 'cause yer eyes look red and puffy behind yer ugly yellow glasses, an' I also do concur dat you are makin' coffee 'cause I concur it smells like dog turd up in dis hizz-house," concurred Scout, ever the concurrer.

"Great discoveries there, Sherlock," was the sarcastic scoff from the Aussie, lifting the magazine up to his nose in mental diversion. Unfortunately, Sniper hadn't known that Scout literally was Sherlock, and behind him stood Watson writing down any noise either of them produced.

"WOAH! HOW DA HELL DID YA KNOW?!" squealed Scout through his grin, for he had not expected such a response. "ARE YOU A DETECTIVE, TOO?"

With this statement came due confusion. Sniper lifted his eyes from the golf club page and muttered in a gruffly helpless manner that resembled a poverty-stricken stray dog; "...eh?"

That was taken as a 'no,' and it was recorded like so in the conversational notebook script. Scout went back to their original mission. "A'ight, so I gotta ak's ya some questions and ya gotta reply wit nothin' but the truth and ya gotta swear it," commanded the Bostonian detective, somewhat totally knowing what he was talking about. "Ya got dat?"

A squint showed suspicion behind the yellow sunnies. "Depends. Whot koind a' questions ya goin' to ask?"

"Shtmmf hmm rmhrhhm mhhrgh mrhhr ghmm lhmmr!" replied Pyro in all honesty, happy to be a part of an unofficial crime case.

"OH MY GOD, SHUT UP, WATSIN! YER SUPPOSED TA JUST WRITE DOWN STUFF, OKAY? JEEZ! DO YER JOB!" screeched an emotionally unstable private eye. Whirling his face back to the Aussie, ear flaps still bobbing at the sudden velocity, Scout put on a solemn face and replied, "You'll find out when I ak's da questi'ns, Mr. Snipes. Do ya swear ta tell nothin' but the truth with aaall yer heart an' veins an' skel'tin bones?"

Sniper groaned, for anyone in their right mind knew that Scout-the-dauntless-nudnik would just pester one with pointlessness.

The magazine dropped to the table in defeat, making residual drops of orange juice frost seep into the uppermost golfing club. Promises from the Australian are usually at least an attempt at being sincere, but this was a very sad exception. "Oi promise. Ah, yes, totally. Cross moi heart and swear ta be hacked t' bits boi machetes and fed to wild goats." He sighed. "Spill 'em."

"Questi'n numbah ONE!" Scout paused for a moment to recall what the real Holmes usually asked. "Uh...uh..."

Pyro tapped Scout's shoulder à la 'Call a Friend'. "Psssht!"

"What is it, Watsin? Do yer job."

After a glove motioned a vague 'come hither, Scout', Pyro cupped a hand around Scout's ear and whispered something in stifled secrecy. The Bostonian busybody nodded stormily.

Seconds later, Sniper was interrupted from the unimaginably intriguing story of Nicklaus winning the Australian Open yet again. Persistent Scout was persistent; "SNIPE! GET YER NOSE OUTTA DAT CRAPPY BOOKLET AND PAY A TENSION! HOW OLD ARE YOU?"

Sniper looked up with sad eyes, for it was only the first question and already he would have to be ridiculed before two team members.

"DA FUCK YA STARIN' AT ME FOR!?" screamed Scout. "ANSAH, OR I'LL SLAP YOU LIKE DEY DO SOMETIMES IN COP SHOWS!"

He shook his head slowly in disappointment. "Okay, listen, how 'bout we end it roight he'e and Oi read moi magazine loike nothin' ever happened – "

Scout's teeth bared and he nearly snapped his overbite in half. "I'M MOTHAFUCKIN' SHERLICK HOMES, SO YA GOTTA ANSWER, O-KAY?"

"Whot the...snap out of it, mate! Somethin' in the food, maybe? Food poisonin'..." Though his fast thinking was highly efficient, it was not presented in a polite manner. "...hell, Oi knew Heavy added some so'ta secret ingred'ent in those sickly dough-things." He nodded at the fellow firebug. "Pyro, would'ya kindly tell him he's jus' Scout, not some ficti'nal English nance..."

Objection; "NO I AIN'T, I'M A DE-TECT-IVE, STUPID! AND I EVEN HAVE A HAT TA PROVE IT!"

"YMMH! MMHRH SCHMMT SHM SHRMMLCK HLMMSH!"

"CROIKEY! YA DON'T GOTTA ALL GANG UP ON ME!" whined Sniper. Self-defense did not help his cause, for Scout's question had yet to be answered. "Whot the hell's this for again?"

"ANSAH, FAGGOT."

Sniper crossed his arms, stubbornly opposing the informational blast that would begin their clue-search. "Oi ain't answerin' until Oi know whoi th' hell it's bein' asked."

Scout's eyes popped out of their sockets in Bostonian malevolence. "RES-PECT MY AUT'ORITY!"

First came a sigh, and only then was Scout's command met. It was not a proud response; "Oh, god damnit, Scout! Forty-three, alroight?"

Scout's eyebrows shot up. "In regular years, or dog years?"

Good thing Sniper's hearing eroded with time. "Sorry, didn't catch that."

"I...I just said...uh...'cool story!'" squeaked Sherlock. "Uh, um, anyway, uh...hmm...what kinda other questions are dere..." He looked over at his trusty sidekick. "Pyro, ya mind bailin' me out again?"

Sniper grunted. "Whot're ya even gonna use this information for? This ain't yer profession and it sure as– "

The only logical question of the conversation was not heard by Scout. The show of stupidity must go on; "Questi'n numbah TWO! Are ya married, or are ya a pervy low-life who collects pictahs of wi'men leanin' over cars in swimsuits?"

Dialogue was spilled at such a rate that Pyro's pencil could hardly catch up to the words said.

Sniper smiled and then chuckled a bit. "Woah, now that's a bit biased of a question, don't ya think? Oi mean...just 'cause Oi – "

"A-HA! YOU ARE A LIAR!" screamed the concurring detective. "'CAUSE ONE TIME I SAW A MAGAZINE LIKE DAT, AND I CONCUR YOU WERE HOLDIN' IT!"

The Aussie frowned. "Yes. Oi know. Got around foive...or, uh, possibly thirty-seven." He coughed. "Whot's it gotta do wit lyin'?"

It was the most important part of their purposeless case-on-a-treadmill. "OH MY GOD, WATSIN. NUMBERS. DID YA WRITE DAT DOWN? 'CAUSE YA BETTER'VE WROTE DAT DOWN. NUMBERS ARE FUCKIN' IM-PORT-ANT."

"MM WRMMTHNGH MMVRHMTHNMGH DMMWN, YMM MDMMTH!" ranted Pyro in muffle-tone antiphon, the sound of pencil scratching against paper filling the air.

"Okay, enough. Enough a' it." Sniper sighed. "Oi answered two stupid questions and all Oi wanna do is relax today after that bloody food foight yesterday, ya hear? Oi don't think Oi ever can get those bloody Russian shit-pastries outta moi ear. And Oi didn't get a pint a' shut-eye." He winced, for his sleep deprivation was finally catching up to him. (And so were the 13 of 37 that were still lying on his camper van cot.) "Oi'm far too tired ta get int'rrogated, and – "

"HE'S A LIAR 'CAUSE HE WINCED!" declared Scout, though his hypothesis was neither proven wrong nor right. "'Kay, a'ight. We are going to investa'gate RIGHT NOW 'cause yer secret time is OVER, you fuckin' LIAR! LIIII-YAAAR! LIII-YAAAR! PANTS ON FIIII-YER!" Every day is Scout-sings-a-skipping-rope-rhyme-to-make-him-into-a-complete-babbling-child day.

Sniper's eyelids drooped, for he was not one for fun and games. "Uh...'investigate'? Really?"

"BYE, LIAR! WE'RE LEAVIN' BECAUSE YER A RETARD LIAR FAG! BYE!" screeched Sherlock, dragging his buddy Watson out of the kitchen by the hand. "LET'S GO!" His voice gradually faded out as they disappeared into further realms. "LET'S GO FROM THE LYING BITCH-ASS, PYRO! HE'S A COMPLETE STUPID-BRAIN THAT WE HATE!"

It was back to fantasizing about buying golf clubs for poor Sniper, who was unaware that these accusations – which simply made him roll his eyes and grunt minutes later – would soon result in an uncanny reason for team hatred.