Opening Authoressial Note: Hello again! I'm back at last, and I bet you're all wondering what happened to our heroine after she was abandoned in the middle of London by H and W. Well… YOU'RE ABOUT TO FIND OUT. :D

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes. BUT DON'T TELL ANYONE. ...I don't own AXE either. Thank goodness for that. AXE smells funny.

Being arrested for public indecency is not fun. Especially when what you're wearing wasn't INDECENT to begin with – at least, not in THE PROPER CENTURY.

I tried my very best to explain this to the police officer who had dragged me down to what was apparently the 19th-century equivalent of Scotland Yard and shoved me into an empty but obviously inhabited office with a dire promise of "the inspector will be in to see you shortly," but 19th-century cops are apparently not hardwired to listen to 17-year-old girls in T-shirts. What they are hardwired to do, apparently, is manhandle them and refer to them as "harlots" and "a disgrace to society."

I think I resent 19th-century Scotland Yardians. Especially that one.

I hadn't been sitting on the desk and staring blankly at the walls for very long when the door swung open and a tall, scarily thin, ferrety-type man entered, snapping the door shut crisply behind him. There was something squinty about his eyes that vaguely annoyed me. The squinty look disappeared briefly when he noticed that I was sitting on the desk.

"Hi," I said, launching into the conversation. "I'm Lukas, yes I'm a girl, this isn't considered indecent attire where I come from, I resent being called a harlot, and I want out of this dark room that smells distinctly of MAN in a time before AXE was invented."

He stared at me for a long moment before finally speaking. "The axe has been invented, and around for a very long time." His tone was that of someone who longed to ask me what hole I'd been living in for the past kajillion years, but was forcefully restraining themselves for the sake of politeness.

"Ha. Wrong AXE, smarty-pants." I tilted my head to one side and pursed my lips in irritation as my bangs (now minus two or three bobby pins) fell in front of my eye. "So. You must be the 'inspector' that guy was talking about."

"Indeed I am."

There was a brief silence.

"I think you should know that your subordinate called me mean names. I am neither a harlot nor a disgrace. You may not believe me, but this is considered normal and, in fact, exceptionally modest dress where I come from!"

The inspector smiled in a painfully obviously condescending way, moving over to stand behind the chair in front of the desk (the one I was supposed to be sitting in) but making no move to sit down.

"And where do you come from, Miss…?"

"Here," I responded, blatantly ignoring his not-clearly-stated request for my name, which he had apparently already forgotten. After all, he hadn't told me HIS name. "London, England. Except like… the 200-years-older version."

"Mm-hmm," he said, pulling out a notepad and a pencil and jotting something down. I stared at it pointedly. "And how did you end up here?"

"I already told someone that and they didn't take it too well," I bit out. "In fact, they threw me in a dungeon. And I fell down the stairs in a truly valiant attempt to fight off my attackers, but I still ended up being chained to a wall. In fact, if you knew what I'd already been through today, including being abandoned -"

He looked up sharply. "Abandoned?" His gaze softened. "Are you… an orphan?"

"Uh. No," I said, slightly unnerved by his sudden change in attitude. "No, when I said 'abandoned,' I meant that the two men I was hanging out with ditched me and rode off in a cab -"

His expression got very earnest. "That is not the only choice you can make with your life! I know it seems hard, but couldn't you just… sell flowers on a street corner or something? Anything but THAT! And besides," he added, going all stern on me, "it's illegal."

I stared at him blankly until the figurative mental light-bulb turned on.

"OH! No way, dude, no, you've got it all wrong. Remember that dungeon I mentioned? Well, there were these two guys in that dungeon, and -"

"Ah, I see." His expression hardened, and he leaned forward. "You're making up a story to distract me. Well, make no mistake, young lady! You will be brought up on charges of -"

"Ex-CUSE me?" I snapped. "I'm NOT lying! I can give you the names of the guys I was being held prisoner with!"

"Oh, can you now." His tone of voice and expression reeked of sarcasm.

"YEAH I CAN. Their names were Dr. Watson and Ho -"

"More ridiculous fabrications," he cut me off. "You truly expect me to believe that Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson spent the morning imprisoned in a dungeon with you?"

"Well, yeah! It's not like they could have done anything about it!"

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then the inspector snapped his little notebook shut.

"No matter what you say, I am drawing you up on the charge of being publicly indecent."

"You think THIS is public indecency?" I yelped incredulously. "You ought to see XXX-XXX!" Celebrity names have been censored to protect the not-so-innocent. …And prevent lawsuits.

"Never heard of her. Now are you going to pay the fine, or do I have to make you spend a night in jail?"

I considered my chances of getting out of everything if I burst into hysterical tears and determined that they were pretty much slim and none. "I DON'T THINK I LIKE YOU VERY MUCH."

"Nor I you, you may be assured," he said grimly. "Answer the question."

"I can't," I muttered. There was another silence.

"You can't what?"

"I can't pay the fine," I clarified. Which was true. I had money, sure, but somehow I suspected that greenbacks wouldn't cut it in the Victorian era. Unless they were sold to a museum, or a little shop of curiosities.

A triumphant little smirk twisted his lips. "I guess it's the jail cell for you then, missy."

As I attempted to quell the fountain of anxiety welling up in me – can you imagine how unsanitary 19th-century prisons must be? – someone kicked the office door in. Not down; just in. Ruined a perfectly good doorknob, too.

"Excuse me," said Dr. John Watson, "but we have a better idea."

A3: No, Watson is not using the Royal We; Holmes is there with him. And OH MY GOSH I love cliffhangers, can you tell?

Moran: I suspect it was Mr. Green in the library with the revolver!

A3: 'Scuse me for a sec, I've been introducing Moran to board games. M, ducky, see I've got the revolver card, I've shown it to you twice already. It's not the revolver.

Moran: OF COURSE IT IS! It can't be any of the OTHER weapons! I mean, you can't kill someone with a candlestick! Unless… you were to stuff it down their throat…

A3: It's called "blunt force trauma." I'm sure if you hit someone hard enough in the head with a candlestick that was made of some sort of fairly substantial material, you could kill them.

Moran: Really? …Let's try it.

A3: LET'S NOT AND SAY WE DID. Now then, be a nice mustachioed villainous sidekick and ask for reviews.

Moran: Not until you confess. I know your type. You're trying to trick me. HE WAS KILLED WITH A REVOLVER AND YOU KNOW IT.

A3: …For a guy who plays poker you kind of suck at this. Here, I'll prove it to you. I was gonna go easy on you, but… (rolls dice, moves character) I ACCUSE COLONEL MUSTARD IN THE LIBRARY WITH THE WRENCH!

Moran: Oh, so now you're picking on men of my profession? I thought you a better person than that!

A3: Oh shut up. Give me the file with the cards.

Moran: No. You're hiding the true weapon and accusing the wrong person.

A3: (Grating) Well, if you give me the cards, we'll find out who's right.

Moran: I'm right. I'm ALWAYS right. It's why Moriarty hired me.

A3: Really? 'Cuz I thought it was due to your being childhood friends.

Moran: SHUT UP THAT'S CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION!

A3: Yeah yeah, whatever. Okay, time to wrap this up. Hi reviewers and readers, I love you all, so does Moran (but he won't admit it)! REVIEWS ARE LIKE CHOCOLATE! …They're addicting.

Moran: Chocolate's not –

A3: You're not a girl, you wouldn't know. Now be quiet until next chapter.