Sorry, I accidentally wrote some more of this.

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SCENE – Still in downtown Victorian London. Apartment 221B, Bakersfield Street.

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"Very well, Sir," Jadelock Holmes said with a flourish, "you may return to your home, safe in the knowledge that the case is in good hands. Vatson and I..."

"Watson."

"Watson and I shall take the overnight sleeper from East Kensington to Hampstead Heath, and thereafter a thoroughbrace to Little Biddlington, and be with you by sunrise. Good night."

The man touched his forelock and left, dragging the terrier behind him. "He seemed nice," Tori said. "So, what shall we do now?"

"Um... strip Twister?"

"I mean about the case."

"Oh, right." Jade rearranged her deerstalker and clamped her pipe in her mouth, the bubbles drifting up to the ceiling. "Time is of the essence. Let's go." She led the way down the stairs. "I'll drive."

"What?" said Tori. "I thought we were taking the overnight sleeper from East Kensington to Hampstead Heath and thereafter a whatsit to wherever, or something."

"No," Jade said, "because I don't know what any of those words actually mean." They stepped out of the front door of 221B Bakersfield Street into the baking West Coast sunshine of old London town. "We're going in this." She pointed at the vehicle, a bright red eight-cylinder, four-on-the-floor, twin-exhaust, supercharged horse-drawn hansom cab. "I call it… the Holmesmobile."

(Did you even do any research?)

(Of course I did. What's your point?)

(Nothing.)

"Come on, get in." Tori reluctantly slid into the passenger side, and braced herself. Jade gunned the engine, and immediately ran over the horses.

(See?)

(Dammit.)

They climbed out of the wreckage and picked their way gingerly over the equine remains, making towards an entirely more appropriate vehicle, which neither of them felt the urge to describe in any great detail.

Jade tapped the driver with her cane. "Little Biddlington," she said, "and don't spare the-"

"Why, if it isn't Mister Jadelock Holmes!" the driver said, doffing his hat. "What an honor."

"Yes, well." Jade blushed, coyly. "I'd say the same, but it wouldn't really be-"

"And Doctor Watson, too! My word, wait till I tell the missus who I had in the back of my cab."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled. So, if we could just-"

"Go on," the driver said. "Do the thing."

"What thing?"

"The trick. You know, where you work out what I had for lunch last Tuesday just by looking at the color of my socks, or something."

"Oh, that," Jade said. "Very well. I see that..." She turned to her companion. "Actually, why don't you have a go?"

"Me?" said Tori.

"You know my methods, Vatson-"

"Watson."

"-Watson, it's simply a question of applying them." She sat back in her seat, resting her chin on the head of the cane, as the driver looked at Tori expectantly.

"Um, right." Tori cleared her throat and addressed the driver. "Ahem. Well." She took a deep breath. "I see from your appearance and demeanor," she said, "that you are a tall man in a large hat."

(Right, that's it. You're just trying to make me look stupid.)

(If the large hat fits, Tori.)

(Give me that.)

(What? No! It's mine!)

(Give it!)

(No!)

(Just.. give me...)

(...don't you...)

(... stop that, or I'll...)

(... ow, that's not...)

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(Right. That's better. I'm doing this bit.)

(...Fine.)

"And furthermore," the suave young doctor said suavely, running a hand through her long, suave hair, "I-"

(The thesaurus is there for a reason, you know.)

(Hush.)

"And furthermore," the debonair young doctor said, urbanely, running her hand through her long, sophisticated hair, "I see from the way you wear your pocket-watch that you are from Huguenot stock on your mother's side, while your father was a one-eyed lascar from South Dundee. The slight stain on your lapel tells me that you were once an excellent foosball player, possibly County level, until a perforated eardrum ended your career and led you, I surmise, to your present occupation. You enjoy opera and can tell the difference between a '95 Lafite and a '98, but would distain as gauche those who make the distinction in polite company. The small hangnail on your left thumb suggests you once contracted malaria while windsurfing up the Amazon, and the slight scuffing of your instep tells a tale of heartbreak and despair that is entire congruent with your long but unrequited love affair with the daughter of the King of Spain." She sat back, smugly. "How's that? Oh, and you have a moustache."

"Bravo!" the driver said. "My word, Mister Holmes-"

"Miss Holmes," Jade said, sulkily.

(I am not sulky!)

(You so are.)

"You need to watch your step," he said. "Or this young lady with the amazing cheekbones will be taking your job, and no mistake. I've never met such an intelligent, insightful, thoughtful, intuitive, perceptive, discerning, astute, percipient, perspicacious, sagacious, wise, judicious, shrewd, sharp, sharp-witted, razor-sharp, keen, incisive, acute, imaginative, appreciative, intelligent, thoughtful, sensitive, deep, profound-"

(Right, that's enough. Put the thesaurus down slowly and step away.)

(Spoilsport.)

"So," said the driver, forgetting entirely what had just happened. "Are you here on the Ripper case?" He nodded his head towards a newspaper hoarding bearing the headline 'Ripper Strikes Again'.

(What's a 'ripper'?)

(I don't know. I think it's some kind of Australian.)

"No, my good man," Jade said, sternly. "We have no time for such trifles."

(I like trifle.)

(Shh.)

"We," she said, "are on the trail of a mysterious dog."

The cab driver gasped. "Not... the Hound?"

"The very same. You know of him?"

"Oh, I know of him," the man said, darkly. "I know of him... lots."

"Aha!" Jade said. "Just as I suspected. Make a note of this, Vatson."

"Watson."

"What can you tell us, Sir, about your experience at the hands of this beast?"

"Paws."

"Okay. What can you... tell us, Sir, about your experience at the-"

(What, we're doing vaudeville now?)

(Sorry, couldn't help it.)

"He's a monster," the driver said, his voice low and ominous. "An evil, red-eyed, razor-clawed, killing machine."

"Er..."

"His teeth are like daggers, his breath a fetid blast from the bowels of hell."

"I had a rabbit like that, once. I think it was all the-"

"His howl is like the battle cry of Armageddon!" the driver went on. "The Devil himself would forsake his pit to escape his clutches. But it would do him no good. No good at all. For you see," he leaned closer to the girls, his own breath Hound-like in its fetidity. "No one has ever escaped the Hound," he said. "No one! If you cross the beast, you are doomed. Doomed to a fate worse than death. And then death. For once he gets your scent, he'll track you down... forever. Nothing can stop him. He'll know no rest until he finds you. And when he catches you, when you've run as far and as fast as you can, when you drop to your knees in exhaustion, praying to the Heavens to take you, he'll pounce. Pounce like the fiend he is, sinking his fangs into your throat, tearing you limb from limb, devouring your innards while your eyeballs roll in the dust, ripping you to shreds until your very soul is just a blood-red smear across his evil maw." The driver leaned back, satisfied. "That," he said, "is what I know about the Hound."

There was a long silence. Outside the window a ball of tumbleweed, a thousand miles from home, rolled desolately across the London street. The two girls looked at each other for a moment.

"So," said Tori, brightly. "Tell us more about this 'Ripper' guy. He sounds interesting."

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"Well, what do you think?" Tori said, leaning back from the laptop and peeling off the moustache. "I think it's getting quite exciting."

"Yeah. Nice swerve on the Ripper thing. I'm not sure I'm keen on the whole 'being eaten alive' scenario. Here." She handed Tori a coffee. "Let's take a break."

"Thanks." Tori balanced the mug on her knees, both hands wrapped around it for warmth. "Why's it so cold?"

"It's the fog."

"I didn't see any fog."

"I'll put it in when I fix the typos."

"Right." She sipped her coffee. "Ooh!" she said. "We should have a look at the comments!"

"What comments?"

"The reviews. You know, see what people think of us."

"Yes!" Jade said excitedly, pulling up a chair. "Man, I love validation. Makes me feel alive."

"I thought I made you feel alive," Tori said.

"Yeah," Jade said, "but you have to like me. That's kind of your job."

"If I'm honest, there wasn't much competition for it. The hours are lousy and the pay's terrible."

"I love you too. Right, here we go."

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They sat in silence for a while, staring at the screen. "Well," Jade said, with a sniff. "I guess you can't please everyone."

"No."

"And it's early days, really."

"Yes."

"I mean, it's not like we didn't try."

"Mmm." Tori peered closer. "You know, I'm pretty sure there's only one 'l' in 'drivel'."

"Right, that's it." Jade slammed the lid of the laptop shut. "Let's do something else."

"Like what?"

"Well, I can think of something."

"What?"

Jade drew the ear-flap of her deerstalker across her face seductively, and batted her eyelashes. "What do you think, Doctor?" she said.

"Why, Mr Holmes," Tori said. "Are you trying to..."

The consulting detective pushed the redoubtable doctor roughly up against the wall of 221B Bakersfield Street, her lips crashing into the other girl's, causing her to cry out in-

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Well, have we had enough of Jadelock and Vatson? Or will we tame the Hound, armed only with the rolled-up newspaper of truth and the stern voice of love? And what of the Ripper?