Note: Apologies for taking so long for the third installment, I'm afraid my ideas came to a halt. I hope you all enjoy!

How wrong could I have been.

I had yet to see what society could concoct in its miserable and money-filled underworld.

I watched on bated breath as the large, thick, black door shivered and a secret little slide-away spy-hole produced a sight of two grubby eyes. The beast behind it snorted and narrowed the beady holes. "What ya want?" The thick and un-educated voice demanded.

To any poor bystander who was yet to come across this strange house would of surely been deterred by the hostile welcome. Though my companion… he appeared un-wavered and merely snuffed himself. He straightened his appearance and cocked his head up.

"I would like a whisky on three rocks while the Queen sings to the high heavens!" Sherlock stated. I must of gave him quiet a look because he returned a rather amused gaze back in my direction. Before I could even dare ask of this strange response… the door opened.

Behind the door stood a husky, bald man who merely waved his hand towards a dreary hallway.

"Thank you Baldwick." Sherlock smirked as he sauntered straight into the murky depths. As I followed, the man merely snarled at me, looking as though he was about to strike. Though before even our paths could cross, Holmes stood in my way and nodded. "He's with me. Now be a good monkey and keep the riff-raff out. We need to keep such a classy club on top now don't we?"

The man replied with a distasteful grunt and returned to his place.

Though I was glad not to find myself beaten, I did feel a slight feeling of offence as Sherlock offered a rather mischievous grin…. Which didn't fill me with confidence.

"Baldwick?" I questioned, staying close to the other as legally possible. "You have been here before?"

"I get around." He replied, continuing to slip through the murky corridors. It looked as though we were going through the belly of a beast… the smell of must was thick, almost chocking while smoke wisped through the cracks of doors and mutters of drunkenness, intimacy and laughter also filled the senses with every step.

Maybe this was how the rich but deprived did when they were bored.

Though soon, we approached double doors, Sherlock took the lead and pushed them open- there, before my eyes was a grand hall! From the outside of the house, it looked like a common dwelling in the high streets of London- but inside as a completely different world. At first I considered the hallway the entirety of the house in length though I was sorely wrong. It seemed but more was hidden behind each door.

Around me was the sound of music while the smell of the most sweetest liquor was tickling my nose, opium pipes were dotted across the room. On one side of the room were card tables, on the other side a bar. It seemed everyone was rather friendly: some men had women draped over their laps, women had men surrounding them, women were enjoying each other's companies and it seemed some men were more than happy to enjoy one anothers companies… closer than mere meetings might I add.

I fear Scotland Yard would have plenty of work on their hands if they dived into such a world. Though from the looks of the attendees, some of them could own Scotland yard.

"Welcome to the 'Peculiar Particulars' club." Holmes announced.

Already I could understand why it was named as such… Though the term peculiar certainly fitted Holmes. Very, very well.

"Please, feel free not to ask any questions- keep your hands to yourself and do mind getting too close to the rest of the patrons- both the staff and the attendants do have wandering hands… Either for your money or anything else in reach. I do mean anything… So- have fun!" Before I knew it, I was almost running as fast as I could to keep up with him! He was like a snake slithering through the insects of the unwanted!

And I must say now… I understood why he meant by keeping close… I did have the odd moment when I was tittering from side to side to avoid the next grope… and yes, I did have wandering hands in areas I didn't particularly feel comfortable with.

Though, with a great feel of relief, I was standing at a small set of stairs with Sherlock already half way up them.

"Come on man, you're taking your time." He spoke cockily, stalking up the stairs like a prowling cat. "We're almost there."

With hesitation lingering in every step, I followed my way after him. I was cautious, I was also curious… What was there to see? What was there waiting for us in this strange, run down home? It felt as though I was pushing my way through the seven layers of hell- the further I went the more I saw.

After climbing the set of stairs, Holmes and I came to a cut off area of the larger room. It was cut off with a silk tie and guarded by yet another man, almost similar to the door from earlier. It seemed that the brutish monkey was also easily swayed by Holmes' appearance and gave us permission to pass. From there, I stepped into the box of Gods.

Already I was able to pick up some of London's most famous- politicians, journalists and even through quick glimpses.. I would of dared to say royalty. But with a nervous glance, I merely carried on and followed the consulting detective into a corner where a large, round table was filled with beautiful women happily keeping three gentlemen busy.

Two of the men didn't appear to be of great recognition but the third… He had a scar, very faint on his bottom lip, his eyes were sullen and appeared to have sunk into his head slightly while his oak hair seemed to be strained with grey slithers along the parting. Something about that man was very familiar. Even the smell of the tobacco he smoked was familiar.

None of them battered an eyelid as he approached.

Though Sherlock made sure they knew our presence as soon as he tossed a small pistol onto the table… Immediately I recognised it was my pistol…

The two looked up, but the third did not, continuing to merely talk to the women- talking to them about some sort of Opera- I didn't capture the title.

"Good evening gentleman." Sherlock began, sinking his hands into his pockets. "My companion and I are here for some questions. If you could be so kind, I would like you to kindly hand over the answers without little fuss." The two men merely eyed us, a fierce look of annoyance burning in their eyes. "To begin with- I want to know why you killed a young girl named Maria Marieti' and who told you to do so."

Both men had fully become irritated by this stage and yet they did not move. They merely shooed the women off, leaving all three without company. The third man with the scar finally began to pay attention but did not look either of us in the eye.

"… Fine, how about this. Who was the real target of the shooting?"

I was unsure of what or why Holmes was asking such questions, though it seemed it certainly tapped a nerve as both men rose to their feet. Still, the third not saying nor doing much. Sherlock, on the other hand, still didn't look too bothered. Instead, a playful smirk appeared on his face… A smirk that lead me into quiet the trouble…

"Fine… Let's make a wager- if you can beat my companion at a round of cards then I will leave you all alone and leave you with this." Sherlock removed a large sum of notes from his breast pocket, quiet the amount that no man would be arrogant enough to put down. I looked at him cautiously. "If we win, you must tell us all you know. Do we have a deal?"

Both of the men looked at me, almost looking to see whether or not I was worth the challenge. After looking at one another, they eventually agreed.

And so I was pulled into a rather long game of cards- but won.

I was pleased- it seemed my habit of gambling certainly paid off. It is a sad addiction and sometimes dangerous but it was something I developed during my time abroad so I cannot really say much about it. I am only glad it was able to help this situation.

After three games, both men were unable to continue, their pockets empty and their minds fuzzy in depression and drink.

Sherlock leaned forward, grasping one of the suspects by the collar and stared hatefully into his eyes. "Now… tell us who hired you… and who were you trying to kill." He muttered almost darkly. One man plucked out a piece of paper and quickly slid it across the table, past the cards and under my hand.

The other man gulped hesitantly and began to mutter something beneath his breath. Since he was closer to Holmes, my companion was able to hear what he was saying while I could barely pick up in the inaudible mutterings of the pathetic excuse of a human being.

Sadly- our luck had ran out… Two gun shots were made, both quick and with precision… Both men slumped against the table… dead. Shot in the back.

Both I and Holmes were in utter shock. As Sherlock got to his feet to stop the assailant we were suddenly jumped upon by bouncers and angry customers.

With angry hands, and a few unneeded shoves, we were both kicked out of the house and onto the cold London street flat on our faces!

The cold air was particularly bitter at the ungodly hour.

"What… in God's name… just happened?" I groaned, rolling onto my back. I rubbed my side after feeling a spiteful jab as we had been lead out of the facility merely seconds ago. I gained a bruised rib cage that night…

Sherlock, slowly getting to his feet, brushed off his trousers and waist coat and merely removed the pipe from his breast pocket. He glanced to me and offered me a hand so I could get to my feet. Once steady, he placed his hand in my pocket and removed the letter I had been given.

He smiled at me triumphantly and held out the letter. Once I took it, he slowly walked out onto the empty street, waving down a horse and carriage. As he climbed in, he looked in my direction and grinned.

"What happened was our first break in this case." The man smirked.

I climbed in beside him, now tired and aching.

"Break? The only break is the possible broken rib I may have sustained… What did that man say to you?" I asked, glancing down at the piece of paper in my hand.

"A name."

"What name?" I asked, raising a brow.

Sherlock lit his pipe and took a long and needed breath. As he exhaled, his lips curled into a cat-like grin. "Professor Moriarty."