First of all, a BIG thank-you to Ramona Bandicoot for helping me out when I was truly stumped on how to continue this :) Anyway: as always, put down a review if you've got something to say about this chapter!

Chapter Two: An Investigation in England

The raccoon puffed at his pipe, either furious for whatever reason he chose, or in deep thought of the burglary case presented to us. Or both. Or neither, now that I take a moment to think about it. His moods are rarely discernible by facial expressions. "Sylvester, take a moment to relax, man." I called out to him from my seat in my recliner. He didn't respond, still puffing away.

I got up, and walked hesitantly to my friend. "...Sylvester?" I said hesitantly. The puffs still rose up to the ceiling in little rings. I slumped my shoulders, and frowned.

"SLY!" I said with a bark. That got him out of his trance, his pipe flew from his mouth and clattered onto the floor. I could see that he was about to have an outburst, but he calmed himself before he could. Drumming his hands on the arms of his green chair, and his two index fingers to the bridge of his nose, he said drolly, "Your species would have given me the idea that you were attentive, Watson, to most things; especially when a man is trying to concentrate. Most Bloodhounds were, I made the assumption. Serves me right to do such, assume." He got up with a grunt, bent to pick up his pipe, and walked to the mantle ledge to refill the spilled tobacco.

I couldn't see if that was his true feeling on the matter, or if he was being sarcastic. I shrugged off the possible insult, and went back to my reading with a flick of the papers. This article in the Daily News had told of this doctor in the lower district of London, Joseph Bell, that had been influential in dozens of local homicides and attacks. I believe I had met him once, in a trip that my past colleague Dr. George Turnavine Budd had coerced me to take with him. It was a mistake, I will say that, but it is for another time, that story.

I heard him fiddle with the assorted kinds of tobacco laid out on the mantle, muttering to himself of the potency of this one, and the brain stimulation that one gave to those who took another beforehand. I sighed, and put down the papers. "Holmes, why are you so attached to this case?"

He stopped fiddling. Turning his head to me, "You have not met her, friend. If you had..." the raccoon sighed. "Then you might understand."

"Oh, Holmes... we could take a visit to Scotland Yard. Maybe meet with that man, Gregson, or whatever his name may be. He might be able to clear the fog in your head." He only sighed sadly to my gesture of assistance.

I genuinely felt sorry for the man. As said before, he rarely showed any emotion. I asked him if he would be able to enlighten me of this woman, if only to curb my own inquisitive nature; someone to have the abilities to turn the stone-faced Sylvester Cooper to what seemed to be near tears must be of a special breed.

He sighed deeper. "Do you really want to know? Absolutely, positively want me to recount it to you?"

Though I had regard for my friend's feelings, I didn't care if they were damaged at this point. I nodded, expecting him to spill out the information.

"Fine."

He started to walk out into an archway, popping out a few seconds later with a small picture frame in his palm. He set it on a table beside us, and sat down again, without the pipe. This must be serious, I thought to myself.

"That," he pointed to the woman in the picture, "is The Woman. Irene 'Swift-Tailed' Fox. Before you ask, when people come to apprehend her, all they see is her tail brushing up against the edge of a building, or out through an opened window, with her making her escape. She is un-catchable. A shadow, nearly, but thrice as beautiful and cunning. The only time someone has ever seen her face is if she wishes for such to happen. I have been..." He pondered for a bit. I could tell that he was flustered, he didn't speak in his normal manner. It worried me, slightly. "... Lucky. Yes, luck, we'll call it that. I've been lucky to see her on occasion. Her reputation for theft has nearly..." he muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.

"What was that?"

He waved it off as nothing. "Anyway, she is quick. She is stealthy. On more than one occasion has she baffled me to near-madness, pulling the rug from under me when I thought I had her in my grasps. Literally, in certain cases, but nevermind that." He got up to stare outside the window, into the dimming light of the street.

He exhaled, setting his paws on the windowsill ledge. "I have been on her trail for over twelve years, you know. Since my first partnership with Scotland Yard. Even beforehand, to tell truths." I could sense in the words that he was hiding a small fact from me. I took a wild stab at it.

"You were in love."

His ears pricked up, and he turned back to me. "Maybe I should not have tought you any of deductive science. Yes. For quite some time, I will admit."

He climbed up two steps on the book ladder, and slid to a shelf a few meters away. He pulled a tome, looking dustier than the rest of them, and hopped down with it. I saw the crest of his family barely emblazoned on it; a golden cane, with the face of a raccoon behind it. "She was once a historian, you know. In fact, she was the one who had told me of my family's grand past." he waved the book in the air, "She gave this to me on the day that we met. She told me of Sir Galleth, of Slytenkahmen, of all the rest of them. But she made sure that I wanted more of the tale, leaving out certain parts of the story, making sure I found it out for myself."

He laughed lightly. "We were a beautiful pair, she and I. Doing the grandest of things, seeing the most beautiful of places... She made the true arts, such as Chemistry, History, Criminology, artistic works... she made those my first love. And she was my second."

I stared at the woman in the picture again. She was beautiful, there was no doubting fact. Her light, brown hair flowed from her head, like a beautiful waterfall. Her figure was astonishing, and the white gown that she wore enhanced that beauty. Her eyes were difficult to inspect, but I could tell that they were as blue and clear as the morning sky. I could see why he admired her on an intelectual level as well; her eyes radiated intellect, just as Sherlock's had when he inspected things of his craft. I saw him standing heside her, his arm around her shoulder, smiling. They both seemed content, in their smiles. One of the few, if the only time, I had seen him truely, utterly in bliss.

He sighed heavily. He flipped the small painting down on it's face, his own turning dissapointed. Looking out again, I saw him close his eyes, as if trying to put back a bad memory. "And then... she was gone."

As a heads up, I might add more to this chapter specifically (to tie up some loose ends) later, or I might just have a shorter third chapter. Either way, I hoped you liked this!