A/N: Sorry for the late update and short chapter, I was a bit busy with school stuff. My god, I hate midterms. Please review, it might spur me on…

TWO HOURS AGO

TommyInnit was a big man, and big men do not lose their temper at people. Even people who really deserve it.

People like Sherlock Holmes.

Tommy couldn't remember ever meeting someone soannoying. One minute, he was eating his lunch on a ledge that extended over the Pogtopian ravine and minding his own business; the next, that git was bouncing around, "deducting" Tommy's fucking entire life story, including…including…some seriously personal stuff—and how the fuck did he know in the first place, anyway? Had he been spying on Tommy or some shit?

But as Tommy was a big man, he said none of those things. Instead, he just asked who the fuck Sherlock was—not in those exact words, and definitely without putting up The Finger at all—in a very nice, very polite tone.

And Sherlock had laughed. Laughed.

Perhaps it was lucky for both of them that Sherlock's friend, Greg or Gavin or Graham or whatever the fuck his name was, arrived at that instant, because Tommy was getting ready to throw his pickaxe at Sherlock's annoying, smug face.

(He wouldn't actually do that anyway, because he was a big man, and big men do not throw things at people. No no no, that would just be immature.)

Greg had introduced himself and Sherlock as lost travelers, asking if they could stay at Pogtopia for the night. Of course, Tommy wasn't fooled by that, and was on the verge of telling them to piss off when, unfortunately, scuffling footsteps told him that Wilbur had heard their not-very-quiet conversation.

"What the hell are you doing? I could hear you from miles away," Wilbur grumbled, intent on giving Tommy a whole lecture about 'not being a loud little kid'. He stopped, though, when he saw Sherlock and Greg. "Who are you?"

"Gordon Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock, stepping forward with a rather suspicious smile on his face. "You have excellent taste in clothes, Mr. Soot."

Wilbur glanced down at his trench coat with some surprise. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," he said stiffly. "May I ask how you knew my name?"

"He just knows stuff like that," Greg sighed. "Don't ask."

"Ah," Wilbur said blankly. "And where are you two from again? Any chance you know of a place called Manberg?"

Tommy frowned, sensing the edge in his brother's voice. Spies from Manberg…somehow, despite how annoying Sherlock had been so far, Tommy couldn't visualize him as a spy. Nor can he see Sherlock—or Greg, for that matter—reporting to Schlatt. Where they really…?

"We're from London," Sherlock said acidly, evidently sensing the implication behind Wilbur's question. "Problem?"

"None at all." Wilbur didn't look it, though. "Say…Tommy, have Techno or Phil contacted you yet?"

Tommy understood immediately. "I'll go write them, the crows should be at Niki's."

"Thank you," Wilbur said, turning his attention back to the duo in front of him. "You two can get the spare rooms, we have plenty of those. There are signs on the wall—or should I lead you there?"

"That would be…great," Greg smiled, a little unnerved by this sudden change of attitude. Sherlock didn't say anything; he just stared at Wilbur, a slight frown crossing his face, like he was just beginning to realize something and he didn't like it.

"Great, follow me," Wilbur said pseudo-cheerfully, pointing to the stairs that would bring them down into the ravine itself. "Just make sure not to slip and fall, we really don't have the time for that."

Even Sherlock looked a bit unnerved by that.