The flickering lights annoyed Sherlock Holmes. But even as dawn rose through the bruised night sky, and through the haze of the flickering, he could still see it. That black figure was still pointed at him, and the man's finger was on the trigger.

"You don't have to do this," Sherlock murmured in his intense British accent. The man with the gun chuckled and let it slip a few inches lower, still aimed at Holmes.

"You know too much," he said darkly, lifting the gun so it was pointed at his heart. He laughed once more again and through a chortle spoke, "It will be such great fun to kill you."

"But I barely know anything at all, I'm just trying to help you," Holmes muttered. The flickering was getting quite annoying. He prayed silently it would stop at that exact moment.

"Trying to help me?" now the man was furious. He was seconds now from yanking that trigger.

"I just need to know," Sherlock breathed. He stalked to the other end of the dank hallway. "Did you murder that woman or didn't you?"

The man coughed a few times and through the small light, Holmes saw him flush until his face grew a deep magenta. "Who needs to know?"

At that moment, Sherlock knew that it was true. He had murdered Elizabeth, his neighbor for years. There only had been a few pieces of evidence, all leading to the unidentified man. "You did murder her, am I wrong?"

The man was mute, silent.

This time Sherlock was chuckling. "I'm never wrong. But you had it coming. You basically told us it was you. Look at the evid-,"

Suddenly the ground was shifting. A huge crack filtered through the floor right in between Sherlock and the unknown man. The man peered up.

"Black magic is illegal!" he shouted, pointing anr accusing finger at Holmes.

"It's not black magic!" Sherlock yelled over the crack in the floor. The crack was moving now, bigger. Before the man knew what was happening, he fell right through the huge ditch in the floor. Falling, falling. You couldn't see him now if you peered down the steep hole. Sherlock's jaw dropped and his eyes rounded wide. His pupils were as thin as pins. But he didn't have time to register what just happened, because he was falling too. Down the hole they flew. His best coat floated, safely carrying him at a speed not terrible, but faster than a car. As he was falling, he could hear, over the sound of the air sweeping his hair back, a loud bang as the man clashed to the ground below.

At the sound of that, Holmes began to scream. He screeched as he flew deeper and deeper. The end was approaching. He could feel it in his bones. That same familiar blood rush of hope and intensity washed through his veins. Maybe he'd survive. Maybe not. The next minute could waste or save his life. He snapped his eyes shut.

The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his stomach with a hard and painful smash, right next to the strange man. After a minute of lying in pain, he peered upward. The scene was so confusing. Just a dark, dripping wet cave. A small fire was crackling in the middle, flames licking away the logs and rocks. But something strange and very alarmed was lurking in the very depths of the cave. The thing was trembling of freight, probably at the noise of the falling men. Another thing similar crept into the cave and huddled close with it's companion.

Holmes looked at his own companion. Unmoving, no pulse. He decided he must've been killed from the horrible fall. Sherlock kicked him father from him, and shook with a disgusted groan. A shriek filled the trapped air, but it wasn't his own. Irene was cramped in the corner with both creatures fondling with her blouse buttons. Sherlock jumped to his feet. "Get your hands off her!" he screamed. He slapped one away with his kerchief and it screeched. The other one ran after his friend. Irene took Holmes' hand and he helped her to her heels. She snatched the kerchief away from him with an angered expression.

"What?" Sherlock asked, surprised by her sudden aggression.

"There cave men. Don't hurt them, they don't know what they're doing." she murmured. "Don't approach them too quickly, and don't-,"

"Wow, wow, wait a second! Cave men! What are you talking about for heavens sake?" Sherlock questioned with a confused look written on his face.

"Cave men. My uncle told me about them. They live in the B.C. period of time. Think of them, as…hairy humans!" she exclaimed.

"Um…hairy humans?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Sure. Just look at them," Irene pointed to the cave men.

Sherlock took a long look. They had very long beards, and they wore no jacket or buttoned blouse. They held no hanker-chief or wore no pants. Instead a leaf was tied around their waist. But before he could make a comment, he was falling once more, this time with Irene rather than a murderer. But the scene was just as confusing as before, maybe more.

They were in a room, a small boxed room. It was so confusing. A small girl was hunched over a small boxed thingy placed on her lap. She was making clacking noises on it, and a shining light was coming off of a box on the thingamig. Irene walked around, touching things every so often. But Sherlock was frozen. The girl peered over her box thing and gave a yelp.

"Sher…Sherlock H-Holmes? I-Iren-ne?" she stuttered. Her eyes grew wide.

"Yeah…What is that machine?" Sherlock asked, taking a step closer. She was sitting on a slouched purple coach. He took a seat next to her. On the screen was various letters, and the clacking thing was her pressing letters on a board.

"Oh, this is my laptop," she muttered, still a little shell – shocked. "This is where I type all of the stories of you on Fanfiction."

"I don't know if I want to know what that is," he cringed in his seat, imagining the worst.

"It's just a website where aspiring authors come together and write stories about stuff. Then they post it. Look I'm writing one about you right now! And I just finished this one," she said, handing him a few sheets of freshly printed paper.

"Why is the paper warm? And, wow I've never seen such great handwriting in ages!" he mumbles as he fiddled with the warm sheets.

"No, no, it's not my handwriting. I hook this laptop to a printer, and it prints out what I write with ink," she explained.

"A printer?" he posed.

"A printer is- oh just read!" the author croaked angrily. Holmes flinched and quickly scanned the printed words.

"Why do you make me sound so stupid?" he asked, pausing his reading.

"I don't make you sound stupid I make you sound curious. Keep reading," she ordered. He began where he left off.

Not a few seconds later he stopped. "Why do I get shot?" he sounded quite appalled.

"To make the story more interesting. Read!" she demanded.

"I am, but why does Irene slap me four times?"

"I slap you? Let me take a peek at that!" Irene jumped quickly to his side and tore the papers out of his hand.

"Look, I shoot you too!" she shouted excitedly after reading a few lines. But she didn't have time to read the rest because the floor was splitting open for a third time. The author sat in her chair, jaw dropped. She stuttered something unintelligible but they were falling once more. "Bye!" they shouted as they tumbled through the air and clashed with the ground somewhere below.

The author held her head in her hands. "This is NOT happening. What – is Professor Layton and Luke gonna show up now, too, and yell at me about their stories?"

Suddenly an even grander crack broke through the floor and Professor Layton and Luke was standing in front of her. She was even more surprised.

"We hear you have a story about us, and we hear you make us sound stupid," the Professor said, arms crossed.

"Oh god."