BIRD: Yes, dude?
BUFFALO: (taps fingers) Feeling a bit surplus, like, wot with Holmes & Watson. Think it'll last much longer?
BIRD: Could run and run. They've got a heck of a number of cases to solve.
BUFFALO: But but but but nobody seems interested in us any more.
BIRD: It's just till Chrimbo, dude. Hold on to your Freddy.
BUFFALO: Well, if you say so. So what case are they on today?
BIRD: Yarbles, dude.
BIRD: So sit back, pour yerself a drink and enjoy...
WATSON: Yes, Holmes?
HOLMES: Can you smell burning?
WATSON: Indeed I can, Holmes, and I can smell my bum, too, if I'm so inclined, though I rarely am. What exactly are you driving at?
HOLMES: I can smell something burning, you silly quack.
WATSON: Oh, I see. . . ah, I think I have it. It's that damnable Balkan Sobranie shag that's smoldering in your Meerschaum, in your jacket pocket. I do believe you've set yourself on fire again, Holmes.
HOLMES: Great Caesars' ghost, you're right! I'm combusting!
WATSON: Amazing, Holmes. From the barest of clues you can easily deduce all manner of things that confound Scotland Yard, and yet you have to rely on me to inform you that you've gone and conflagrated yourself.
HOLMES: Never mind that, Watty, old boy, fetch the fire extinguisher!
WATSON: Fire extinguisher? Good lord, Holmes, we're standing in the middle of a iron foundry, surrounded by flaming blast furnaces. You don't really think we're going to find a fire extinguisher here, do you?
HOLMES: I'm on FIRE, old chap! Find a bucket of water, for God's sake, man!
WATSON: Water? Oh, yes, capital idea. Ah, I think I see a bucket, by Jove.
HOLMES: Then fetch it, you old fool! I'm about to be immolated!
WATSON: Right. . . wait here, I'll be right back. Oh, and I suggest that you don't run amok, Holmes. It will only fan the flames, y'know.
HOLMES: Fetch the water, you imbecile! My trousers are aflame now!
WATSON: Hmph. There's gratitude for you. . . good lord, this bucket weighs a ton. Urgh. Crikey. All right, Holmes, I've got the water. Now what?
HOLMES: (screaming in agony) Toss it on the flames, you blockhead!
WATSON: What? Oh, yes, of course. Here we go. Ungh. (splashing sounds). There, that's got it, Holmes. . . fire's out now.
HOLMES: Thank God. (sizzling sounds) Good grief, what's that smell?
WATSON: Eh, what? (sniffs) Blimey. . . if I didn't know better I'd swear I smell burning flesh, and something else (sniffs). Yes, nitric acid, I think.
HOLMES: Watson, you big woman's blouse! You've doused the flames with a bucket of acid! I'm sprouting flames!
WATSON: (chuckles) I hardly think so, Holmes - it's merely the acid dissolving your skin. A tactile illusion. The fire is out, I can assure you of that.
WATSON: Dammit, Holmes, don't run around in circles like that! You're spreading the acid about! It's a trifle inconsiderate of you, old chap. Bloody hell. . . ah, here we go.
FIRE EXTINGUISHER SQUISHES
WATSON: There you go, old buddy, I've managed to neutralize the acid with the contents of this fire extinguisher.
HOLMES: (panting, gasping) You said there WEREN'T any fire extinguishers!
WATSON: Yes, well, apparently I was misinformed. Sorry about that. Good lord, man, you're going to need a new pair of trousers.
HOLMES: Trousers?! I'm going to need a new pair of testicles! My yarbles are like a pair of raw Sainsbury's meatballs in tomato sauce!
WATSON: Eh, what? Oh, quite so. . . which reminds me, I'm absolutely famished. Come on, Holmes, let's hail a hansome cab and go to Luigi's for lunch. . . all this talk of meatballs is making me ravenous. Come along, old chap, my treat.
HOLMES: (moans) I don't think I can walk, Watson.
WATSON: Nonsense, Holmes, the acid has melted the soles of your shoes. You're merely stuck to the floor. Oh, I say. . . duck!
HOLMES: Duck? Where? I don't see a d...
SOUND OF MASSIVE CRANE HITTING HOLMES IN THE HEAD, FOLLOWED BY THE SOUND OF THE UNCONSCIOUS DETECTIVE FALLING TO THE FLOOR.
WATSON: Bloody hell. There goes lunch, I imagine. I say, Holmes, you're going to need a new deerstalker, that's for sure.