WATSON: I say, Holmes.
HOLMES: Yes, Watson?
WATSON: Have you heard of The Beer Church what what what?
HOLMES: Have you been at the smelling salts again, old chum?
WATSON: You may scoff, old boy, but it’s legitimatis totalatus. Which package would you like? The Parish Priest, Arch Bishop, or The Pope? The Pope one comes with a rather fetching T-shirt, you know.
HOLMES: I do believe those screws that connect your frontal lobe to your perpendicular have finally worked themselves loose.
WATSON: But Holmes, we could ordain people, never pay tax again, sell tea sets and crumpets, and souvenir tea towels.
HOLMES: Absolutely barking you are today, my friend. Why, you might as well call it The Church of Spiritus Frumenti.
WATSON: What a top-ho idea, Holmes. Splendid! Mind you, it does mean that you’ll have to give sermons of a Sunday.
HOLMES: My dear Watty, I shall do no such thing.
WATSON: And officiate over the occasional alcoholic wedding.
HOLMES: What on earth has got into you today? Doesn’t your practice pay you enough, old man?
WATSON: I’ve already sent off for the ordination certificate. I’ll order one for you, if you wish.
HOLMES: My dear quack, you know perfectly well that beer, or wine, are NOT my poison.
WATSON: Quite, old fruit, but it might take your mind off those wayward women you keep trying to help up the ladder, so to speak.
HOLMES: Fallen women can’t stay on their knees forever. Someone must take it upon themselves to educate and alleviate them.
WATSON: That’s all very well, Holmes, but you’ve been spending far too many hours locked away in your room educating and alleviating them, if you don’t mind me saying, and well, you’d enjoy the Church of Spiritus Frumenti. You’d make lots of new acquaintances, partake of the holy bread, keep your hands busy…
HOLMES: If you’re inferring that what I do with these pretty young waifs is not mutually beneficial and ultimately a heck of a lot of fun for all concerned, then I’m afraid this verbal intercourse is at an end.
WATSON: If only the physical kind with three in a tub were…
HOLMES: Watson, it does not become you to go peeping through keyholes. And I can assure you, whatever you saw was perfectly legal and fully open to wild misinterpretation. I was merely showing those nice nubiles how to bathe correctly.
WATSON: Good Lord, Holmes. I fear your reputation will be sullied and likely end up tatters.
HOLMES: Jealousy does not become you, Mr Medicine Man. If just one of my moves helps alleviate the plight of these lost souls, it is my duty to carry on what I’ve started, at the very least until everything I have to offer has been consumed.
WATSON: Shame on you, Holmes! You’re grooming them! Why, you’re no better than a pimp! Now I’ve booked you an appointment to see Dr Schlopenwanger to um, resolve your momentary lapse of reason.
HOLMES: I assure you, there is nothing wrong with my reason. I know what I’m doing and I shall go on doing it until the poor, unfortunate waifs have received all that I have to give them.
WATSON: You dirty old fool, Holmes. They’re only after you for your money and a big fat pay off from the tabloids. Heavens knows I did my best to try to dissuade him from ruin.
HUDDERS: Sorry to interrupt, Mr Sherlock, but there are seven vestal virgins at the door.
HOLMES: Oh, good. Show them up to my room. Would you be so kind as to tell them to slip into the tub and await my arrival?
HUDDERS: Certainly, Mr Sherlock.
WATSON: Jumping maggots on a toasting fork! This is utter bedlam! What is Victorian England coming to?!
HOLMES: Edwardian England, you silly billy. Now are you coming upstairs with me or not?
WATSON: Good Lord! Well, I suppose if you can’t beat them…
HOLMES: You’ll need your loofah.
WATSON: I have a spare one in my pocket, Holmes, for emergencies what what what. Crumpet impending?
HOLMES: Not half!
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