Trudging through the woods, Holmes bent down to inspect a muddy footprint. When he rose, he saw that Watson was likewise bent over, although she seemed less interested in the mud, and more in rolling around in it. The tall gentleman cocked a brow at his blonde assistant and cleared his throat. "Watson, what are you doing?"
The woman looked back at the man, her wide, huggable hips swaying slightly.

"Looking.... for clues?"
Her bright voice was full of hope, and she wiggled her butt a few more times in the direction of Sherlock. The man pursed his lips and stepped over beside her.
"And did you find any?"
She shook her head, and got to her feet with a deflated look.
"No, Sir. Just... mud."

On-wards, the two of them went, until a sound made both of them freeze. It was a low, menacing growl, and it seemed to grow closer with each second. Suddenly, a dark shape swept through the underbrush, less than ten feet from the blonde, buxom woman. She squealed in terror and jumped onto Sherlock, whose lanky form staggered under her weight.
"It's a monster! Save me, Holmes! I don't want to die a virgin!"
Exasperated, the detective let go of his assistant, and sent her tumbling onto the ground. Thankfully, her natural padding prevented her from getting seriously hurt.

"No risk of that, I am sure," the detective said, and Watson blushed and smiled sweetly. In her short skirt and buttoned-down waistcoat, she was the perfect picture of Victorian English style-- except, of course, for her peroxide-blonde hair, D-cup breasts and big, cushiony lips. Her blue eyes shone brilliantly up at the detective as he looked after the creature that had passed them. Slowly, she got to her knees in front of him and let her hands caress his thighs.

"You're so brave, Holmes! You saved my life! What can I possibly do to repay you?" Her fingers brushed closer to the man's trouser button, but before she could make much headway, the detective took a step back and sent her sprawling once again into the wet dirt. His gaze was still cast in the direction of the mysterious creature.

"We have a mystery to solve, Watson, and a deviant man on the loose. The game is afoot, and there is no time to waste. Come! We shall proceed to the village proper, take a room at the local inn and see if we can chat up the locals for gossip. Surely, someone knows the secret behind these foul deeds, and the origins of these myths. Now, let us be off."
Turning and striding away, the detective did not spare a second glance at his assistant. Slowly, she got to her feet, brushing the dirt from her knees and cocking her head curiously. Her plump derriere jiggled and bounced as she raced to catch up with Holmes. Breathlessly, she tried to comprehend what the man had just said. It was all a bit much.

"...waist?"

Later that night...

The evening found Holmes and Watson relaxing in a comfortable inn some three miles from the forest. They had consumed a hearty dinner, and now Holmes was relaxing with his pipe while occasionally reaching down to distractedly swat away Watson's foot, which kept creeping up towards Holmes' groin. The famous detective puffed away leisurely, wholly ignorant of the way his pretty assistant watched him with a pronounced pout.

"Holmes," she said when the quiet became too much, "do you ever think about women?"
The detective cast her a glance. "What about women?"
"Well, you know..." Watson smiled and cocked her pretty head, blonde curls bobbing merrily. "Women. The way they look, the way they smell... the way they feel..?"
Holmes narrowed his eye and nodded. "I see. Yes, I once spent a week understanding the varying state of decomposition between male and female murder victims. On average, there is not a lot of difference, although women, given their fatty tissue, tend to experience a slightly more aggressive case of--"
Looking cross, Watson leaned back and crossed her arms. Holmes did not notice, and simply kept talking at length about female physiology in regards to post-mortem atrophy. Across the room, Watson caught sight of the innkeeper, whose eyed had not strayed far from the gorgeous woman since she had entered. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. Then, seeing as the man was not Holmes, Watson's focus shifted off of him and back to her companion, who was now busy stuffing his pipe again.

"All of which," Holmes continued in his usual, disinterested monotone, "is completely irrelevant to the case at hand. The women are not dead, merely, ah... delirious. I wonder what it is that causes such intense response in them, that they've all but forgotten their own name after the visit from the Creeper. A poison, perhaps..."
Seeing her chance, Watson perked up. She leaned across the table, the movement squishing her breasts tightly together, and shot Holmes a flirtatious look.

"I might have an idea about that, actually."
"Really?" Holmes looked dubious. From the bar, the inn keeper made strained noises as his eyes lingered over Watson's bosom.
"Uh-huh!" Watson let her voice drop into a husky purr. "I think they were taken by some insatiable beast, over and over again until they were all used up and spent. Rough, passionate loving from dusk till dawn, Holmes. Deep and hard and-- are you listening to me?"

The detective gazed up at her, startled. He had been staring right through her, clearly caught up in his own thoughts. "Mh! Sorry, what? Yes, yes, I'm sure you're... but if it is a poison, it must be incredibly slow-acting..."
He was talking more to himself than to her, and it was evident that he had not paid any attention to what she had said. Deflated, she leaned back (another groan from the innkeeper) and sulked. Holmes was puffing on his pipe again, and it wasn't until after a long while that he spoke up.

"We may have to do some additional field studies, Watson. If we are to understand this Creeper, this.. Hound... then we must think as he does. We must become the Hound."
Watson's eyes widened. This was unexpected.
"Really? I-- I'll go get us a room!"
Holmes nodded, barely glancing at her as she got up. "Good. We will rest here tonight, and I will send a telegram in the morning to my friend in London. He is a toxicologist, and might know something about this kind of delirium-inducing substance."

But Watson had already skipped to the bar, drawing the eye of everyone in the room except for the one she wanted. The innkeeper tried (and failed) to keep his eyes level with hers, but if Watson noticed his hungry look, she did not understand its meaning. She smiled at him.
"One room, please."
The innkeeper smirked. "Y'know, I have a spacious bed if you need a place to sleep. It's, ah... real cozy. And free of charge."
Watson cocked her head, blinked a few times, then smiled beatifically.
"Thank you! But I don't think my companion would enjoy sleeping all three of us in one bed. That's super nice of you to offer, though!"

She blew him a kiss, which was enough to make the innkeeper's brain melt entirely, and once he had handed over a key - any key, he didn't bother to look - he stared hopelessly after her, eyes fixed on her flared, swaying hips. And when she got back to her table and squeezed herself in opposite the lanky, grave gentleman, he merely offered her a curt, professional nod and puffed away on his pipe, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed into slits.

The innkeeper shook his head and began to wipe the counter, muttering.
"Lucky bastard..."

It's time for another adventure of that iconic duo that everyone knows and loves: Sherlock Holmes and Deena Watson. The brainy genius with a knack for solving the unsolvable, and his perky sidekick, the blonde bimbo bombshell with a penchant for getting herself into trouble. Together, they have traveled to the remote village of Ass-kervilles to investigate the reason for a string of over-loved women and the blue-balled men who keep them. No one knows who the creeper is who sneaks into the women's bedrooms at night and ravages them senseless, but Holmes is on the case, and it's only a matter of time before he finds out. But what lies at the heart of the mystery of the Ass-kervilles? Who is the mysterious pussy-hound? And when will Holmes realize that out of all the clues he finds, there is one that he continues to miss?

PS: Benedict Cumberbatch need not apply