REDD: The Den

Doctor Jonathan Emery looked up from the book he was reading. He was about half way through, and he decided that he didn't like it very much. It was far too unrealistic. His half moon glasses were perched low on his nose, and he could see over the tips towards the church, with a wind vane shaped like a vessel on stormy seas. There was a market between them and the road, about thirteen stalls altogether, and his direct line of view showed a pub. It exploded. But not with a burst of fire, and the ricocheting rumble of gunpowder ripping open the brickwork, but with a strange flare of white light that quickly enveloped the world around the pub. The white light crawled across the road, a bus disappearing in the action. But there was no commotion. He was the only one who could see it. There was no obvious sound, either. Simply a distorted buzzing, like the winding of record player, backwards. He stood up, as the stalls melted away. He took the paperback and threw it into the approaching oblivion, watching as it was washed from the face of reality. Emery looked at the plaque on the war memorial he'd been sitting on and felt the ghostly cold of the white light seeping into his body. The plaque was completely filled with names, with another piece of bronze riveted to the memorial as more names were needed. The approaching oblivion enveloped him, as it had the pub, and he felt himself being ripped apart. He didn't care. He'd been ripped apart before.
The white light cleared from the memorial, and Emery saw that the extra bronze was gone, as well as the majority of names. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned around. Professor Ruedalow, taking the fedora from his head, grinned and passed a basket of eggs to Doctor Emery. "Funnily enough, that's the second time I've chased a knucker through some barracks. I do like your beard."
Emery looked down. He resembled the gnome side of his family more than ever. "I don't remember growing this beard."
"The brand of razors that you use were created by the wife of one of the soldiers who died, but now he didn't, he suffered from post traumatic stress and murdered his wife, mistaking her for a german." Ruedalow replied, quite matter of fact-ly, and walking over to the abandoned paperback, that had been casually tossed onto the floor, by L. Frank Baum. "Unrealistic?" Ruedalow asked.
"Everyone knows you don't dissolve witches with water! You use hydrochloric acid."
"And lions can't talk." Ruedalow added.
"You'd be surprised." Emery replied. He offered out his arm for Ruedalow to teleport them. "Once more unto the breach?"
"Now that's a brilliant book. Although, I personally preferred the performance in which Richard Tarleton performed, and he wrote it as well."
"Rubbish!"
"Don't tell me you're one of those ridiculous people who believe that a young Shakespeare wrote it."
Emery remained silent, and they disappeared.

Professor Ruedalow and his friend Doctor Jonathan Emery are dragon detectives in Victorian London. From their headquarters beneath the Hungerford Market, they investigate and rescue any dragons from the malice of the MEDIA- an organization created to combat the threat of magic.

"How can I help you, Master Ruedalow?" Asked David, pocketing a bank note.
"Have you received any post?" Ruedalow asked, looking up from his computer.
"No." David replied, brushing his bushel of black hair away. His weasel like face was dirty, with the water that all victorians washed in. He generally didn't look like a talented violinist, which Emery was training him to be, but someone who had left university to grow potatoes and he wore varying shades of mustard.
"Well, I've found a new way of receiving mail for you."
"Really?" David asked, his interest peaking.
"Yes." He reached into his long jacket, which hung over the back of his chair, despite the numerous coat stands Emery had bought. "Now, this is what we call a 'smart phone', lad, in the days yet to come."
David accepted it. "I 'ear rumours that Doctor Bell, up in Scotland, is working on somemin like this, but I doubt it could be this small."
"You've been looking at the history books me and Doctor Emery brought with us, haven't you?"
David looked ashamed. "Yes." He moaned. "How did you know?"
"He doesn't have it officially patented till 1876, you idiot. It's currently November 1846, and unless you can read French, there's nothing about any telephone devices in existence at the moment."
"Sorry."
"It's alright, lad. An inquiring mind is a good one. Anyway, have a look at this phone. Click the rectangle button at the bottom."
David did so and the screen lit up. He nearly dropped it, in amazement. "Wow!" He murmured.
"There should be a symbol like an envelope. Click on that, and I'll explain the wonders of the email."
But David was too fascinated with another symbol. The letter T. He clicked on it, and the word Tumblr appeared at the top. "Johnlock?" David read. He began reading the text beneath. "Sherlock Holmes." He read, aloud. "What, like Conan Doyles?"
"You do realise that reading all these books from 1887, onwards, is doing you bad. Nobody should have foreknowledge like that. And no one should have to suffer what you're reading. It'll make your toes curl. You need to go on the envelope icon."
Slowly, as David read, his eyes began to widen. "There's nothing like this in the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Why does it keep using letters and numbers?"
Emery came running down the stairs.
"Ah! Emery!" Ruedalow exclaimed. "I believe we may have lost our young friend to fan fiction, but I'm sure you're fine. I say! Wherever has your beard gone? And where has all that blood come from?"
Emery wiped a few droplets of blood from his chin. "I've just found a demon barber. On Fleet street!"