DONT TRUST THE B-- IN APT. 221C | SHERLOCK HOLMES

A FAIRLY SHORT MAN STOOD BEFORE LYSANDER.
His blonde hair was slightly shaggy, in some lights it seemed to be greying, and definitely in need of either a brush or a cut.

"Sorry, what?"

Lysander rolled his eyes, "you know, that detective that's always in the papers? I assume anyone who's a detective is either smart or lucky, decided to go with the more complimenting words of intelligent." The man had never actually cared much for the whole Sherlock Holmes fiasco that papers happened to hold so dearly. He had only ever skim read what the papers wrote and only briefly looked at the photos, never enough to make out faces or who's who. After all, Guess Who was never a game he would ever be found of.

The blonde man sighed, "Sherlock has a case right now." He stated.

In conclusion, unless Sherlock spoke in third person, the man Lysander had hoped to be the detective was nothing more than his friend... sidekick? He didn't actually know his name though, after all, he never appeared in the paper titles too much. Jack, was it?

"Well, Sir, with all due respect," thus meaning absolutely no respect at all, "there is a dead girl in my flat upstairs right now, and I'm pretty sure the water she's going to end up slowly decaying in is currently made up of much more blood than what most would deem to be ideal! She had multiple stab wounds located upon her chest and abdomen, shit, maybe even other places that I didn't care to check and there's a broken widow in my bathroom now! There's unused fucking bullets on the floor and a bloody message on my ceiling in what I assume to be blood!" Lysander's voice rose, his right hand twitching slightly as he spoke, "so you know how hard it is to get blood stains out of this? And off of a ceiling no less! And to make matters worse some of the blood-water overflowed onto my bath mat, bloody nightmare, I know, I happened to have lived it! So, may I say, I don't exactly have time for your 'he doesn't have time' stick, funnily enough!"

The shorter mans eyes had widened slightly, supposedly taken aback by either Lysander's tone or description, "right... well, I suppose I'll inform Sherlock of it?" He raised a brow.

"I suppose you should."

It had been around an hour and a half since Lysander had taken a visit to 221B and an hour since he found out the man at the door was in fact name John Watson, a doctor, and would've quite frankly of been a better bet of helping him! Although, that being said, Lysander didn't actually know anything about Sherlock's skill level other than he's supposed wearing a high IQ and knows of many tobacco ashes, or something along those lines at least.

Since then Lysander had managed to get dressed and had currently got himself in a situation of draping himself across his fathers old arm chair, his legs dangling off of the left arm as his head rested on the right. The man's laptop rested on his stomach, his fingers moving quickly for key to key, typing speedily. Lysander wasn't great with emotions, he had been raised with the mind set of 'men can't be emotional' but he was trying to fix that. In his current point of view, he always found writing things out to be easier than talking; that way, he didn't have to face the shame of possible voice cracks or whimpers as he spoke to a psychiatrist about problems that to some would only be minor. He wasn't up for humiliation like that, why would he even think of subjecting someone to that, let alone himself!

One of his hands momentarily moved away, travelling to his pocket and searching around it before coming upon a smooth cuboid shape. His other hand reached for a box, swiftly pulling out a short cylindrical stick of sorts.

"Sorry mum..." He mumbled to himself, the lighter from his pocket making a click as a flame appeared at the top, bringing the flame close to the cigarette Lysander had now placed in his mouth, he closed his eyes and put the lighter back into his pocket.

He took a drag from the stick, taking a break from his writing, and blew out. Smoke floated around the living room, soon disappearing into the atmosphere, "We all die sometime, some soon than others, you'd know all about that though, wouldn't you?" He chuckled, the cigarette lingering on his lips.

A harsh knock on the door caused Lysander to jump, almost dropping the lit cigarette in his hand, the blonde grumbled to himself and hastily put it out of the ashtray beside his chair.
He left his laptop open, leaving the lid slightly open before going to answer the door, wringing his wrists before doing so.

This better be fucking good.

Lysander slowly opened the door, cringing slightly as it creaked half way through, he examined the visitors on the other side. The first being John from earlier, Lysander didn't spend much time on him. The second man however... Tall, yet still slightly shorter than Lysander by at least an inch or so, dark hair, cheekbones sharp enough to cut and piercing eyes that could stab.
That was Sherlock Holmes.

"Holmes, I assume." I know.

The man hummed, "which way is the bathroom?"

Blunt, straight to the murder. Lysander liked that. No specific questioning needed. He opened the door wider, letting the two males in, closed the door after them, and led them to the bathroom where he hadn't even made an effort to clean up. The room was in practically the same condition as earlier. Red.

"You didn't think to clean up?"

"Tampering with a crime scene is illegal on some levels, right?" Lysander rolls his eyes, "besides, you're meant to deduce that, not my organisational skills." He motioned weakly towards the girl in his tub. Now that he mentioned it, he never actually bothered to learn her name, he didn't expect her to say long enough for him to learn. In some ways that was the correct assumption but considering the way she left, perhaps that name would be crucial.

"So, kindly, Mr. Holmes, may you begin?"

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UNEDITED
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