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

LYSANDER SIGHED AND MADE A MENTAL NOTE: 'BUY MORE SHOWER GEL'.
It had been at least a week and a half since the murder of his latest roommate, since that day, he had been taking showers anywhere else he could; the two main places were his sisters house and his local gym. Today, that changed.

Lysander exited the bathroom of his Baker Street apartment, towel round his waist and water still dripping from his hair, the heat of the shower tainting some of his pale skin pink. As he turned to go to his room, the Male paused, turning to look at his living room.

"What are you doing in my apartment?"

Of course he eyes wouldn't deceive him, right? London's very own detective was really sprawled out on Lysander's arm chair, messing around with the phone he had left on the coffee table, he wouldn't just imagine that, right?

"I have a case."

Lysander's nose scrunched as he pulled a confused expression, "right?"
Perhaps, going on a case with Sherlock wasn't so bad of an idea but from what Lysander had heard, many of the cases the detective went on involved death. Something he had come to know within recent predicaments was that dead body's really weren't his scene, but still, he had never interacted with his neighbours (shouting at John and Sherlock seeing the dead roommate didn't really count as a proper interaction, really) other than the odd knock on the floor when he heard a violin being played into ungodly hours of the night. No matter how beautifully played it was, Lysander couldn't use 'sorry I'm late, my neighbour was playing classical music on a violin until dawn' at his mundane office job, he was already in danger of being fired anyway.

With all the thinking Lysander had been doing, it was clear Sherlock was getting bored, "so will you come or not?" He asked, placing Lysander's phone back on the coffee table it had originally been laying on. Lysander had never given the phone a password so he only hoped that Sherlock was mature enough not to change anything or search through personal things such as texts and photos, not that any of it would be incriminating.

And that is how Lysander ended up on his first ever case, and most possibly, his last.

"We could just take my car, you know?" Lysander informed Sherlock, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans, cold London air hitting his face, a large contrast to the warmth of the apartment he had previously been in.

Sherlock only looked the taller male up and down as they continued down the pavement, calling for a taxi as one approached, much to Lysander's dismay.
He didn't dislike taxis, rather he just preferred to drive for himself, having a lack of confidence in others driving skills without knowing them for a while first.

Only when they were in the taxi did Sherlock begin to explain the case.

"There's been a string of murders, much like those of your roommate, Hannah, was it?" He hardly gave Lysander time to respond, "the same messages scrawled across walls, the means of murder, however, have circulated."

"And you think I'm to blame or something? Don't you have John to take along on cases anyway?"

"He's ill." He wasn't.

Lysander rolled his eyes, yeah, of course he's the backup.

"You say the same massage, the whole 'don't trust the bitch' bullshit?" He didn't need to hear the answer and Sherlock knew, after all, it was clear as day.

          The scene of this murder was public; an alleyway.

Lysander recognised the victim, another previous roommate, he almost gagged.

Sherlock already knew the answers, but he egged Lysander on to say them, he didn't however know why. For someone so observant, when it came to himself, perhaps he was oblivious.
Maybe he just liked the males voice, the way he had a slight Scottish undertone to his accent and the way he lisped slightly on his S's in such a way that indicated he had had speech therapy as child but it had never fully helped.

Sherlock leans against the wall, eyeing the words sprawled across the bricks opposite him as Lysander spoke.

"Male, twenty four..? No.. no, twenty six now, I believe.." or at least he would've been, granted he wasn't murdered just before his birthday, "named Charlie Sanderson.. when I knew him, he had an apprenticeship at Cummins, god knows what he's been working at recently, never one to keep his mind on one thing."

Sherlocked hummed at the males words, straightening his posture and clasping his hands together.

"The words; they're paint. Sanderson hasn't got any external wounds to collect blood from." He commented, and in fact, when pointed out, paint seemed like a much more realistic answer.

Culprit still in the hiding, whoever had been committing the murders of Lysander's was yet to be found and until they were, Lysander worried for his mental well-being.

          Upon returning home, Lysander has remembered his original quest for today; shower gel. A fine coincidence of his was running into John at the shop and after small talk a stranger topic appeared.

"I didn't really expect you to be out, Sherlock told me you were sick!" The taller man commented sincerely, yet the confusion found on Johns face wasn't enough to send him any hints about Sherlock.

"What?"

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UNEDITED
901 WORDS
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So, I'm a bastard who can't keep a promise, but between you and me, in between school and hospitals, life has been a bitch.