Chapter Text
Steady hands cleaned the large pool of blood surrounding the rather mangled body. The owner of those hands tsked. Tedious, he thought as he lifted himself off the floor. He wasn't expecting the woman to be a military veteran. This threw off his plan, and even got himself injured. She didn't suffer long. A quick, deep cut to the jugular and he didn't have anymore problems afterwards. When the blood could no longer be seen, he picked up the bottle of peroxide he had carried with him. He carefully spilled the liquid, outlining the stained wood. He watched as the remaining blood boiled. He poured the rest of the bottle on the floor. He clicked his tongue and turned to leave. He was careful. He wouldn't want to get caught and his fun ruined. He thoroughly cleaned his hands and face, picking up the bottle of peroxide.
He exited the house in which he'd easily broken into. He closed the door quietly. It was an interesting kill. The woman fought well. Much better than he had expected. She had possessed a lot of strength. His lips formed a smile. But her strength was nothing compared to my mind, he though confidently. His confidence would eventually lead him into getting caught one day, but he would walk that bridge when he got there.
With a sigh, he brushed his dark curly hair from his face, tossing the bottle he still held into a hole that was bound to be covered. He breathed in the somewhat fresh London air. He had no money for a cab so he figured he'd walk home. He mused his hair, shoving his hands in his pocket. "Now, who's next?" he murmured to himself, inclining his head.
"....would want me as a flatmate?"
Sherlock stopped and back tracked in his mind. Someone in need of a flatmate?
"You're looking for a flatmate?" Sherlock said, turning around.
A man, goodness, much shorter than himself with white-ish color hair. He was dress on a plaid button down and a cream colored sweater paired with dark blue jeans and boots. The man was a tanned color, too dark to be from London and its gloomy weather.
"Yes, I am, actually," he said, voice gruff from what sounds like years from yelling, but it sounded natural, but forced at the same time. Military. "Do you know of anyone looking for one?"
Interesting...Fun. "I do, in fact. I am. " Smile; this is your chance to reel in a new victim.
The man smile and stood, hand extended. His stance was casual but alert. A closer look and he could tell the man still wore a military haircut, though his hair was on his ears. "I suppose I'm your guy."
He'll be cutting it soon...Old habits die hard. He took the outstretched hand. The grip was firm, and he rather liked that. "Yes, I suppose you are." Indeed. Fun. "The address is 221B Baker Street. No need to knock; the door will be unlocked."
"Can I get a name?" he was asked as he dropped his hand.
He quirked an eyebrow. "Sherlock Holmes."
"John Watson."
Sherlock nodded. "One question: Iraq or Afghanistan?"