Rooms

[Locked to Matthew M]
Hi, it's Steve. We talked the other day.

[Hels]
[Because Eddie remembered this time. Well, less remembered and more put a note on his phone?]

Bruce is back. You should talk to him. Or something?

[Muerte]
[A few pictures of the East Village neighborhood in NYC. He sends her info on a building along a line of shops. Info includes a number she can call to get the tour.]

I'm about to close a deal on this, but I want you to come look at it and give the Muerte (Emily? I told them your name is Emily Graves. I'm very clever.) stamp of approval before I pull the trigger. Go there alone, get a feeling for it without me leering. Check out the area. Have a slice. Etc. I saw a middle aged man with a pink mohawk playing with his kid at the park and I thought to myself this is the place for a comic book shop.

[Evie S.]

How are you? Daisy?

[Crane]
[The cursor blinks and blinks. Finally:]

Just making sure you're not dead yet. Do demons let you write in your journal?

[She reads of it in the morning paper, the headline bold and the ink still wet. MAN FOUND DEAD IN PARK. The article is truly dreadful. It tells of a man drained of all his blood, and the police believe it to be the work of some madman. She reads a little more carefully than she ought, as she drinks her tea, and even the morning maid has to look away from the gruesome words. There are no pictures, as it would be considered in poor taste, but there is mention of the crime scene in lurid detail. The man, heavy and aged 30, was found near Vauxhall Gardens, dragged away from the path leading to the conservatory, and the marks his body left still there, upon the walk.

The Garden closes for the day, and police have no theories as to the manner of the man's death, save that he seems to be quite exsanguinated without visible wounds to be found. In a bored London, this murder is all the rage that day, where whispers skitter from the cheapside docks to the fashionable homes. The police advise caution and seclusion in the evenings, but tickets to a new play at the Grand Guignol sell out early that day, once fliers announce the new performance to be in honor of the recently deceased man.]

[locked to cris m.]

Hey. I'm Sam's friend, MK.

[locked to wren h.]

OK?

[locked to mary jane w.]

Hanging in there?

[locked to flash t.]

How's it going, slugger?

[public.]

Auditions fucking suck.

[Sherlock Holmes didn't wait for the news. He was not long in town, but he hardly needed to wait for the morning delivery for such things. He had a network, after all, and it certainly hadn't fallen apart in his absence.

For an excuse, Mr. Holmes granted his not inconsiderable services to the Coroner local to the neighbourhood, a man of advanced age, overfond of drink, and unfortunately ill that morning when he accidentally ingested a bit of bad fish (or so he thought). Said Coroner was not precisely aware that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was doing him such a great service as to appear ex officio, when sending for him was something of a formality to begin with.

Mr. Holmes, in this capacity, named himself as that great man's nearest subordinate, wearing only a bare nod to disguise in the form of a dull black hat, shoe polish on his hair, and one of his better coats, padded at the shoulders and around the belt so as to hang and hide the detective's considerable height and over-thin body. Some mouth cotton to alter the length of his jaw and set of his head, and it was enough to be going on with.

He knew Vauxhall well, and successfully avoided the crowd to investigate the body and surrounding while a few policemen herded away the gawkers. Sherlock was avoiding his old comrades in the police force handily, choosing his timing well and enjoying relative silence while he worked the ground on one knee.]

[Locked to each separately. After this.]

It's over. It's done with, finally.

Find it yet?