Sherlock opened the easily picked lock of the flat and walked inside, a simmering sort of anger was heating his veins as his feet took deliberate steps. He stood in the center of the room, letting himself take in the small reminder of sentiment that the owner supplied. He inhaled slightly, smelling the stale aroma of persons being recently present. It was the sort of smell that tickled a familiarity in his nose, the odor of skin, soap, and tinge of sweat, all mingling together with the sharp pang of coffee. He closed his eyes for a moment and took in another deep inhale, not noticing any scent out-of-place. As he opened his eyes and glanced around again, he felt the familiar adrenaline surge through him, heightening his senses, sharpening his sight as if to capture everything in perfect completion.
He took mild steps to the sitting area and stared at the arrangement for a moment, observing every inch of couch and the dark wood of the tea-table. He walked slowly, brushing his gloved fingers over the soft material, looking for anything that would support or refute his suspicions. He circled the piece of furniture, dipping his face close to the corduroy, his eyes ticking over every single cord of twisted fiber. Along one side of the headrest, closest to the armrest, he noticed strands of hair curled in on each other. Knotted together as one, proving their presence for some time, as if they had been sat upon and rubbed against to mangle their natural state of ease. Their presence was not completely surprising, but heat spiked in his gut nonetheless, and he felt himself clench the padded material of the couch.
He straightened to his full height and stepped in front of the couch, adjusting his position to mimic the tenant and sat down in the same spot, lifting his feet to simulate a lounging person. He placed his heels on the coffee table and felt the edge of it dig into the top of his Achilles tendon. He let his head fall back a moment, wiggling himself into a relaxed pose and he took a deep breath as he sat for a few beats of silence. He fully felt his setting, trying to imitate the countenance of the resident and their possible guests with his body. He exhaled raggedly, recoiling his muscles and tightening his frame to its usual configuration before standing and walking away from the couch to head towards the kitchen.
He walked through the familiar area, opening cabinet doors and inspecting the contents, rummaging slightly and placing things back to their exact location. Everything that was within the shelves seemed to coincide with his theory and fit the tastes of the owner of the flat. Cereal, pasta, all sorts of dried and canned items meant to last a while. Nothing too fresh, as that would not fit in with a person who worked a lot and was away from their home most days.
He found what he was reluctantly searching for in the cabinet adjacent to the fridge. There was a small rack there, fitted with bottles of red wine that ranged from cheap to moderately expensive. Probably meant to be saved for celebratory instances. His blood went from simmering to boiling in a few moments as he walked over to the cabinet he previously saw wine glasses in. He inspected them closely this time, noticing that there were shallow, smaller white wine glasses, rarely used, but most likely purchased for company. The ones that held most of his interest were two tall and wide Pinot Noir glasses. He pulled one out and held it up to the light filtering in from the windows. The clear, cheap glasses were dusted with accumulated water spots. He gripped the wood of the cabinet with deadly force, the grain creaking beneath his fingertips, like his heart seemed to careen in the grip of his rage. He placed the glass back inside the cabinet, turning it just so, to match its previous position.
He felt a growl forming in his chest and he slammed the cabinet with so much force that the glasses within rattled and clanged together. He took a deep breath, flexing and rolling his shoulders, trying desperately to ease the tension that was fueled by his anger. He looked around the apartment, one he had stolen into many times before, one that he had used to his advantage when a particular person was being annoying. At this point, the rage, welling within his gut and clamping down on the lungs within his chest, was beginning to blind him. He shook his head, his cropped curls falling onto his forehead and he reached up with a shaking hand to push them away from the clammy skin. For a moment, he felt like gripping the curls and shouting, expelling the warring emotions that threatened to choke him.
