Parisian Nightmares

The game is on! Do we play dodgeball or Cluedo?

"Nice label. Lovely handwriting. I see what you mean, you want us to draw funny pictures on it. I'll gladly oblige, Mr Holmes," I drew a permanent marker.

"Don't be stupid. They've just moved in."

"Could've replaced it-"

"No one does that."

He grabbed my forearm. "LET GO OF ME LET GO OF ME LET GO OF ME-" I screamed, but he stepped on my toe.

Then using a very nice 'Hello I'm a polite Englishman and I totally don't tell people to shut up every five seconds' voice, he spoke into the intercom. "Hi! Um, I live in the flat below yours, I don't think we've ever met?" He grinned prettily. 

I tried to bite him, but he stepped aside, whacking me in the elbow. The woman on the intercom hesitated, "No, well, I just moved in." Her voice crackled. Sherlock gave us an 'I told you so' look.

"My sister and I left our keys in the flat, you see, and..." he bit his lip very awkwardly. I felt the fangirls across the world screeching.

"Oh, should I buzz you in?" Asked the lady. "Yes please," I butted in.

After a short while, Sherlock and I were standing on Miss Wintle's balcony. "Do we climb?" I asked. Sherlock ignored me and did the exact thing.

"I assume I'll have to do the same thing later?" I yelled down to him, leaning over the edge. 

"You could just stay there, it would help a lot," he said.

"No."

"I just realized that my hands are wet from the rain," I informed him as I swung one leg then the other over the railing. I then dropped without an ounce of dignity and landed like a sack of happy little potatoes. "I think I broke all of my ankles."

Sherlock Holmes had gone without a word. Lovely gentleman.

~time skip brought to you by my ankles~

"The bathroom's empty," I noted, but not before nicking a roll of toilet paper and a  tube of toothpaste. Sherlock strode on and I followed him. 

I jiggled the doorknob. "The door's locked. I suppose I could pick it, but it would take a lot of YouTube tutorials-"

He shoved the door open with his shoulder.

"Right," I said, standing back up like a total fool.

After leering about and scooting around the corpse of Van Coon, Sherlock called the police, and I let John up, just because I was a nice person. (cough cough, lies)

"Do you think he lost a lot of money? Suicide is pretty common around City boys," said John, looking at the corpse.

"None of us are sure if it was suicide," I said, remembering the line from the show.

"Come on, the door was locked from the inside," John reasoned.

I shruggef.

Sherlock was busy rooting through the deceased man's suitcase, not respecting his privacy. I couldn't chide him, for I had nicked his toilet supplies and had rootled through his diary.

"Been away three days, judging from the laundry," announced Sherlock. "Look at the case, there was something tightly packed in it," he said.

"I'll take your word for it," John said, stepping away.

"Something wrong?" Asked Sherlock, looking up. His hands didn't stop prodding the suitcase, though.

"Maybe it has to do with the fact that there's underwear and other nasty stuff in there."