Reason #4482 of why I’m going to Hell.
or the saga of the continuous rping accompanied with a significant lack of sleep
A chime echoed in 221B as the doorbell rang; remarkably, there wasn’t any hesitation in it— wasn’t a client, but that hardly would be spoken, neither by John, nor the late Sherlock, nor Mrs. Hudson, who had recently suffered a stroke. There were two men at the door, the tallest looking rather pale, almost as if he were still in the midst of recovering from an ailment, or perhaps as if sunlight just hadn’t skimmed his skin in quite a long period of time. The shorter appeared much the same, if not worse; there was a haggard look about him, shadows under his crinkled eyes, stress hanging about him in a heavy aura, even though both of the pair were garbed and stood impeccably; cleanly shaven faces, crisp black suits, folded hands, straight stature.
Of course, that stature broke for a bit a few moments later when one leaned forward in a slump, giving another stern rap on the door. “Sammy,” he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face, “I’ve already told you, I’ve asked around— the guys around here ain’t seen this Dr. Watson guy in days. They reckon he’s moved out or something, I just don’t see why we don’t pick the damn lock and head in.” Giving a shake of his head when the other began to offer a protest, he cursed, giving the door an obnoxious set of knocks, giving whoever the hell was inside— if there was anyone alive inside —a taste of something they couldn’t ignore.
"We don’t have time to waste on this sorta thing, there are people dying, disappearing, and we still haven’t gotten down to the nit and grit of this," the frustrated man continued, "…so if you wanna go ahead and bother with knocking on empty apartments when chances are the dude’s already kicked the bucket, go ahead, but I’m gonna get this show on the roa—" Dean cut abrupt, quit rifling through this pockets; the door had opened, revealing another quite tired looking man behind it, if pissed.
Composing himself, the grumbling one offered a showy grin, even though it didn’t touch the weary bout coming over his eyes as he gazed at the guy who’d finally opened the fucking door for them. About time. Goddamn, was everyone over here that slow about everything? That train ride had taken a fucking decade off his life, and he didn’t even want to get into the whole cab affair.
Beside him, the tallest offered his hand. “Agent Samuel Cole, Dr. Watson, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he started, giving a slight, genuine smile, looking almost a bit flustered for a moment, before seeming to come to a decision and plunging ahead with it. “I’ve read your blog for months now, I’ve always thought it was amazing, you have—” He stopped. Dean groaned internally; this wasn’t the best time for Sam to have a fan moment. “I’m sorry for your loss, I understand that this must be— unexpected, to say the least, but this is my partner,” he explained, nodding to the grumbler, “Agent Dean Smith.” As if on cue, they both drew their badges and held them out for a few moments, before returning them to their coat pockets.
"We’re from the FBI, working with your Met, and we wish we didn’t have to disturb you, but we need a few minutes of your time to speak about suspicious activity in the neighborhood."
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