A Bloody Addiction

Many thanks to hnardiello aka Hunter, who helped me with the idea for the crime scene and the crime, and is now socially compelled to read this. >:)

It would mean a lot if you'd comment and shtuff, cause a lot of work and research went into this for the deductions.

Chapter 1

A Bloody Mess

by: Apathy_
The man swept through the room quickly. His cold blue eyes flashed dangerously as he glanced about the room at the clusters of police officers. After him, Doctor John Watson hurried along, throwing apologetic looks to everyone the man glared at. They all simply stared, their expressions unreadable; to John, at least. Perhaps their eyes told to the man ahead of him a different tale.

The stairs curled downwards in what seemed like a never-ending spiral, but this did not faze the man, and he simply increased in speed, his coat flying out behind him. Sighing, John followed suit, almost tripping and falling head over heels several times. Nevertheless, he kept up the continuous decent into what seemed like hell itself.

John almost ran into the man in front of him as he came to an abrupt halt at the end of the staircase. Pausing for a moment, as if to consider whether or not it was worth his time, he continued into a narrow, dark hall. Left, right, right, right, left, left... John carefully took account of the turns the hall made. He did not doubt that the man would be able to find his way back; on the contrary, John Watson knew that it would be just like him to leave John behind accidentally.

The door to the room was non-existent, although there had obviously once been one there. The man spared barely a glance for the doorframe, deeming the rusted hinges unimportant. And they certainly seemed unimportant, judging by the state of the room he was faced with.

Blood splattered across what seemed like every visible surface. A dartboard lay on the floor, absent of darts. There was a television in the corner, an old gangster movie playing on the screen on silent. But by far the most peculiar sight of all in the room was the ceiling fan, spinning around relatively slowly, letting out a low whirring noise, and carrying a bloody corpse.

The man barely batted an eyelid, taking a step further into the room and towards the corpse; only to be interrupted by a female voice from nearby.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," she said, walking slowly towards him. The man glared at her.

"And who might you be, disrupting my work?"

"I," she answered icily, "am Amelia Morisson. I am in charge of this case. And I will not have you touching the crime scene before necessary precautions have been taken, Mister Holmes."


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