johnlockish

[johnlockish]

OOC Note - Hiatus

I never really thought I would be posting something like this so soon. It feels soon, anyway. This blog is over three years old - even before season three. I think that makes it one of the longest-lasting Sherlock RP blogs, something I take just the right amount of pride in.

Gem and I are both college students. We both have jobs. We’re both going to be full time in school in fall and both busy with different volunteer and extracurricular activities. They have Bones, their SDIT, to take into consideration. I have my partner. It seems we’re just too busy to attend to the blog in the way it deserve. It’s difficult to run a real-time RP blog, one that follows time as it happens. We can’t post a narrative skipping to Christmas if it’s posted in July. That’s another thing I loved about this blog. It made it more real.

But because we can’t follow up as timely as we should, and in a manner this story deserves, the blog is going to have to be put on hold. With a heavy heart, it’s on hiatus, indefinitely, as of now.

I can’t promise that Gem and I will ever fully return to this blog. I hope we can pull out a few surprise narratives here and there because we have so many potential plots. Their next Christmas, the fourth anniversary of Sherlock’s return, whether or not they decide to have a baby (oh, you thought this was a one-off idea but no, we were going to run with it somehow), different trials and tribulations... The potentiality of this blog is still enormous. The time just isn’t there. If you have anything you want to ask, please feel free to message me.

I encourage everyone to start from the beginning of the blog. Go back and reread and see how far you guys have helped us take these characters. This was never meant to be a super serious, run-like-the-show blog. It’s full of domestic cuteness. That’s what it was about, really. Seeing the behind-the-scenes. Those little things will always be there for you to enjoy, either all the way through or the important bits under the “plot” section.

Thank you all. Seriously. Thank you for the excitement, thank you for the questions, thank you for reading and reblogging and caring.

Gem and I still love Sherlock. We still love Johnlock. It will be a while before they or I fall off the bandwagon completely. So, take comfort knowing that John and Sherlock will pretty much always be there, either in the archives of this blog or in the writers’ hearts and blogs. This plot and story is far from over. It’s just on pause.

If you feel sad that the blog is over, I encourage you to think of John and Sherlock on their sofa, watching telly, maybe talking to Ray because he’s hungry and pacing and wants food, but neither of them are wanting to get up. John proposes rock, paper, scissors. Sherlock mocks him but plays along anyway. They get into an argument about paper(John)  being unable to defeat rock (Sherlock). They probably end up on the ground, wrestling and laughing and calling each other names. Don’t worry - Ray gets fed, they both decide to do it. And then it’s right back onto the sofa, curled up together, probably playing with their wedding rings.and watching James Bond.

Rest assured that they’re safe and happy, and they always will be.

- Elizabeth

[johnlockish]

14/07/16 - 21.00

You’ve all probably noticed that things have slowed a bit around here. Sherlock and I have been taking a lot of time to ourselves, both on our own and together. It’s helped with everything that happened a few months ago. We’re not as shaken anymore. Scars are healing. Life moves on.

He’s proposed something of a vacation - Sussex, to look at what may be our future loveshack once he’s retired. That, among other things, is going to be our plan in the next few days and weeks. We have a belated marriage anniversary to make up for, anyway.

He made it sound like he wants to be there for at least ten days, if not longer. We’ve both decided not to bring our laptops and we won’t be posting from our phones. We still need to focus on each other. Matter of fact, he and I have been playing with the idea of not blogging much at all. Not that we’re leaving this thing for good. We just may not be around as much. It can be surprisingly draining, sometimes. In a good way, and a bad way, like most things. And we won’t be deleting this, either. He and I are a bit too fond of all the good things that have come from your lot’s nosing around in our business.

It’s not just here we’re going to be quieter. It’s everywhere. No more conferences with the media alongside Lestrade - he’s going to be the one saying everything, not us. We’re staying out of the public eye as best we can. It’s gotten better, and we know we’ll never really escape publicity, but at this point we’d like a little more quiet. A private life.

There have been times when I’ve come home and found him reading back on everything. My first blog, his first blog, and this one. It calms him down, I think, when he gets too in his head. Grounds him. At least, that’s what it does for me, sometimes. It makes me realise how much we’ve grown and how lucky I am to continue growing with him.

It also makes me realise how lucky he and I are to have readers like all of you. Good fans, mostly. In a weird way, friends, almost. (Don’t look too into that.) Confidants. You all have offered advice and encouragement. You’ve made us laugh, roll our eyes, actually talk to each other when we couldn’t figure out how to. You’re all the reason we have a chameleon., for God’s sake. You’ve all played a role in this, too. In his and my being together, being married, being happy.

So - thank you. Thank you for your support all these years. Believe me, you’ll probably be hearing from us again someday, even if it’s just a quick update or a case I’ve just got to share. Just because he and I are going private doesn’t mean we’re keeping everyone in the dark. Doesn’t mean we won’t be working on cases you may or may not hear about on the news. We’re still going to be here. He’s still going to be trying to help make this infuriating, questionable, crazy world a little bit better. And I’m still going to be helping him.

And isn’t that how you all like it? The two of us against the rest of the world. Both, or none.

He’s calling me back to bed. I’m never going to get tired of hearing his voice from that bedroom. I’m never going to not be grateful to walk in there and see him on his side of the bed. Never.

Take care, all of you. And thank you, from both of us.

Until next time,

JWH

[johnlockish]

14/07/16 - 18.37 - Interlude

The seventh stair to 221B creakes under John’s weight as he hauls in the groceries. Two bags are full of produce and toiletries; the other with a few new plants and a bag of crickets for Ray. Thankfully, he’d thought ahead and bought the crickets after going to Tesco. He’d made the mistake once of buying them before. Three screaming women made John leave empty-handed and tempted to put the bag of insects under the tyre of an unsuspecting parked car.

The crickets quietly sound John’s entry. A few sporadic chirps of excitement come from the chameleon in the sitting room. John turns out of the kitchen after setting the produce down and approaches the enclosure. The vibrant reptile bobs his head in hungry anticipation as John taps a few crickets out of the bag and into his clutches. “There you go, you glutton,” John mumbles fondly, putting the rest of the crickets in the container below the enclosure.

As he stands back up, he faintly sees his own reflection in the glass. The old cuts on his cheeks are now fading scars. The scar on his neck, raised and angry and discoloured, heals a bit more every day.

Two months, he thinks. He touches his neck for a moment, running his fingers over his skin almost nostalgically. Rudy’s words whisper through his mind.

With a shudder, he drops his hand and breathes 221b in. He feels the floorboards under his shoes (which he still needs to take take off, he remembers). He hears the quiet ticking of the kitchen wall clock, a tacky little thing Mrs Hudson is fond of. He feels a light breeze from the open window and can hear the curtains quietly dancing. He closes his eyes and waits for a moment and enjoys the feeling of being safe at home.

“Right,” he utters and opens his eyes after a few silent seconds, “food won’t put itself away.” He certainly won’t get help with it. He smiles at the thought and returns to the kitchen.

“I’m starting to feel a bit like Mrs Hudson,” John calls to wherever his spouse is lurking. He flutters around the kitchen, engaged in his tasks. “I come in with food, bills, cleaning supplies, and miraculously the person I’m doing all this for is nowhere to be found. Am I the help?”

“If it makes you feel better, I like you much more than Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock calls back from the bedroom. He sets down his socks and walks over to poke his head out the door. “Don’t go telling her that, though. For all the world knows, she’s my favourite.”

“The world ought to read our blog, then,” John replies with a haughty snort of pride.

Sherlock hums in agreement and smiles. He steps back in the room for a moment, folding his socks and putting them in their indexed location, then shuts the drawer. He heads out into the hall, making his way to the kitchen. “Besides, I never asked you to do the shopping,” he corrects. “Some would show up, eventually.”

A light-hearted chortle escapes John.  “That’s not how it works, luv. It’s not magic.”

Sherlock sees John begin stretching up on his toes to shove a can into an empty space in a cupboard. With a soft smile, he strolls over, making sure his footsteps can be heard, and slides his hands onto John’s hips. “You could have been doing much more fun things with me instead of getting food,” he insists. He presses a kiss to the back of John’s head.

John grunts as he finally pushes the can of black beans into its spot. He settles back on solid ground and leans back against Sherlock. “What could possibly be more fun than making sure we eat?” he teases, a smile painted on his face.

“Oh, I can think of a few things,” Sherlock murmurs, kissing the shell of John’s ear.

With a grin, John turns around and rests his bum against the sink. His index fingers loosely hook in the belt loops of Sherlock’s trousers. He hums contemplatively and sizes Sherlock up. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?” he muses aloud, licking his smirking lips. Months, he thinks morosely.

Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s waist and smiles. “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything,” he quips, grinning. He kisses John’s forehead, hugging him close and rubbing little circles into the small of his back. “But yes, it has. I didn’t want to push you.”

He tips his head and kisses John’s temple, then his pink-tinged cheek. “And I don’t want to push you now,” he adds, voice soft. He kisses the corner of John’s mouth. “Up to you.”

A gentle hum tickles John’s throat. He opens his eyes, closed in bliss from the onset of affection, and gazes at Sherlock. “Good man,” he purrs with both desire and gratitude. His fingers tighten their hold and pull Sherlock that much closer to him. Their chests brush. A little ball of dread tries to make itself known, but John stomps it out before it can settle in his stomach.

“Why not convince me a bit more, hm?” he teases, his voice deepening. He hopes it’s clear that he’s on board, but oh, the things Sherlock can do with those hands and lips. He’s missed them.

Sherlock grins and kisses the corner of John's mouth again before kissing him fully and properly. He hums happily, fingers trailing down toward John's arse. He nibbles at John’s lip, sighing contentedly.

“Convincing?” he murmurs.

“God, yes,” John rasps, already breathless and touch-starved.

Please with himself, Sherlock smiles, drifting over to kiss below John's ear. The skin is warm and soft and he’s missed this intimacy so much. It feels like they have these affectionless periods far too often. It's nothing but extremes with them.

He kisses his way from John's ear to his jaw, nipping playfully on the way. He gets to John’s neck and sucks softly, sighing happily.

John’s skin leaps with every touch and every bit of affection. He curls his toes in his shoes to ground himself as he jumps from excitement to panic. His eyes flutter shut as Sherlock’s warm breath sighs against his neck. He licks his lips and tries to remember to breathe.

As Sherlock’s lips flirt over his scar, John begins to lean away, an uncomfortable expression on his face. “Ah-” he protests softly, “not there.”

Immediately, Sherlock pulls away from John’s neck and glances his way. The embarrassment and discomfort he sees makes his heart sink. “Of course,” he concedes gently, reminded of when John first let him see his shoulder scar in an intimate setting. John looked much the same now as he had then.

A few moments of silence and stillness settle between them, neither of them knowing what to say or where to touch or what to do next. John sighs shortly, frustrated, and cups the back of Sherlock’s neck. He pulls him back in for a crushing kiss that reignites their speed almost immediately. When Sherlock resumes his previous trek down John’s neck, John tilts his head this way and that, skillfully guiding Sherlock’s kisses where he wants them.

“Is this going to turn into another four day stint of non-stop sex?” John breathes, now raking a hand up to Sherlock’s hair and back down the length of his back.

“Five days,” Sherlock corrects him with a defiant nip to the shell of his ear which draws out a delightful gasp from John. “One can only hope. Want to double it?”

“Ten days?” John guffaws, grinning. He gives Sherlock’s arse a swift smack and revels in the intriguing half-hum, half-moan he gets in response. “I’m not as young as I was then. Don’t know if I can manage it.”

Pulling back for a moment, Sherlock shoots John an incredulous look. “You’re only three years older, John.” At John’s guilty grin, Sherlock chuckles and kisses his nose. “You’ve only managed to become more ridiculous.”

John settles for offering gentle kisses to his husband as their hands mutually re-learn each other’s bodies. He feels warm from head to toe. For the first time in weeks, nothing but Sherlock matters to him. Not his scars, not the now few and far between nightmares, not the occasional lingering report on the news. It’s just them.

“Three years,” John sighs suddenly, and not sadly. Sherlock noses his jaw and John complies with the silent request and tilts his head appropriately. “Hard to believe it’s just been that.”

“Mm. Feels longer,” Sherlock mumbles as he lavishes John’s neck with affection.

John’s hands snake up to Sherlock’s neck. He directs his husband’s attention to him and kisses him soundly. He steps away from the counter and guides them so Sherlock is the one pinned. John assumes Sherlock’s position and begins peppering his throat with kiss after kiss. Sherlock’s head thunks dully against the cabinet door as he tips his head back, but neither hear the sound.

“I remember how badly I wanted you back then,” John muses fondly. “How much it scared me that I still did, even after three years without you. I was rubbish at hiding it, or you were rubbish at noticing.” A jab to his gut makes John almost lose his wind. He playfully punches Sherlock’s chest and meets his grin.

“Bit of both?” Sherlock offers, hooking his ankle around John’s to pull him close again.

John hums in agreement and resumes his affection. “Perceptive, our readers. Figured it out before either of us.”

“We have much to thank them for,” Sherlock admits, running his fingers through John’s hair, which leaves John sighing in pleasure.

“It’s been good,” John says. Sherlock pauses his hand and John opens his eyes and looks at him. “It’s been very good.”

“You’re sure?” Sherlock asks, a hint of worry crossing his gaze, which has settled on John’s scarred neck and the faint hints of injury on his (wonderfully) stubbled cheeks.

Hands reach out and cup Sherlock’s face. John gives him a slow but confident nod. “Even the hard bits. The miscommunicating. The fighting. The danger. All of it’s just part of our lives. We’ve learned and are still learning. I’d take all of that a thousand times over if it meant you staying here. Being home. With me.”

Despite himself, Sherlock’s eyes glisten. He starts lowering his gaze, but John catches him and lifts his face. He kisses Sherlock kindly and Sherlock melts into it. He reaches and pulls John closer, needing his warmth and solidarity. Their kissing fades into the two of them simply holding each other.

“It’s still astonishing,” Sherlock whispers, sounding choked up, “that you chose me.”

John laughs shortly, but his breath trembles as he does. He buries his face deeper in Sherlock’s shoulder. “Stole my line, you sod,” he mumbles. Sherlock feels warm tears on his shirt but says nothing. “I’ll choose you every time. Everywhere. Over everyone else.”

Sniffling, Sherlock gives John a squeeze and pulls away. He pretends to scratch his cheek so he can flick away his tears. Through the corner of his eye he sees John doing much the same.

“I’ve missed this,” Sherlock admits quietly.

“Me, too,” John agrees, his tone slightly more guilty. Sherlock hears it and rubs comforting circles in John’s back.

“Sussex,” Sherlock suddenly chimes, earning John’s eye. “I mentioned it some months ago, do you remember?”

John frowns slightly. “You said you’d like to retire there, one day.” His frown deepens and he pulls out of Sherlock’s hold. “Hope you’re not thinking like that now.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock defends. “One day, yes. For now, I’m quite happy solving cases.” When John raises an eyebrow, Sherlock deflates slightly. “I will be quite happy solving cases,” he says. “Soon. Once I find the right one. The last one was… Tiring for both of us. But I’m not quite ready to leave my profession just yet.”

“Good,” John sighs with a small smile. “The world still needs Sherlock Holmes.”

“My retirement isn’t the same as my death,” Sherlock reminds John.

“You know what I mean.”

Pressing on, Sherlock reaches out for John and pulls him back in. “It’s nice this time of year. Warm and sunny, as English standards go. I know a man out in the downs who owes me a few favours. He has a cottage there that he rents out on occasion. He’s offered it to me in the past, both to vacation and to purchase outright.”

A slow grin begins to grow on John’s face. “Are you suggesting a beach vacation? Don’t you hate the beach?”

“A coastal trip,” he amends with narrowed eyes. “A test run to study ideal beekeeping conditions and the complicated geography of the surrounding chalk hills.”

“And to have sex for ten days,” John offers.

Sherlock stops, looking studious, as if mentally trying to squeeze in that much intercourse into their imaginary itinerary. “Yes,” he answers confidently.

John breaks into a wide grin and kisses Sherlock soundly. “Sounds wonderful,” he says. “I’ve been thinking of asking you to go away with me for a while, but I was thinking of going back to Dartmoor. Henry said we’re welcome anytime, you know.”

“I offer you beaches and hills and you want moors and bogs?” Sherlock asks in faux-offense.

John somehow only grins wider. “You just admitted to it being a beach trip for me.”

Sherlock quickly releases John, turns around, and resumes putting the shopping away, punctuating his pout with each heavy clank of a can against the shelf. “Leave me, you ridiculous man.”

Gentle arms wind around Sherlock from behind, and he can’t help but soften at the touch. John nuzzles into his back with an unseen smile. “You know we’ll need to visit Harry in Brighton,” he reminds Sherlock, who immediately goes to protest before John adds, “If she finds out we’re vacationing twenty minutes from her city and we don’t say hi, she’ll find us and kill us.”

“If we must,” Sherlock sighs, not sounding too inconvenienced. “After the sex marathon. She’ll not interrupt us.”

Sunny laughter escapes John, who squeezes Sherlock happily. “Of course,” he giggles, smiling when he feels Sherlock turning to face him. He beams up at his husband and reaches up to touch his cheeks again. Sherlock mirrors the move.

“You’re fantastic,” John murmurs.

“And you,” Sherlock replies, “are wonderful.”

[johnlockish]

i'm glad! has sherlock taken any cases since then?

He hasn’t. He’s been a bit of a homebody, actually. I think he’s trying to avoid the press.

I’m not. I’m just… feeling less motivated. I suppose. I don’t know.

SWH & JWH

[johnlockish]

Sherlock, how do you feel about everything John posted?

I just want to go back to how it usually is. I never thought I would miss tedium.

SWH

[johnlockish]

how's your recovery going, John? or, if you'd rather focus on something more cheerful: have you had any good days recently? :)

The recovery is going all right. Most of the wounds have healed. Sherlock made dinner a few nights ago, which was nice.

JWH

[johnlockish]

17/06/16 - 21.55

We missed our anniversary.

I’m sorry, John. I should have paid more attention. I should have dropped the case.

It wasn’t just you. I didn’t remember either.

Because I was dragging you around for the case.

It’s our job. Together. I go with you willingly and I want to keep it that way. You’ve saved who knows how many lives by catching him. You saved my life.

I shouldn’t have had to. You shouldn’t have been in that position. I didn’t stick to our rules. I got wrapped up. I know you say it isn’t my fault but it is, if only partially. I’m irresponsible. I could have lost you.

We hardly have rules. We don't get that luxury and I know you wouldn't want them before any of this happened. If it helps, we can set them now.

I got wrapped up, too. We're both at fault. And we're not at fault. It just - is what it is.

I remember now why it’s good these cases don’t happen so often. I’m sorry. I know there’s nothing for me to apologise for, but I am. Sorry, I mean.

I know you are. I am, too.

SWH & JWH

[johnlockish]

11/06/16 - 16.57

It’s been a little over two weeks since everything happened. I know things have been quiet around here. Sherlock and I are trying to find some kind of sense of normalcy again. Me, mostly. No, I suppose it’s both of us.

Sorry. Ella recommended that I just write my thoughts as they come to me. I’ve been back to her three times in the last twelve or so days. I had to. I knew what she would say, of course. “You need to talk about it, John.” “You need to let it out.” “Anything you want to say but can’t say it - say it now.” She always does that. She did with my first blog. She did after Sherlock died. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to go to her when I know exactly what she’s got to tell me.

I wasn’t able to tell her. Not the full details, just the facts. Same as the met, same as Sherlock. But she told me I needed to tell someone. So I’m going to tell all of you. It’s probably going to be a bit of a read.

Our first witness, who I won’t name for their own protection, contacted us 23 May, saying they had witnessed the most recent murder on the 21st. I suggested to Sherlock that I do the interview, to which he agreed because, as he put it, “you handle the people bit and I handle the bits of people.”

I told him he was probably going to hell for making a butchering joke. I ended up laughing, nevertheless. Maybe I’m the one going to hell.

The interview went well like I said on here. They wanted to give more information. On the 25th around noon I began another intake with them. In the middle of it, I got a call from an unknown line. The man who spoke said his name was Rudy and he told me he had witnessed our most recent murder. He wanted to speak with me. I agreed to meet at his house at 1400. We needed all the witnesses we could get; where was the harm in another? I told Sherlock about him and said I’d be at NSY after I was done to share all my notes.

The cab dropped me off at a nice-looking, two-story house. The address sounded vaguely familiar to me, but I didn’t pick up the pieces. Rudy greeted me and we made small talk while he made tea. He invited me to explore around, said he and his wife had built the house seven years ago, that they wanted kids but only had two dogs for the moment, he worked an office job… He sounded like your run-of-the-mill Englishman.

Except I never saw pictures of his wife or dogs. There was no dog hair on the sofa or the ground. No dog bowls, either. It was a perfectly furnished house, but there was no sentiment. It wasn’t a home. It didn’t even look like he lived there.

I thought it was funny how empty it felt inside the house as I drank my tea.

And everything went black.

I don’t know what time I woke up after the drugs wore off. All I know is that I was cold, my arms were strung up above my head, my wrists were in chains, and there was a knife being sharpened somewhere in the dark. I began to realise that I was in a refrigeration unit - a perfect place for a butcher’s handiwork. I remembered going to the house to meet Rudy, and… well. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see where this is going.

Rudy was the Bayswater Butcher. And he’d caught me. I’d fallen right into his trap and it had been so obvious. I was an idiot for not thinking ahead, for not giving Sherlock an address, for not calling for some sort of back-up. I’m still mad at myself for being tricked so easily. Rudy just found it funny, and that just makes me angrier.

It was clear he was a psychopath. Spur-of-the-moment thinker, no remorse, no guilt. Just pure sickness. He went on and on about how he liked blood, how he liked watching the lights fade from people’s eyes. It’s rare for me to be scared of the people Sherlock and I deal with, but I was scared of him. And for good reason.

He started slow. Just a tiny cut on my neck and jaw. But after I fought back, he got angry. He would cut here, slice there, disappear, come back and hum and talk to himself, jump close and dig into my skin… There was no pattern. He attacked when he wanted to and how he wanted to. More than half of the cuts are almost completely healed at this point, but my neck and my chest will take a while yet. My cheeks don’t need plasters anymore, but I don’t want to walk around with two cuts on my face.

He knew what he was doing, too. For the most part, he didn’t make me bleed much. And when I did, he would take care of it. Smear it on his thumb and lick it off. He knew precisely where to cut and how hard to cut to draw it out, make it hurt, but keep me alive. He thought it was art. I thought it was torture. It reminded me of Afghanistan. My time in the caves. It reminded me of General Shan. It reminded me of Moriarty.

At one point he left me alone for several hours. I was in the dark and the cold and all I could think about was what I would say to Sherlock if I ever saw him again. All I could think was, “I’m sorry.”

Rudy liked to tease me about Sherlock. He always asked where he was, said it was getting later and later, kept wondering if he would show up at all. His words hurt as badly as his knives did. I don’t want to write the things he said. They still hurt. And I still feel like an awful husband because I began to believe him when he said that Sherlock would never find me alive.

But he did. Twenty-someodd hours later, he was there, and I was bloodied and cut and I never want Sherlock to seem me like that again.

Rudy hurt me in front of Sherlock. This time, he let the wounds bleed. He let them hurt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sherlock that angry. Greg had to physically hold him back. I was so glad our places weren’t switched. I still am.

At least a dozen guns were trained on Rudy. He had nowhere to go but jail or hell. So he chose hell. He put his knife in my hand and made me cut his throat.

After that, I woke up in the hospital. Dislocated shoulder, dehydration, hypovolemia, wrist contusions, numerous lacerations.

Sherlock never left my side. He still hasn’t, not really. I don’t know if he’s scared to let me out of his sight, or if he’s still feeling responsible, or whatever else it could be. I’m glad he’s here. And I’m not, because this never should have happened. I shouldn’t have been as hasty as I was. I should have consulted with him before making a decision on my own. I should have done a lot of things I didn’t do.

I guess all there is to do now is try to move on.

[johnlockish]

how are you two holding up?

We’re alright. Managing. Haven’t left the flat too much, lately.

SWH

[johnlockish]

Was it hard? Giving your statement?

Yes. And no. I didn’t go into much detail.I still haven’t, even with Sherlock. Especially with Sherlock. I just gave facts.

JWH

[johnlockish]

How's Sherlock doing?

He feels guilty. Wrongly so. He’s been patient and helpful though, which I appreciate.

Speaking of helpful, time to change bandages.

- SWH & JWH -

[johnlockish]

John you seem so quiet and sad... Are you really doing okay? What happened? :(

The wounds are healing fine, mostly. My appetite is coming back. I’m not sleeping well.

I can’t talk about it yet.

JWH

[johnlockish]

It's not your fault, Sherlock

I don’t want to argue the point. 

I’ll respect that. I trust you know my thoughts on that by now.

And you know mine.

- SWH & JWH -

[johnlockish]

29/05/16 - 21.02 - Bayswater Butcher

Rudy Salway, also known as the Bayswater Butcher, committed suicide 26 May. He killed 18 people over the course of twelve weeks; one of the highest body counts in recent history. His basement had been converted into a refrigeration unit with several fridges and freezers in which he kept cuts of animal meat, various human body parts, and jars of human blood. It was here he took his kidnapped victims - anyone he happened upon - to torture and kill them, then drain them of their blood. He dismembered their bodies and took the parts to different locations in Central London, scattering the pieces in no more than a ten block radius.

He liked the way blood felt on his hands. He liked breaking people. He liked watching them die.

The case is closed.

JWH

[johnlockish]

29/05/16 - 19.56

I’m off to give my statement to the Met.

JWH

[johnlockish]

are you ok?

He’s alive. I’m okay.

SWH

[johnlockish]

I can tell you that my injuries were non life-threatening and I was in critical but stable condition upon arrival. I can’t say much more than that.

JWH