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His fingertips bounced off one another as he lounged across the entirety of his couch, his eyes closed and his lips closed to a thin line. Three consecutive murders, all of which could not possibly be not suicides -- and a victim whose pink suitcase had everything but her mobile. The murderer was obviously a sereial killer -- but for what motive? Serial killers were always the best kind because they could easily be caught. But the motive, motive, motiv-- Suddenly, the most obnoxious sound of a fist pummeling rotted oakwood had rudely detached him from the one place he could only do his work in complete peace: his mind palace.
The detective's eyes shot open wildly as he strained his neck to turn ever so slightly towards the doorway, his pupils sliding themselves over towards his shut wooden panel. There was another abrupt slam of the door; and two knocks was quite enough for the already frazzled consultant. "Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled, awaiting for his rather meager landlady to come bumbling to his aid in her heels within a couple of seconds -- and sadly, to no avail. With a distressed huff, Sherlock sprang up from the couch and trudged his way over to his apartment door, which, to any normal persons's point of view, was only a matter of ten steps, give or take two. He opened the door only enough for his head to poke out, his expression veiled in a sense of agitated obliviousness.
"Listen here now," he quickly started, his words coming in a low, rushed succession, "If you're looking to present a case to me, I can tell you that I am most certainly occupied with one that is of the utmost importance to people who have insufferable idiotic minds that do not have the capacity of their own to solve it on their own. Now, if you'd excuse yourself and run along -- your knocking has already rather rudely separated me from my train of thought."
