Sherlock: The Orange Feather

[tetranocular]

Preamble:
I would like it if you approached me in PM to apply for this. I have a few needs when it comes to my roleplay partner, and I would rather keep this organized and professional. To apply, give me a short example of your writing in PM. Simple as that! But remember, it's first come, first serve. Whoever I pick first (assuming I even get one) will be the one that I have this roleplay with. The roleplay will be done here, and any OOC, questions, or anything BESIDES the actual roleplay will be through PM.
I'm looking for someone to play John Watson for me, based on the BBC Sherlock series. I'm hoping to get shippy, as well. This will have taken place earlier in the series, as I am not caught up with the second season. So, normal case, normal relations. The case is called The Orange Feather, and will be described below.
Thank you for reading!​

Fifty five.
A figure stood atop a building. It wasn't particularly tall, though it was high enough to see the entire block.
Fifty six.
His arms stretched out on either side of him, fingers spread as if he was feeling the breeze through them.
Fifty seven.
The silhouette's head leaned back, closed eyes facing the dark sky.
Fifty eight.
He went up on his toes, and then back flat on his feet. And on his toes. And on his feet. Toes. Feet.
Fifty nine.
He rocked on the palms of his shoes, teetering on the edge.
Sixty.


It was late autumn, the time where trees almost finish stripping their leaves off of their dark branches. The air was brisk, but smelled of sweet sap and cider. The entire world felt as if it was painted in a lustrous vermillion hue, though of course it was only parts of the world that were currently embellished with this color.

Tapping his forefingers against his lips, Sherlock Holmes sat thoughtfully—as near always—on the subtle brown of the couch. His silvery eyes stared blankly ahead of him, though he could be mistaken for reading what was plastered on his (John's) laptop screen. He was pulled out of his reflective state as Mrs. Hudson came over and offered a warm cup of tea. "It's nippy out, and the best way to keep safe is to keep warm." She said, to which Sherlock responded with a nod and a thank you. The cup was placed in front of him, and so he paused his thinking to return to the laptop.

On the screen, there were multiple files pulled up: documents of recent news reports.
Prank or Murder?
Multiple Suicides—No Bodies Found
The Mystery of the Orange Feather Continues
Suicides Gone Rampant
Blood With No Body
Is Park Rd Haunted?

It was only moments later that Sherlock's flatmate returned from god knows where, coming in with an exasperated sigh. Of course, Sherlock was quick to engage in conversation—something he always did when there was something he wanted to think aloud about. It was more fun when he had someone to listen, and even participate in helping his thought process.

"Wherever you have been, you may have missed another interesting series of events. Where were you, anyways?" He asked, genuinely curious. It always seemed to be Sherlock's business where his colleague is, was, and will be. But because of his excitement about the topic of interest, Sherlock barely stops to listen.

"Never mind that, you are aware of the deaths around Park Road, I'm assuming. Suicides, they seem like. But because of the reoccurring way things seem to happen, there is no chance this is just a spree of coincidental suicides. No.. You know what this must mean. Yes, it's obvious. Just like the suicides a while ago, there is someone behind this. Whoever this is, he is a clever, clever man. He's playing a game."

Sherlock stands, and continues on, though John barely had a chance to even enter their flat yet. "Yes, he's playing with everyone. He wants to be known, and he wants these deaths to be apparent. This man, after selecting, pursuing, and slaughtering his targets, leaves the murder scene for all to see. The blood, and anything else his targets leave behind, stays on the ground where they are. No attempt at cleaning. But, he takes the bodies. The bodies are never at the site of the death, instead just dragged off and never heard from again. None of the bodies are found, and in their place, bright orange feathers that can usually be found at any old craft shop are dropped off at the scene of the crime."

And without any explanation of where he was going, or for what purpose, Sherlock was already moving past John and rushing towards the door.