This day in the park, a man sat on one of the many benches there was throughout the large park. Who wouldn't? After all, the time of year always had the leaves piling up in hoards on the ground, the yellows and red scattered across the aging grass. The sky a shimmering, endless floating ocean with boats made of clouds sailing calmly through, going wherever the breeze takes them. The man saw all of this, but he remained motionless much like a statue. His attention was taken by the birds that went about their days, some nestling in their nest while others flew of to where only the clouds go. Slumped over where he sat while leaning his elbows on his knees, his eyes followed one specific bird that seemed out of place. Sure there were yellow, red, and any color bird you could imagine there, but one black bird was the one that caught his gaze before it eventually landed next to him. Despite this, he did not move with the exception of his head turning ever-so-slightly to look at the bird next to him.
With feathers made of coal and eyes of night gazing at him, the man continued to stare at such a beautiful creature. With the bird silently looking at him with interest, his attention was pulled towards the people passing by him. Most would scoff and go out of their way to glare at him, and some even move away from him with disgust apparent. Despite these gestures, he paid no mind to it seeing as how he could understand why they acted in such a manner. His rags he claimed as clothing seemed more like that of a corn sack, the stiff fabric pricking his dirtied skin with each movement and leaving it to itch. The hood he wore hid his face behind a thick layer of shadows, the man clearly being a beggar of sorts.
Another man, his clothing telling that he had a more business-like taste to everything, strolled over and sat down next to the other. Sitting in silence for a few minutes, the beggar turned his head slightly to be able to glance at the new fellow. His hair was much like aged ash, and about the length to match. Watching the fellow, he noticed how he was staring at the scenery before him. "Well? Are you going to just sit there and say nothing?" The beggar finally asked him, a small chuckle mixed into his words.
"You're one to talk," the man replied with causing the other to laugh again. "How have you been?"
"Well I'm alive aren't I? Sees like that should be well enough." A small smile played on his hidden lips.
"Sheamus, still a jokester I see." The man didn't make eye contact at all, still staring in front of them as he sighed slowly. "So you know, I saw a flat on my way over here, it looked like something you might look into buying."
"And with what money?" Sheamus asked, his tone still light but only containing a bit of humor. "As I've told you, nobody will give me the light of day to even get a job." A few moments of silence went by before he decided to speak again. "No matter, maybe I'll just fly away like the birds do," he joked.
"I don't think you'll be growing wings anytime soon." A laugh came from Sheamus at his reply. "But friend, don't make so light of the situation. I'm worried about you."
Sheamus rolled his eyes a bit at him and waved his hand a bit as if to flag off his comment. "I know you Lestrade, and how much you over worry about everything." Lestrade turned his head to half-glare at Sheamus, his cocoa eyes showing stress.
"And I know you Sheamus, you refuse help unless you're on your deathbed and I highly doubt you would even then." Sheamus snickered and nodded, Lestrade's glare only deepening in slight annoyance. "I found something I think you might find interesting." Seeing that he had caught Sheamus's curiosity, Lestrade smile a bit. "Let's take a walk."
Both of them standing, the bird born from the night sky flew away to only the limits of the sky. As they walked, Sheamus got an increasing amount of glares, but once again he understood why. Finally arriving at Lestrade's black car parked on the busy street, they soon both got inside, the looks of confusion coming from bypassers at the scene not bothering to go up and question the two of them. The vehicle soon roared to life and begin to travel down to streets as the two sat in silence for a moment.
"You never cease to surprise me Sheamus," Lestrade commented with a small snicker.
Sheamus looked over at him slightly confused but with a slight smile. "What ever do you mean?" He asked.
"That's what I mean. Oh, you can stop the little act now, nobody will notice you in here." Sheamus sighed and nodded in relief.
"I was wondering how long I'd have to keep that shit up." Pulling off the layer of rags and throwing them into the back, he quickly wiped off the 'dirt' from himself by using one of the man suit jackets Lestrade had. "Remind me never to use Sally's make-up for this again, it's hard as hell to get off." He grumbled before finally getting it all off of him.
The once poor and shaggy looking beggar now showed what he had under those rags, and that being almost an entirely looking fellow. His burnt fudge hair, thick and normally coming down to a little lower than his shoulders, was put up into a messy, yet tight bun. Unwrinkling his white shirt with its arms rolled up to rest under his elbows and covered by a form-fitting coal, button-up vest. Its color was the same as the shoes he wore, his honey colored slacks being the final attire to this man.
"I admit, for a moment there I almost felt bad for you." Lestrade told him, Sheamus waving it off yet again like he always did with comments such as that.
"Yea, yea, yea, now where is that damn thing you were talking about?" Sheamus asked him, tapping his foot impatiently.
"In the glovebox, like always." Sheamus glared at him for that add-on to his reply but only huffed. Opening the glovebox with a familiar click, he reached inside and grabbed a stack of papers about a thumb's thickness with a few photos clipped on. Flipping through the pages, Sheamus's emotion went from slightly amused to annoyed.
"'Woman, age 29 and found with an ID reading the name Harriet Gibson found dead in room 391 in The Marylebone Hotel off of 47 Welbeck Street. Stuffed inside a luggage case and with approximately 13 swords plunged through it, the cops have suspected the Hoodini Killer is the murderer.'" He read aloud from the papers, looking at all the photos of the dead body. "This 'Hoodini Killer' jackass is really startin' to piss me off."
"You're telling me. I've had to do a handful of interviews with nosy news reporters just to get them to leave us alone long enough to file anything." Lestrade sighed heavily, soon followed by the car coming to a halt. "We're here."
"And where is here exactly?"
"The Hotel, where else? After all, a journalist like you needs this kind of stuff to stay on top of all of it." Sheamus rolled his eyes and huffed again. "Temper still as short as you I see."
"Just get out of the fucking car," Sheamus instantly replied bitterly, the remark about him being 5'4" seeming to make him angry.
Almost an hour passed before they could finally get to the crime scene. Opening the door, Sheamus was instantly hit with the thick stench of decay, one he had known all too well for it to affect him as he strolled inside. Lestrade shortly followed and began to talk with a few officers, wondering what the people nearby reported, if anything at all. Sheamus however, had a different way of figuring out things for himself. Standing at the foot of the bed which the luggage case sat upon, he looked at the body, noticing how her limbs seemed to fit very uncomfortably in there. Once his oddly colored eyes, one of blue and the other of green were done examining her, he thought for a moment. Slowly beginning to walk around the room in a strange pattern, he heard an officer he knew well question him.
"What are you doing?" Sally asked bluntly.
"Thinking like a killer, you should try it some time." Sheamus replied quickly.
"Well stop it."
Sheamus glared at her but did as she asked, standing up straight and clearing his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lestrade looked at him and he fell silent, knowing that glare only meant trouble for each word he chose to speak. Examining a few other things before finishing his findings, or at least enough to write something about, he looked around one final time before leaving.
Arriving back at his own little space he called an office, otherwise known as where he lives, Sheamus began to write to newspaper's article. Minutes turned into hours and after a while of long ago losing track of how many passed, he got finished with the article. With his eyes burning, he grumbled to himself, "Just gonna lay my head down for a few minutes…" to himself. Resting his head on his wooden desk, his eyes lids turned to cement as they closed and let him get what little sleep he could.
However, maybe he'll wish he hadn't of taken that short snooze.