The hardest part of this fic is the sad grammar and spelling of the blog posts. I apologize for that. It's painful for me to write and probably painful for many of you to read. So I'm sorry for it. I really don't know if I ought to continue posting this here. We'll have to see if it's well-received and if I can get the descriptions of the island and the dolls right. For those of you who don't really know anything about the Island of the Dolls, here's the important stuff: a little girl drowned there, and the original caretaker began collecting dolls in her honor. He died, drowning in the same place she did, and people still bring dolls to the island. It's really creepy. Most of the dolls have been damaged by the weather and are falling apart because of it.
So yeah... Sorry for the bad grammar in the blog posts... Read and Review. Yours, Sherlocked Gallifreyan.
"What about this Sherlock?" John asked.
"What about what?" Sherlock drawled, voice heavy with boredom, from where he had sprawled unceremoniously on the couch several hours earlier. There had been nothing going on that could distract him. The few 'cases', if they could be called such, he had solved in a matter of minutes from that same couch. And he was bored.
With a roll of his eyes, John began reading: "There have been a bunch of strange deaths on a little island in Mexico. This island is known as the Island of the Dolls. Rumor has it a little girl died here, and the original caretaker started collecting dolls in her honor. Now, people still bring dolls to appease her spirit. "
"John," Sherlock interrupted. "Really? You want me to look into a haunted island?"
"I wasn't finished. Recently, however, a small group of amateur ghost hunters went to spend a couple of days on the island. At first, there trip went pretty good. But stuff started going downhill pretty fast after that. One of their members started getting sick and soon died of what looked like arsenic poisoning. But of course, there was no way it could have been arsenic poisoning. I mean, really? Arsenic?"
"Boring, John," Sherlock growled "Boring."
"I'm still not finished. But that wasn't the end of it." John ignored Sherlock's long-suffering sigh. "One of the members was stabbed in his room, but there was no one on the security cameras on the hotel. During the time that the murder was going on, the cameras went staticky and seemed to loose connection. But that's not even the weirdest thing. The weirdest death happened to there leader. He had been sitting and eating at a local café when he suddenly started showing the signs of arsenic poisening. Coincidence? I think not. Another one of his team member's had already died of arsenic poisening. I think their's something shady going on down there, but how am I supposed to know? It's Mexico. It could just be bad pipes."
John glanced over at Sherlock who, to his surprise, was no longer laying down. Sherlock stared blankly at the wall, mind racing. He didn't like the supernatural aspect of the story. It was unnecessary. Interesting, but unnecessary. Two seemingly connected deaths, both caused by arsenic. Not many people bothered with arsenic poisoning anymore. There were easier ways to kill people now. "Well?" John prodded.
"Pack your bags, John," Sherlock said, leaping to his feet. "We're going to Mexico!"
So what did you think? Continue? Don't continue? Your thoughts are much appreciated.
