Derek ⚣ ✓

32. I Thought My Lock Picking Skills In Splinter Cell Had Prepared Me For This

And maybe Sherlock was.

As he delves further into this investigation, he starts to notice things that aren't quite right. Or rather, too right. There was something about this case that felt familiar. Something that almost... taunted him. Bits and pieces that fit too well, as his own more constant memory lapses leaves in their wake all questions and no answers.

There was only one question he keeps stumbling back to like a homing pigeon returning to its nest, as each murder reveals more yet less about the killer.

Was he playing a deadly game of chess... against himself?

It was basically a What If Sherlock Was Jack The Ripper gothic graphic novel.

John fucking lost his shit when I told him about the premise, and listened intently as I revealed some of the major twists that I wanted to play around with. A very solid, comfort yet thrilling Who Done It.

It made me feel incredible, like I had shown someone my stamp collection and they actually found it cool. It felt like John and I were two writers in a writers room together once the conversation took off, bouncing ideas off each other like a friendly game of tennis. He didn't give as much input on where the story should go, but rather opted to ask me all these questions that made my creative juices flow.

Like how deep into the background did I want to go with each victim? I did my best to dance around the topic of just how much I personally supported sex work (I obviously still did, but John didn't need to know about the the whole porn addiction thing just yet. Or really ever).

He really liked the idea of flushing the victims backstory out, and making good tie ins. By the time we finished chatting, I had pages and pages of notes, all scribbled about in some chicken scratch handwriting because John and I were spreading like wildfire across different topics.

I wasn't even sure I got everything down.

I liked how well he managed to keep up with my random thoughts though. Topic changes. Sideline entries. If this weird brain of mine left his frizzled, he did a great job of hiding it.

-

The only downside to how long we were on the phone for, was how inspired I was right after saying goodnight. I ended up staying up till nearly 3:30 in the morning just drawing and writing.

That made for one brutal Friday morning. That shit ran me over, reversed back onto me, then ran me over again. I looked and felt like death throughout the day, which was only stretched out when Alex and Joan agreed on Tully's for tonight right after work.

We hadn't had time to check in with Joan yet this week, so I told myself tonight was too important to reschedule again. Who knew when either Joan or Alex would get another free moment.

By the time we made it to Tully's though, I looked and felt like a fucking zombie.

"Your usual?" Tully asked me as we all took our usual seats at the bar. I shook my head no.

"Unless you're hiding a shot of expresso somewhere back there," I signaled to behind his bar, "I'm going to take a Red Bull. Actually, make that two."

Tully nodded, pulling two cans of the Tropical flavor out before setting the yellow cans in front of me. Joan got herself a Tito's and Sprite per usual, while Alex stuck with Coke.

"So," I started, turning to the gang, "why the hell is Brad going to Russia?"

While I would've loved to have been more smooth with that transition, I was about thirty minutes away from laying right down on top of this bar and taking a nap. It was slow for a Friday night so I genuinely contemplated it, but Tully would've probably thrown me out before I got a leg on it.