Strawberry Panic {TomTord}

Sherlock Holmes looking ass

Ice shot down his spine, a certain sense of numbing dread splintering across his ghostly white flesh. Hands trembled, shaking the small screen, the text blurring together harshly in one warped smear. Clenching his teeth, he vaguely heard the sickening crunch his jaw gave out when he twitched particularly hard. Breath stuttered in his chest, gasping dryly as his lungs refused to work, his heart hammering violently, feeling as though it was rapidly trying to crawl up his throat. Pulse-pounding through his skull, it pulsated behind his ears- making him mute to the outside world.

Swallowing thickly, he squeezed his hands into fists, the phone creaking sharply in protest. Biting his lip, he clamped his eyes shut, willing away the slowly building nausea.

TAKE ROCKWELL

The words were burnt into the back of his eyelids, glaring at back at him in contempt. Wriggled insistently, like parasites, burrowing and writhing grotesquely in the back of his brain-gnawing greedily at his nerves, and laying eggs that hatched new sets of paranoia.

There was no escape from their influence.

TAKE ROCKWELL

It's probably going to take a bit more than the power of boners to save him from this mess.

A shame, really.

He was starting to get really good at waxing poetry about Tord's lips.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood stock still, he shoulders tensed and poised for an upcoming attack that he shouldn't know that was coming. Releasing a long shaky breath, he shook his head, eyes flickering across the room in thought.

What happens now?

He felt as though he wasn't qualified to handle a situation like this.

Slowly easing his near-crushing grip on the phone, he breathed out slowly, nostrils flaring at the force. Licking his lips, tongue tracing the harsh grooves that his teeth had made, he set his hardened gaze back on the text, his brain working sluggishly against his turbulent emotions.

Review the facts. Make a decision.

Think carefully.

Snorting, he rolled his eyes.

But preferably quickly, he mentally added.

Well, balanced ideas weren't really his forte- his life choices clearly showcased that- especially ones made under timed conditions. But really, in this instance, there wasn't much room to complain.

First, he had to figure out who the phone belonged to. It shouldn't be that difficult- there were only a limited amount of people that had access to the laundry room. Also, judging by the nature of the texts, the wording, in particular, they seemed to be an order, one that would be given by a member that was higher up.

In that case, if he was thinking clearly, he could most likely rule out three offenders straight away: Ms Sinclair, Ivan and Big Boss Man™ (the buff Russian baker, who he had yet to meet).

Which left three other suspects; Cherri, Devon and Connie.

He immediately mentally pencilled out Connie's name- she hadn't done anything to him, apart from maybe, quite possibly but not really misgendering him, and after that, she couldn't look him in the eye for weeks afterwards.