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Ivy Liu takes a slow drag of her cigarette, watching Sherlock with those sharp, unblinking eyes that seem to s...
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The First Text
The room was filled with a cacophony of murmurs, shuffling papers, and the constant flashing of cameras. Detective Inspector Lestrade sat at the table, looking as uncomfortable as ever, his hands fiddling with a pen that had long since run out of ink. To his left, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan addressed the gathered press, her tone professional but strained.
At the far end of the table, seated with her arms crossed and a bored expression plastered across her face, was Detective Sergeant Ivy Liu. Ivy was not one to fade into the background easily. Her sharp eyes flickered over the press, unimpressed by their frantic scribbling and eager questions. She'd seen this all before—press conferences were nothing more than an exercise in futility to her. The public was never interested in the truth; they wanted sensationalism.
A cigarette dangled loosely between Ivy's fingers—unlit for now, out of some semblance of respect for the no-smoking policy, but it was only a matter of time before her patience wore thin. Her posture screamed disinterest, but she wasn't entirely disconnected from what was happening. Ivy had a knack for observing, for analyzing. She could read people like books, and this press conference was a particularly dull one.
Donovan's voice broke through the hum of whispers. "The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now."
Lestrade leaned forward, visibly uneasy, and opened the floor to questions. Ivy leaned back in her chair, tilting her head slightly as she watched the inevitable chaos unfold. Her fingers tapped rhythmically on the edge of the table, the only sign that she was paying attention.
"How can suicides be linked?" the first reporter asked, notebook poised, ready for a headline-worthy answer.
Lestrade sighed. "Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of..."
"But you can't have serial suicides," the reporter interrupted, his voice cutting through Lestrade's attempt at explanation.
"Well, apparently you can," Lestrade muttered, his frustration beginning to seep through.
Ivy rolled her eyes, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Same song, different day.
Another reporter jumped in. "These three people—there's nothing that links them?"
"There's no link been found yet," Lestrade replied, "but we're looking for it. There has to be one."
Ivy glanced down at her phone, more out of habit than interest. She knew the kind of questions that would follow—redundant, repetitive, and utterly useless. Reporters never had any real understanding of the cases they covered. They lived for headlines, for sensationalism, not the gritty details of the work she and Lestrade did. Suicide or not, Ivy thought, they'll turn it into a conspiracy.
