S⃞ h⃞ e⃞ r⃞ l⃞ o⃞ c⃞ k⃞ H⃞ o⃞ l⃞ m⃞ e⃞ s⃞ x⃞ F⃞ e⃞ m⃞ a⃞ l⃞ e⃞ O⃞ C⃞
Ivy Liu takes a slow drag of her cigarette, watching Sherlock with those sharp, unblinking eyes that seem to s...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The Weight of Silent Storms
As Sherlock heard the telltale footsteps approaching up the stairs, he didn't even bother looking up. Lestrade had a way of showing up unannounced, typically by picking the lock on the front door without hesitation. It was a running joke between them now—Lestrade always bypassing normal social conventions, much like Sherlock himself.
"Where?" Sherlock asked without looking, already knowing it was the detective inspector.
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," Lestrade replied, slightly out of breath from his haste.
Sherlock finally turned, his sharp eyes already assessing every nuance in Lestrade's tone and expression. "What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."
Lestrade's mouth pressed into a thin line, as though he was reluctant to admit what was bothering him. "You know how they never leave notes?"
Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly in curiosity. "Yes."
"This one did," Lestrade said, voice grave. "Will you come?"
Ivy, who had been sitting on the windowsill with her arms folded, raised an eyebrow. "A note? That's new. Guess the killer's evolving." Her tone was detached, but there was a glint in her eyes that indicated her interest had been piqued. She thrived on puzzles, almost as much as Sherlock did, and this case had just gotten interesting.
Sherlock glanced at her for a fraction of a second, acknowledging her analysis, before turning back to Lestrade. "Who's on forensics?"
"Anderson," Lestrade replied, a wince in his tone.
Sherlock visibly grimaced. "Anderson won't work with me."
Ivy chuckled softly from her spot by the window, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "Anderson wouldn't work with you even if you paid him. You've insulted him more times than I can count. The guy's bound to hold a grudge."
Sherlock shot her an annoyed look, ignoring her point. "I need an assistant."
"You've got two of us," Ivy shot back, waving a hand between herself and Lestrade. "You'll live."
Lestrade, clearly used to their back-and-forth, pressed on. "Will you come?"
Sherlock straightened his coat. "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."
Lestrade nodded, turning to leave. Ivy was already on her feet, gathering her coat from where it had been draped over the arm of a chair. Her movements were smooth, calculated, much like her thought process. "Guess I'm stuck in a car with you, Lestrade. Sherlock likes his fancy cabs too much."
"Rather be stuck with you than him," Lestrade muttered, though there was a small grin on his face. "You're more tolerable."
"Low bar," Ivy quipped as she followed Lestrade out the door.
