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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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Rachel
As Lestrade led them up the circular staircase, Ivy Liu trailed just a step behind Sherlock, her sharp eyes scanning their surroundings. She had donned a pair of latex gloves without a word, her expression as unreadable as always. The sterile smell of forensics clung to the air, but Ivy's focus was entirely on the case ahead, already mentally mapping out what she was about to encounter.
Lestrade, dressed in a coverall along with John Watson, glanced over at Sherlock and Ivy. "I can give you two minutes."
Sherlock, already slipping on his gloves, replied casually, "May need longer."
Ivy raised an eyebrow but said nothing. They always needed longer. This wasn't just a body to Sherlock or Ivy—it was a puzzle, a test. Time limits weren't exactly a priority.
Lestrade continued as they ascended the stairs, "Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."
Ivy absorbed the information, her mind already whirring. Jennifer Wilson. Female. Body recently discovered. Alone. Already, the variables were slotting into place, ready for her to analyze.
As they stepped into the room, the air grew heavier. The space was bare, except for a rocking horse shoved into a corner. Emergency lighting cast long shadows over the scene. Scaffolding poles held up part of the ceiling, and holes punctured one of the walls, giving the room an unfinished, eerie feel.
At the center of the floor lay the body. Jennifer Wilson—face down, her hands splayed on the floor, dressed in an unmistakable bright pink overcoat and matching high-heeled shoes. Her hands rested stiffly, as though even in death she had been straining to leave her mark.
Sherlock and Ivy both stopped, surveying the scene, their minds working in tandem but from different angles. John Watson looked at the woman's body, his face filling with the unmistakable empathy Ivy often found baffling. She didn't possess that capacity for immediate sadness, but she recognized it in others. Ivy's mind was purely analytical, cold. For Sherlock, it was similar, but Ivy had a slightly different approach, her psychology degree lending her an angle Sherlock rarely explored—human behavior patterns.
The silence stretched, charged with intensity.
"Shut up," Sherlock said abruptly, his voice cutting through the room.
Lestrade flinched, startled. "I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking. It's annoying," Sherlock snapped.
Ivy smirked, glancing at Sherlock. God, he's predictable.
Lestrade and John exchanged a confused glance. Sherlock, however, was already in motion, his attention fixed on the body, drawn to the message scratched into the floor near the woman's left hand. Ivy's eyes narrowed as she honed in on the word as well—Rache.
Sherlock's deductions were rapid, but Ivy's mind took a different route. Left-handed. The index and middle fingernails were ragged, broken, their pink polish chipped and ruined, a stark contrast to the perfectly manicured nails on her other fingers.
"She was scratching until her last breath," Ivy murmured, squatting beside the body and studying the word closely. Her mind spun through various psychological possibilities. A message left in the final moments—desperation, survival instinct, but also...control.
"Rache," Sherlock muttered, dismissing the immediate German translation of 'revenge' with a small shake of his head. His eyes flicked rapidly over the letters, but Ivy was already forming her own conclusion.
"This isn't revenge," Ivy said quietly, her voice thoughtful. "Not in the sense Anderson's going to assume. Suicides leave messages—careful, controlled. They leave their final words clear." Her gaze was sharp as she looked up at Sherlock. "But she wasn't in control here. Look at the scratch marks. This is desperation."
Sherlock glanced at her, something like approval flickering in his eyes. "Go on."
"She was trying to say something, but not revenge. She wasn't angry; she was afraid. The scratches—her last attempt to leave behind something meaningful. The fact she didn't finish the word means it wasn't premeditated."
Sherlock nodded slightly, pleased. "Exactly."
Ivy stepped back, allowing Sherlock to continue his examination. He crouched beside the body, brushing his gloved hand along the back of her pink coat.
"Wet," Sherlock muttered, inspecting his fingers.
Ivy stepped around the body, her mind flipping through possibilities. The coat's wetness indicated she had been outside recently, but why wasn't the umbrella wet too? Her gaze flicked to the umbrella in Sherlock's hands.
"Umbrella's dry," Sherlock confirmed.
Ivy's lips pursed. "She didn't use it. If she was caught in the rain, she didn't expect to get wet. Meaning..."
"She didn't know she was going out in it," Sherlock finished for her. "Unexpected. The killer took her by surprise."
He continued his inspection, moving to the bracelet on her wrist, then to the earring in her ear—both clean. The small clues were slowly stacking up, leading Sherlock's deductions, but Ivy was taking a slightly different path, focusing more on the psychological factors.
Her gaze caught on the wedding and engagement rings on Jennifer Wilson's left hand. Sherlock was already there, pulling the wedding band off carefully to inspect the inside. Ivy could see where his mind was going—unhappily married, regularly removed—but she added another layer.
"She had multiple affairs," Ivy said, her voice low but firm. "Serial adulterer. There's a clear sense of habitual behavior here. The dirt on the outside of the rings shows she was used to removing them. This wasn't a one-off. Her lifestyle was chaotic, impulsive, but calculated enough to keep up appearances."
Sherlock nodded, once again quietly acknowledging her insight as he worked the ring back onto Jennifer's finger. The game was playing out in their minds, each deduction leading them closer to the truth.
"Got anything?" Lestrade asked, his voice breaking the silence.
Sherlock stood up, slipping his gloves off with a practiced ease. "Not much," he said dismissively, already pulling out his phone.
Ivy shot him a look. "You mean 'not much' by your standards. We've already established she wasn't expecting to die today."
Sherlock smirked but didn't respond, his fingers moving rapidly over his phone screen as he pulled up a weather app. Behind them, Anderson leaned casually against the doorway, watching the pair with an air of smugness.
"She's German," Anderson declared. "Rache—it's German for 'revenge.' She could be trying to tell us something."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode toward the door, closing it pointedly in Anderson's face. Ivy stifled a laugh, but her eyes were focused on Jennifer's body once again.
Sherlock scoffed "Yes, thank you for your input."
On his phone, he clicks on to the weather app aiming to view the forecast in the UK within the previous days
"She wasn't trying to write in German," Ivy said flatly, stepping closer to the corpse. "This wasn't about revenge."
