𝕱𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖉 𝕷𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙 {𝕾𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖔𝖈𝖐 𝕳𝖔𝖑𝖒𝖊𝖘}

A Study in Pink VII

Ashtray

Ivy Liu stood in the alleyway outside 221B Baker Street, a stepladder propped against the wall. She glanced around, ensuring the coast was clear, before deftly climbing up and picking the lock on Sherlock Holmes's window. The chill of the London air nipped at her, but she was unfazed. With a smirk, she swung the window open and slipped inside, her grey coat buttoned against the cold, revealing a fitted black turtleneck beneath. Her black, slightly flared trousers and ankle boots made her look both stylish and stealthy.

Inside the living room, she spotted Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, head turned toward the window, eyes closed. The jacket was absent, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing three nicotine patches stuck to his arm. Ivy couldn't resist a jab as she entered. "What are you doing, Sherlock? Planning your next brilliant deduction, or just contemplating your existence?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, fixating on the ceiling before he exhaled a loud breath, relaxing again. "I'm trying to think, Ivy. Get out."

"Not a chance," Ivy replied, crossing her arms defiantly. "I see you've found the pink suitcase. Nice work. Very observant."

"Can you not? The smell of smoke is a distraction," he said dismissively, attempting to ignore her.

With a practised flick, Ivy lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating her face. "Threatening to use you as an ashtray if you keep being a pain," she quipped, taking a long drag and exhaling with a satisfied sigh.

Sherlock scowled, his irritation palpable. "Get that cigarette away from me. They make you stupid."

"Only if I listen to you," Ivy shot back, arching an eyebrow. "But hey, if you think I'm the stupid one here..."

Sherlock groaned, annoyance creeping into his voice. "Can you be quiet? I'm trying to think."

"Fine," Ivy said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she stepped closer to the suitcase sitting nearby. She knelt beside it, rummaging through the contents. "Let's see what secrets you're hiding, shall we?"

Sherlock watched her, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" she asked incredulously, glancing back at him.

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It's on the website," he explained, his tone casual.

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone," John Watson interjected as he stepped into the room, halting abruptly at the sight of Ivy.

"Yes, she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear, now that you're here can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock continued, ignoring John's presence.

John's expression shifted from confusion to irritation. "I was on the other side of London."

"There was no hurry," Sherlock replied, a nonchalant smile on his face.

John glared at Sherlock as he pulled out his phone. "You called me here to send a text?"

"Yes, text. The number on my desk," Sherlock said, still unbothered.

Ivy rolled her eyes, a smirk dancing on her lips. "This is what you wanted him here for, Sherlock? To be your errand girl?"

"Stop being dramatic," Sherlock snapped, holding out the phone without looking at her. "Just text the number John."

With a frustrated sigh, John stepped forward, slapping the phone into his hands. "Alright."

As John walked to the window, Sherlock refolded his hands under his chin, closing his eyes again. "What's wrong?" he asked, still not looking at John.

"Just met a friend of yours," John replied, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

"A friend?" Sherlock asked, now intrigued.

"An enemy," John clarified.

Sherlock relaxed, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Oh. Which one?"

"Your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?" John said, turning to face him.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

"Yes," John admitted.

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time," Sherlock said, dismissively.

"Who is he?" John pressed.

Sherlock's tone turned serious. "The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number."

Ivy, unable to contain herself, chimed in. "That sounds like your estranged, overprotective, overbearing, and annoying relative. The one person more irritating than you, Sherlock."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "I have no relatives I care to discuss."

John raised an eyebrow, caught between amusement and irritation. "You're both insufferable."

"Focus, Watson," Sherlock said, turning his attention back to the case. "On my desk, the number."

Ivy rifled through the suitcase, inspecting its contents while John reluctantly approached the desk. He picked up a piece of paper with a name scrawled on it. "Jennifer Wilson. That was—wait. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, barely paying attention. "That's not important. Just enter the number."

John shook his head, reluctantly pulling out his phone. "Are you doing it?"

"Yes," Sherlock urged, his impatience evident.

"Have you done it?" he asked.

"Ye... hang on!" John responded, exasperated.

Sherlock continued, "These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.'"

John hesitated, glancing at Sherlock with concern. "Are you sure about that?"

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come," Sherlock instructed, his voice steady.

As John began typing, Ivy chimed in again, her tone laced with sarcasm. "This is how you solve cases? By dragging John into your mess?"

"Be quiet, Ivy," Sherlock snapped.

"I will not! It's entertaining watching you two bicker like an old married couple," Ivy replied, a wicked grin spreading across her face.

John smirked, clearly amused by her comment, while Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration. "Stop thinking. It's annoying."

"Shut up, Sherlock," Ivy retorted, a playful spark in her eyes as she settled onto the couch, staring off into space, deep in thought.