22 Northumberland Street
As John begins typing the text message Sherlock dictated, he glances over at Sherlock, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"You blacked out?" John asks, his voice tinged with concern.
Sherlock looks at him incredulously, already impatient. "What? No. No!" He swings his legs off the couch with a sharp motion, opting for the most direct route to the kitchen, which means stepping over the coffee table instead of walking around it.
"Type and send it. Quickly," Sherlock commands, disappearing into the kitchen.
Ivy Liu, who had been sitting nearby and silently observing the chaos with her arms crossed, lets out a dry chuckle. "He does this, you know," she comments, rolling her eyes. "Flailing about with all the dramatics and no warning."
John's lips twitch, but he remains focused on finishing the message.
Sherlock reappears with a small pink suitcase in hand, carrying it with a casual ease as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He places it down on a dining chair and flips it open. Inside, several items of clothing, all in varying shades of pink, are packed neatly, along with a washbag and a novel titled Come to Bed Eyes. The garishness of the pink against the mundane contents makes John's eyes widen in surprise.
"That's ... that's the pink lady's case," John stammers, looking from the suitcase to Sherlock in disbelief. "That's Jennifer Wilson's case."
Sherlock shoots John a condescending glance. "Yes, obviously."
John continues to stare, still trying to wrap his head around what he's looking at. Sherlock's expression shifts, and he rolls his eyes in exasperation.
Ivy steps forward, her gaze sweeping over the contents of the suitcase. "Oh, it's hers alright. This gaudy shade of pink practically screams Jennifer Wilson," she remarks, her voice laced with sarcasm.
Sherlock, momentarily surprised by her keen observation, tilts his head, studying her. "Very astute," he mutters.
"Please," Ivy replies, smirking, "a bright pink suitcase belonging to a woman who clearly enjoyed attention? It's hardly a leap."
Sherlock smirks back, appreciating her insight but not verbally acknowledging it further.
"Perhaps I should mention," Sherlock says to John, sarcasm dripping from his tone, "I didn't kill her."
John blinks. "I never said you did."
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."
John gives him an incredulous look. "Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"
Sherlock smirks, his eyes flashing with amusement. "Now and then, yes."
Ivy snorts. "Only when they don't know you well enough."
Sherlock's smirk grows wider, and for a moment, he seems almost pleased with Ivy's quip.
John shakes his head and drops into the armchair across from Sherlock, clearly bewildered. "How did you get this?"
Sherlock leans forward, hands resting on the arms of his chair. "By looking."
John's confusion deepens. "Where?"
Sherlock explains, "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously, he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens..."
Ivy interjects, her voice dry but sharp, "Let me guess—you scoured all the skips in the area? Found it tucked away under a pile of rubbish?"
Sherlock glances at her, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "Yes, actually. Less than an hour."
John, still bewildered, looks between the two of them. "You found it just because it was... pink?"
Sherlock gives him an incredulous look. "Well, it had to be pink, obviously."
Ivy rolls her eyes, unimpressed. "Of course it did. The colour coordination of a killer's discarded luggage is always crucial."
John sighs, feeling like he's missing something obvious. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock says bluntly, but then quickly follows it up with, "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is."
Ivy chuckles under her breath at Sherlock's half-hearted attempt at comfort.
Sherlock, eager to move on, gestures toward the suitcase. "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"
John leans forward, peering into the suitcase. "From the case? How could I?"
Sherlock's eyes narrow, his voice almost scolding. "Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there; you just texted it."
John frowns. "Maybe she left it at home?"
Sherlock leans back, considering it for a moment before shaking his head. "She has a string of lovers, and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home."
Ivy crosses her arms, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "No phone on the body, none in the suitcase... It's with the murderer. Makes sense. He took it for leverage or to erase something incriminating."
Sherlock nods in agreement, his gaze sharp as he watches her. "Precisely. So, where is it now? The question is: where?"
John, feeling as though the two of them are speaking in riddles, glances at Sherlock. "She could have lost it."
Sherlock leans forward again, intensity radiating from him. "Yes, or...?"
John's eyes widen in realization. "The murderer... You think the murderer has the phone?"
Sherlock nods, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Either he took it from her, or she left it when she left her case. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."
Ivy leans forward, her voice calm yet cutting through the tension. "And we just texted him."
John's eyes widen in alarm. "Wait—did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?"
Sherlock doesn't answer immediately, letting the tension build. Then, as if on cue, John's phone begins to ring, the caller ID showing 'withheld.'
Sherlock grins triumphantly. "A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like that. But the murderer..."
The phone continues to ring, filling the room with an ominous silence.
Sherlock's voice drops to a low, satisfied murmur. "...would panic."
Ivy's eyes gleam as she looks from Sherlock to John. "Well, John," she says with a smirk. "Looks like you just got a murderer's attention."
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𝕱𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖉 𝕷𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙 {𝕾𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖔𝖈𝖐 𝕳𝖔𝖑𝖒𝖊𝖘}
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