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...
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MORIARTYYYYY!!!!!
Ivy sprinted after the car, her breath coming in sharp bursts as she yelled out Sherlock's name. "Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?!" Her voice echoed down the street as she tried to keep up, her legs pushing as fast as they could. But the car sped off, and she was losing ground.
Inside the cab, Sherlock kept his eyes forward, trying to ignore her. The cabbie glanced at the rearview mirror, chuckling.
"Friend of yours, is she?" the cabbie asked, his voice laced with amusement. "Maybe I should have some fun with her, see if the clever little cop can outsmart me, too."
Sherlock's gaze darkened for a moment, but his face remained impassive. "She's not my concern," he said coldly. "Ivy can handle herself."
The cabbie scoffed. "You sure about that? I could make sure she doesn't walk away from our little game."
Sherlock's eyes flickered briefly with something unreadable. Was it concern? Or maybe he just didn't appreciate the distraction. "She's not someone close to me," Sherlock replied curtly. "Trust me, she can handle far more than you think."
The cabbie chuckled darkly, clearly unconvinced. "We'll see about that, Sherlock."
Meanwhile, Ivy's breath was ragged as she ran after the car. Her legs screamed at her to stop, but she pushed on until the vehicle became a mere speck in the distance. With a frustrated growl, she finally gave up, doubling over as she caught her breath. "Idiot," she muttered under her breath. "Absolute idiot."
After a moment, she turned and bolted back toward 221B, her mind racing. She needed to tell John—needed to make him understand how reckless Sherlock was being. When she reached 221B, she didn't hesitate, practically throwing herself up the stairs and pounding on the door to John's flat.
John, who had been standing in the middle of the living room, contemplating his lack of a cane, froze at the frantic knocking. He opened the door to find Ivy breathless and disheveled, her eyes wild with urgency.
"Sherlock—he's in the cab with the killer!" she burst out, her voice rising with frustration. "The cabbie's the bloody serial killer, John! Sherlock didn't go with him to catch him; he went with him to figure out how he gets people to kill themselves!"
John's face paled. "What?!"
Ivy paced the room, her hands in her hair. "He's trying to solve the puzzle, John. He doesn't care about catching him; he wants to know how he does it. The absolute madman."
John grabbed his cane, ready to bolt out the door, but just as he did, the computer on the desk beeped loudly. Both Ivy and John turned, eyes widening as a map flashed on the screen, zooming in on the location of Jennifer Wilson's phone.
"Bloody hell," John muttered, rushing over to the computer. He glanced at the location before looking back at Ivy, who was already thinking ten steps ahead.
