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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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Shock
As the tension began to dissipate in the flat, Ivy Liu took a step forward, staring down at the cabbie's lifeless body with narrowed eyes. She wasn't exactly shaken, but there was an undeniable adrenaline rush she hadn't fully come down from yet. Sherlock, meanwhile, had gotten to his feet and already started rifling through his deductions about the situation.
"I need your phone," Ivy said abruptly, cutting through the momentary silence.
Sherlock looked over at her, quirking an eyebrow. "Why can't you use your own?"
"Dead battery," Ivy replied shortly, holding out her hand expectantly. "Now hand it over."
He gave a dramatic sigh, as if the request was an enormous inconvenience, before pulling his phone from his pocket and tossing it to her with an air of exasperation. Ivy caught it smoothly and dialed the number to the police, quickly relaying the situation with professional efficiency.
Later, outside the college, the chaos had calmed somewhat. Sherlock sat on the back steps of an ambulance, an orange blanket draped over his shoulders. His usual sharp expression was softened into one of mild confusion as he tugged at the blanket.
"Why have I got this blanket?" he demanded, looking at the paramedic beside him as though they had done something particularly idiotic. "They keep putting this blanket on me."
Lestrade walked over, grinning slightly. "Yeah, it's for shock."
"I'm not in shock," Sherlock retorted indignantly before looking around. "Why isn't Ivy wearing one?"
Lestrade, still smiling, glanced at Ivy, who was speaking to a couple of officers nearby. "Ivy had a job to do and apparently isn't in shock. Also some of the guys want to take photographs." He nodded toward the officers with cameras, clearly amused.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, his irritation growing. "So, the shooter. No sign?"
"Cleared off before we got here," Lestrade explained. "Ivy shot him in the leg to disable him. She's cleared for it—you were in immediate danger. But a guy like that would have enemies, I suppose. One of them could've been following him but..." He shrugged. "We've got nothing to go on."
Sherlock shot him a pointed look. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."
Lestrade rolled his eyes in response. "Okay, gimme."
Sherlock stood, his deduction already in motion. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun—caliber commonly found in police weapons," he pointed out. "Kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon—crack shot you're looking for. But not just any marksman, a fighter. His hands wouldn't have shaken at all. He's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though. Strong moral principles. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service..."
