A study in pink.

An adaptation of the BBC's take on Sherlock Holmes, based on the original books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock is an incredibly intellectual woman, her life revolves around helping out Detective Inspector Lestrade solve cases that the London police fail to solve in time. She has the attitude of a high-functioning sociopath, but she knows this and is not willing to change. She takes no interest in men or women – for that fact. All she cares about is keeping her constantly active mind occupied. But is there more to this sold-hearted woman?


Shelock.

The slender, milky white legs of Miss Sherlock Holmes were draped over the arms of the small armchair she had inherited from the flats previous owner; this morning, she lackadaisically flicked through all eighty freeview channels, none of the noise was registering properly as she stared at the flickering screen. She hated television, there was very rarely anything of any interest to her; there was often a show about forensic scientists in different states of America, the uneducated working class trying to determine the father of someone's child and tele-shopping – Who, apart from elderly ladies, would want to purchase 'Luxurious pink leopard print, faux fur scented clothes hangers'?
She was just about to give up with the early morning television, when, on her third trip back to the starting channels, she stumbled her way onto the morning news reel...
"Good Monday morning," sang the botoxed reporter, "its eight fifteen on the twenty seventh of January, I'm Susan and this is the morning news. Our top stories for today..." The newsreader rattled on about inflation – 'the death of the euro' and a local depute over a new bus route cutting through a park that resulted in communal bins being defaced... all of this was far too mundane for her intellectual brain to process; that was until the final bulletin started,
"...And finally, some tragic news came in today as Beth Davenport, a local MP to the Ministry of Transport has been found dead in building lot, the coroner's inquest suggests this is suicide and bares several similarities to those of which we have heard of in the past few months. The Metropolitan police will be with us momentarily to catch us up on the latest suicidal pattern. Back in five, where you are." Her eyes widened as she absorbed the bulletin...
Brilliant! This is just what I need. They wouldn't broadcast a conference unless there was something new, something they had overlooked as coincidence perhaps – a common factor in all three cases... Three suicides all linked... Serial suicides and right on my doorstep! Think back, when was the first... she thought, jumping to her feet and knocking over a box of papers as she paced the wooden floors barefoot,
October 12th, Mr Jeffrey Patterson. Found in an abandoned office block in Westminster, Maida Vale. The second, another male, this one much younger. Eighteen if I remember accurately... Of course I remember accurately - November 26th, James Phillimore, found in a sports centre and now Beth Davenport. Oh it's Christmas!
She heard the weather forecast in the background, she knew she had exactly two minutes to grab her phone from her dressing gown pocket and reseat herself comfortably before the conference started.

Sergeant Sally Donovan was heading the conference with an exhausted looking D.I Lestrade slumped next to her, Obviously out late last night. She muttered to herself as she looked over the creases of Sally's shirt, the faint mud splash on her tights and coffee stain on the collar of her shirt; this of course, was not obvious to anyone who wasn't trying to look for these sorts of things. Most probably with one of her male 'friends'. She quickly added just as Donovan opened her mouth to begin,"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior minister for transport was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing but Detective Inspector Lestrade will be taking questions now." She stated, showing no sign emotion, just formality – as though she was reading from the guidebook. Just as well she wasn't paid to show empathy or sympathy... The hotline phone rang in the background as the press got to their feet. Lestrade sat up and pulled at the neck of his blazer to straighten it out, leaning in slightly to talk into the microphone as the press got ready with their bombardment of questions and flashes of the cameras. The first to ask a question was a scruffy looking gentleman with curled black hair and an unfortunate resemblance to a weasel,
"Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" he asked, his accent giving away he was from northern London, his manner of dress suggested a tabloid paper, perhaps something like The Sun judging by the old model of Dictaphone and state of his suit... Lestrade shuffled in his seat, evidently uncomfortable with this line of questioning; the camera turned to film both the reporter and the D.I in the hot seat.

"Well, they all took the same poison; um... they were all found in placed they had no reason to be... None of them had shown any prior indication-" but he was cut short by the press weasel,
"but you can't have serial suicides!" he obnoxiously butted in. Granted, that was his job, but still... it was frustrating. And by the slight tensing of his jaw, Lestrade felt the same way.
"Well, evidently, you can." He answered bluntly, his expression one of impatience. The next line of inquiry came from an Ukrainian gentleman, his accent betraying him slightly, yet his English was spot on,
"These three people, there is nothing that links them?" he asked, holding what Sherlock assumed to be an electronic tablet – a much higher branch of newspaper, perhaps The Guardian judging by the razor he used and the tie he wore, a gift from his wife, undoubtedly.
"There's no link found yet, but..." A long pause, "We're looking for it. There has to be one!"
Perfect. That's my cue.She picked up her phone and unlocked the keypad, tapping the app to retrieve the numbers of all the mobiles in that room at once, allowing her to send a mass text; her thumbs breezed over the keypad – "Wrong!" The message read as she pressed send; leaning back in her chair and waiting, her breathing was even as her free hand let her fingers pad the arm of the leather chair in time to the Waltz she favoured... It didn't take long before the room was full of the sound of text alerts and people shuffling to check their phones. You could see Sally's face sink as she read the message – yet she didn't miss a beat, she knew full well who had sent the message and was determined to not be shown up in front of thirty members of press.
"If you've all got texts, just ignore them." She ordered loudly, retaining the attention of the press, but the weasel was obviously intrigued,
"It just says 'wrong'." He announced despite the fact that everyone in that room had just got the exact same message; Sally flexed her jaw slightly in stress,
"Yeah, well just ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end." She added quickly over the noise of the audience she had. The Ukrainian spoke again,
"But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?" He asked with a tone of 'aren't you wasting your time?' about it, Lestrade leaned into the microphone again before Donovan could take over,
"As...As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. Um... It-It's an unusual situation, we have our best people investigating..." he stumbles over the question like a runner over a hurdle,
Ah, you make this too easy. She smirked as she sent the same message again, she smugly ran a hand through her knotted shoulder length, brown hair as she relined against the cushions. Every phone in the room lit up, buzzed or sang with the same message,
"It says 'wrong' again." Called the weasel as he stated the obvious for the third time, definitely The Sun. Lestrade checked his fancy gadget of a phone before looking at a fuming Donovan...
"One more question." She said through gritted teeth, letting out a loud sigh afterwards, the next and final reporter to ask a question was a woman in her early forties, evidently a mother, one teenager, unreliable husband but a good career – a middle class newspaper going by her suit, glasses and choice of hairstyle...
"Is there any chance these are murders? And if they are, is this be the work of a serial killer?" She asked, her voice smaller and slightly nasal, Lestrade – who was temporarily blinded by a camera flash, attempted to answer the question,
"I... I know you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides, we know the difference." He paused and Sherlock hesitated over the send button of the third text, her timing would be comical and accurate, but she held off to see what he had to say next, "The poison was clearly self administered-" yet again, he was cut off,
"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" This wasn't a bad line of enquiry, it would help reassure the public, give them a glimpse of hope,
"Well, don't commit murder." Lestrade answered quickly, sounding irritated when Donovan turned her head and covered her mouth conveniently with her hand, causing Lestrade to nod at whatever she whispered,
"Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions." Straight from the Police-How-To-Answer-Reporters handbook. "We are all as safe as we want to be." Lestrade nods, and with the slight look of relief, leans back from the microphone.
Send. Honestly, Lestrade... False hope only makes things worse. For the last time today, the entire room filled with the sound of phones going off and people muttering between themselves about the texts they had received. Sherlock just lounged back in her seat and waited for the reactions of Metropolitans' Finest. Instantly, like flicking on a light, Sherlock had another idea, grabbing the phone and typing 'You know where to find me. SH' and sending it to Lestrade's personal phone, he received the text almost immediately after it was sent, a smile of exasperation toyed with his lips. He slipped his phone away and got up,
"Thank you." He was looking at the press, but the 'thanks' were obviously aimed at Sherlock who casually lounged in the arm chair in her trusty silk dressing gown. Donovan was hot on his heels as he left the room swiftly. She let a small, smug smile creep onto her lips as she got up and stretched her arms, clicking several vertebrae in her back with a groan of pleasure.