"Detective Inspector."
"Give me a moment, please."
"Ma'am-"
"In a second."
"-There are news reporters downstairs. They want to ask you a few questions."
"For God's sake, give me a moment."
"Okay, Ma'am."
The Sergeant skirted away, ducking under the police tape secured on the open door of the hotel room to try and speak to the press himself.
And good riddance, thought Donovan. She needed him out of her hair, if only for five minutes.
People bustled in and out of the room, much too small for the amount of officers it currently contained. The body was on the balcony, which made it even worse- only two people could work on it at a time. The rest of them were standing around like idiots, taking pictures of things that had already been deemed inconsequential.
Detective Inspector Donovan tried to keep herself from pulling her hair out. She palmed her eyes, dragging her hands down her face as if the touch would make anything better.
When she opened her eyes, a tired, greying man stood in front of her with two paper cups of cheap coffee.
She gratefully took one, holding it loosely in her right hand as she took a testing sip. Lukewarm.
"Thanks a lot, Greg."
He nodded in welcome, taking a sip of his own.
"Wait until you get to the bottom. That's where all the sugar is."
"I look forward to it."
He laughed at her sarcasm, in the way one does when one is used to the point of immunity at another person's humour. He looked over to the balcony.
"Same thing as last time, I assume?"
"Almost exactly. Any sign that may have been left by the killer has been cleaned by the maid- she didn't find the body until she had finished in the room. I don't think it would have made any difference, anyways. It didn't in the last two."
"Do we have any sort of connection yet? Other than how they died?"
Sally exhaled deeply.
"They're all men?"
"Well, that narrows us down to less than half of the population, then."
She gave him an unkind chuckle.
"Always the Optimist."
He turned to look at her, a subtle quirk of his lips offering her a half smile.
"Someone's got to be. You look too gaunt for television in your current state."
"Who says I'm going on television?"
"Your badge."
She bit her lip- it just wasn't fair. She told him so.
Detective Constable Lestrade scoffed.
"It's not, you're right. I shouldn't even have a job right now. It's due to some… Holmes magic that I even do. Nothing with a Holmes is fair."
His tone was different as he uttered the word- it had a different connotation now. Usually he spat it out, something bitter on the tip of his tongue. Now, he set it in front of Sally softly, aware of the charged particles swarming around the syllable. It had been a rough few months for everyone caught in Sherlock's web.
The other Holmes, however, had never been known to Donovan- not that she'd wanted to. She'd heard about him, though- Mycroft Holmes, the kidnapper; Mycroft Holmes, the protective older brother; Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's credit card; Mycroft Holmes, more powerful than the prime minister. If anyone would have granted Lestrade pardon, it would have been him. One had been enough. Now she wouldn't have to deal with him, ever again.
She did, however, need to deal with the television crews now. Speaking at the press, instead of standing behind the silver man spinning a truth to calm the public.
She took another drink of her coffee, screwing her face up as she finally hit the sugar. Gave him a small smile to excuse herself- this conversation had gone a little too personal for her liking. People moved for her as she made her way to the body, in a way that they'd never moved for Lestrade- they respected her, after just over a month of receiving the position. She didn't earn it through hard work, like he did. She won it on formality. And yet she was already supremely better-liked than he had ever been as DI.
That was what Sherlock Holmes did to a man, she assumed. Well, she would never make that same mistake.
"Anything new?"
She peered into the eyes of the two men standing on the balcony. One, a red-headed portly man who had been hired recently- the other, Anderson.
They all should have lost their jobs. Letting an amateur detective in any of their cases- that was a terrible idea. What were they thinking?
Even in her head, she couldn't quite call Holmes amateur with much verity.
She had been speaking to Anderson, and the other man could tell- Sally had to move clear to the other side of the balcony as he excused himself, pushed messily through the door. She waited until he left to listen, just as Anderson waited to speak.
"We've found prints and hairs from several different people but-"
She could finish the sentence for him.
"- But they're all old, they're all previous guests. Or maids."
"Exactly."
"So this one's just like the others."
"Yep."
"There's no way it could just be- a sniper or anything."
"We'll have to wait for the ballistics on this one, but I don't see how. The other two were shot from a pistol- there's no way someone could have that sort of accuracy without- Without an extreme amount of training, or something."
"So it's possible."
Anderson opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say, he decided against it and opted to ignore her.
"Either way, the victims are completely unconnected. A business student, a college professor, and a Frenchman. Even if they did… go to the same barber shop or something, there's no need to assassinate them."
"We can't be sure of that. We've only just seen this case. We haven't looked into the connections of the other two enough."
Whatever it was that Anderson had decided not to say had obviously been deemed too important to withheld.
"Sally, we just got rid of Holmes. That doesn't mean you need to take his place in the outlandish theory front."
She shot him an icy glare- he'd become more and more insufferable now that she'd been placed above him. Now that their only common ground- dislike of Holmes- had been removed. She straightened up, smoothing her trouser legs out.
"Detective Inspector."
He stood up after her, quirking an eyebrow.
"- What?"
"You will call me Detective Inspector while we are working. You are free to question my theories, but not to dismiss them as something Holmes would do just because it means you might need to do your job."
He merely gaped at her as she stepped over the dead Frenchman and back into the plush carpet of the hotel room.
God damn.
"Gregory DuPont was murdered on the balcony of his hotel room the night of June sixth, at approximately midnight,"
She opened with. That was how Greg usually opened, right? Just like telling a colleague about the case. That's what she'd do. Just less speculation. All facts. No flouncy guesses. Hard, believable fact.
"There were no clear signs of a break in, a struggle, or any force at all. He was shot in the head with a short-range weapon, however."
A bustle of activity from the press room- maybe she'd said too much. From the back of the room, Greg shook his head just slightly enough for Sally to see if she was looking.
Of course she was looking.
Dammit.
From the second row, a reporter loosely raised her hand-
"Does this murder have anything to do with the similar murders of William Stevenson or George Khaldun? Is there enough connection between these three cases to suspect that these murders are serial?"
"Yes, there are some similarities to the murders of Stevenson or Khaldun. All of the murders were enacted at around midnight eight days from each other, but we are not viewing them as connected."
"And if another person dies?"
She pursed her lips. She was becoming frustrated- the news didn't want facts, they wanted serial killers. It was difficult to persuade them otherwise, even it had been the case that she wasn't in accordance with them.
"If someone dies in a similar manner to these cases, we will be sure to take them in close consideration while examining the fourth."
She had prepared a small amount of responses for this conference to the questions she was sure they'd be asking, and she was fast running out of them with fifteen minutes left. She hoped they wouldn't surprise her with anything she'd pointedly refused thinking abou-
"Will you be using Sherlock Holmes on this case?"
Oh.
"Sherlock Holmes is no longer affiliated with the Metropolitan Police, in any way."
"And if these cases cannot be solved?"
"We will find the killers of these men, serial or not, without Mr. Holmes' help."
And just as she'd hoped that the conference would turn from the topic of the amateur detective-
"What is the possibility that the murders have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes?"
She gaped. The noise of other newspeople writing, typing, adjusting the volume on their recorders.
"None. None at all."
"We cannot even entertain the notion?"
"Mr. Holmes is being released today. He's been in prison for all three of the murders."
"And what about James Moriarty- or Richard Brook?"
"He had been under surveillance for both- No. Neither James Moriarty nor Richard Brook nor Sherlock Holmes have anything to do with these murders."
Tomorrow morning, newspapers would describe her answers to these questions as 'pressed' or 'unwilling.' Not entirely too far from the truth.
"Are there any more questions on the crime itself?"
A rustle through the crowd- papers, not questions. Sally straightened her back, hoping that she looked resolute at the very least for the cameras trained on her face.
"Well, then, I guess we're done here."