❛ I'M REACHING OUT AND I JUST CAN'T TELL YOU WHY ❜
𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 an untouchable and a self-proclaimed consulting detective band together in the most unlikely of ways
[ bbc sherlock holmes x fem!oc ]
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LESTRADE WAS HALFWAY THROUGH THE CONFERENCE WHEN Sally and Poppy slipped in through the backdoor of the room, their heads bowed down as they traipsed past the reporters and photographers set up behind cameras awkwardly, bodies moving in fast, jerking motions. Lestrade was sat in the middle of a table positioned at the front of the room on his own, two empty chairs sitting either side of him.
The bustle of the reporters died down when they sank into their seats, and Lestrade looked exhausted beyond relief at the end of their absence. "I'm being joined by both Sergeants Donovan and Fisher to fill you in more about the development and understanding of this case so far." Poppy looked down and saw the name plaque infront of her hands reading 'Sg. Wilhelmina Fisher', in white typeface.
Another alias to add to her already over-flowing repertoire.
On the board behind the three of them, there were pictures of the victims over their names and the dates of their death as well as multiple phone numbers for both Scotland Yard and various other help lines. The deaths had all happened and been discovered in the space of a single week, and the media was going bat-shit crazy over them. Ripping into the flesh of the constabulary institution at any moment they could get to.
"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Travel, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now." Sally concluded her speech with a little movement of her head, tipping it in the direction of Lestrade who was glaring at her.
Poppy thought that if looks could kill, Sally would most definitely be six foot underground.
An eruption of chatter and commotion began the moment Sally finished talking as cameras snapped their desired shots, and reporters leant forwards in a greedy earnest as they raised their hands in a clamour.
Poppy swore that a man with a goatee was pushed out of the way by a reporter who looked as if she'd walked straight out of the seventies. Not a hair was out of place on her head ( how could it when the vapours from ounces of hairspray hung in the hair through which she walked ) and her plum purple suit made her look as subtle as a hurricane.
Finally a dark-haired man hovered over his chair — he was stood but still looked as if he was sitting in midair — ventured to ask, "Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?"
"Well, they all took the same poison. Um, they were all found in places that they had no reason to be," Lestrade was listing points off his fingers, "None of them showed any prior indication—"
