"You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Where you start talking and expect me to care."
Cora has always dreamed of having a more normal existence, especially when your last name is Holmes, of all things, are not expected. That's until reti...
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It's early the following day, January 28th, 2010. That one, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, is holding a police press conference. The man feels nothing but uncomfortable as his colleague Sergeant Sally Donovan sits beside him and addresses the gathering of press reporters.
"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Mister for Transport, was found late last night on a building sight in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore's. In light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now,"
Reporters began raising their hands. Lestrade nodded at one of them, and they asked, "Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?"
"Well, they all took the same poison; um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be; none of them had shown any prior indication of-" Lestrade explained before getting interrupted by the reporter.
"But you can't have serial suicides?"
"Well, apparently you can," Lestrade responded with a sigh.
Another reporter now asked, "These three people: there's nothing that links them?"
Lestrade sighs, "There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one."
Suddenly, everybody's mobile phones simultaneously trill with a text alert. All now were glancing at their phone screens as the message read:
Wrong!
Sergeant Donovan also frowned at her phone before looking at the reporters to inform them, "If you've all got texts, please ignore them."
"Just says, 'Wrong'," the first reporter implies.
Donovan nods in response, "Yeah, well, ignore that. Okay, if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end."
Only the second reporter talked over her, "But if they're suicides, what are you investigating?"
Lestrade looked back at everyone, "As I say, these ... these suicides are linked. Um, it's an... it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating..."
Everyone's mobiles trilled with another text:
Wrong!
"Says, 'Wrong' again."
Lestrade looks despairingly at Sally before returning to the reporters, "One more question."
"Is there any chance that these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?" a third reporter asked.
Lestrade glanced to his colleague tiredly, "I ... I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was self-administered."
The reporter continued, "Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?"
"Well, don't commit suicide," Lestrade offered sarcastically, only for the reporter to gaze back in shock.
Sally leans over to mutter in warning, " 'Daily Mail.'"
He grimaced and returned his attention to the reporters again, "Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is reasonably exercise precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."
Again, the phone trill with another message:
Wrong!
It only takes another moment longer for Lestrade's phone to get a text, and when he checks the messages, he rolls his eyes with disbelief:
You know where to find us. SH & CH
With a look of exasperation, he pocketed his phone and stood up, looking at the reporters, "Thank you."
It was during that whole press conference that he hadn't noticed the woman dressed in a dark trench coat, hidden out of sight, who had a smirk on her ruby-red lips that had been sending the message throughout. Her jacket was now whipping out of sight before they even noticed her.
-*-
One Cora Holmes leant back on a bench in St. James's Park not far from Scotland Yard, a cigarette between her fingers and impatiently clicking her heel against the bench's leg because Lestrade was late. It just really annoyed her when people were late for things, but she honestly couldn't blame him after this morning. Taking another drag of her cigarette, Cora blew out a stream of the smokey white vapour as it vanished into thin air, deducting people within seconds as they passed by her. She was guessing who were the cheaters, beaters and criminals.
Pulling up the sleeve of her coat, she looked at her watch, not bothering to get out her phone. It was 12:15 pm. Cora didn't even have to look to know that Lestrade had sat on the bench several inches from her.
Pulling out her lighter, she held it out, and he took it, lighting his cigarette, "Cora, you and your brother need to stop," he took a puff from his cigarette.
"Well, it isn't an excuse to be late," she states moodily, staring ahead of her, not paying Greg the slightest attention to what he just said.
"I'm being deadly serious, Cora. You can't text reporters during a press conference when it pleases you. It made us look right, utter prats," he explained, smoke billowing out of his mouth before he took another drag.
"Honestly, Greg, you don't need my brother and me around to make you look like complete pillocks. When you're capable of doing it already," Cora takes a final blow of the cigarette at its end, dropping it and treading it out with her heel.
"But did you have to do that?"
"Yes, Greg, because it was vital for them to know you were wrong and late yet again," she argued, getting her packet of cigarettes out, plucking one from the box and lighting it.
"I'm sorry, but there was a matter with dealing with the press."
"You know where to find us if you need assistance with anything," just as Cora finished speaking, her phone alerted her.
When you're finished conversing with Lestrade, meet me at St. Bart's -SH
"Sorry, I've got to dash, but Sherlock needs me," getting up, she stomped out her cigarette on the bench's arm and put it back in the packet for later before finally glancing down at Greg.
"I'll see you around then," he looked at her momentarily in understanding. They knew how Sherlock got when not meeting his demands straight away after texting said person. Either you went straight away, or he'd be on somebody's case for days.
"Yeah, sure," with that, she ran off, her pale blue scarf trailing along in the wind as she went.
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