chapter 01; the press conference

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Sherlock Holmes didn't reveal much about himself whilst working a case. He preferred to stay shrouded in mystery and let others marvel at how quickly his mind worked, wishing that they could understand the complexity of his mind.

As much as she tried to deny it, Amelia Redford was one of these people. Even she couldn't always claim to know the thought process behind each of his actions, and today was one of those days.

Sitting in a conference room and watching Scotland Yard's finest stumble around the questions shot at them by the press, she had already thought of thirteen different ways she could be spending her time.

'The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for transport, was found on a building site in Greater London,' Seargeant Donovan said, reading from the sheet in front of her. 'Preliminary investigations suggest this was a suicide.'

Amelia resisted the urge to yawn. She was just repeating what everybody already knew in a slightly different, slightly more interesting way.

'We can confirm,' she continued, 'that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Philimore. 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.'

Let off their leashes, the press began clamouring for a chance to have their questions answered, and Amelia let her eyes drift over the crowd.

There had to be a reason why Sherlock had sent her there, but the already short list of possible explanations was dwindling the more she thought.

There was no way the murderer would show up; it was too risky, and he didn't have to be there in person to watch his handiwork, what with all the cameras streaming directly to the homes of British citizens.

It was also unlikely– scratch that, impossible– that he thought Greg Lestrade and his officers had actually found any evidence or good leads. Even when he was in a good mood, it was a miracle if a day passed without him bringing up their incompetence.

No, the only explanation was that he wanted something from her uncle, Peter Redford, and sent her to be the middle man.

He sat on Lestrade's left, back straight and face calm. His brown hair, she noted, that usually stuck up in different angles, had actually been brushed that day. She could feel his gaze occasionally flitting to her, uncertain and curious as to her presence in the crowd. They still hadn't talked things out since their recent argument, and she wasn't planning on being the first to break the wall of silence that had been slowly built between them.

Amelia was torn from her thoughts when various text alerts chimed, ringed, and buzzed throughout the room. Following suit with everyone else, she took her phone out and glanced at the message displayed on the lock screen.

UNKNOWN
Wrong!

Amelia could almost hear Sherlock's know-it-all tone through the phone. It took all of her willpower not to role her eyes.

When she looked up, Peter locked eyes with her, and not-so-subtly glared, followed by a gesture to his phone, as if it was her fault that she worked with a drama queen.

'If you all got texts, please just ignore them!' Donovan announced, trying to silence the low muttering that had broken out throughout the room.

'It just says wrong,' a very observant reporter stated.

'Yes, well, ignore that,' Donovan snapped.

Peter breathed in deeply and addressed the crowd, 'if there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, then I'm going to bring this session to a close.'

The same reporter that spoke before rose his hand. 'If they're suicides, then what are you investigating?'

This time, Amelia did roll her eyes. It was almost as if none of these people had heard of duress or blackmail. Anybody could be forced to do anything, as long as you knew what buttons to push.

'As I say, these suicides are clearly linked, um...' Lestrade paused, interlocking his hands. 'It's an unusual situation, but we've got our best people on it.'

Once again, there was a round of beeping, buzzing, and chiming.

UNKNOWN
Wrong!

'It says wrong again,' the reporter said. If he kept delivering so much breaking news, he'd be getting a promotion.

'One more question,' Donovan announced, her patience at a breaking point.

A ginger two rows in front of Amelia raised her hand. 'Is there any chance that these are murders? And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?'

Lestrade hesitated, wringing his hands together and gaining more wrinkles as the seconds passed. 'I... I know that you'd like writing about these things, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference.'

Amelia braced herself for a new influx of text messages announcing that Lestrade was wrong!, but it never came.

'The poison was clearly self-administered,' he added.

'Yes, but if these are murders, then how do people keep themselves safe?'

'Well, don't commit suicide.'

If it was possible to die from prolonged exposure to stupidity, Amelia was certain she'd be six feet under.

Trying to backtrack, Lestrade hurriedly said, 'obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is excercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be.'

This time, Lestrade's words were followed by a chorus of text alerts.

UNKNOWN
Wrong!

A/N: sorry for the short (and very late) chapter! i kept trying to add in the scene at the morgue where sherlock and john meet for the first time, but it just wasn't working as well as i wanted it to.

on a different note, i've almost finished watching dirk gently's holistic detective agency and it's a crime that it only got two seasons whilst riverdale of all shows is about to start it's sixth season.

this is more evidence that multi-dimensional travel most likely already exists, but nobody visits this dimension because it's that one.

—A.C