He was the one that found her.
He saw her lying on the floor and thought she had gotten pissed out of her mind then passed out.
He yelled at her. That was the worst part.
Then he saw.
He called 999 and only stood there.
Later he was leaning against the bathroom wall with a dry stomach when he heard four knocks on the door.
Even though her flat was only on the second floor, he took the elevator because his leg bothered him - always. It came from the twenty-first floor, slowly. He shifted his weight and rested inconspicuously against a side table. The elevator took a minute per floor, which irritated him more than the prospect of his aching leg did. It finally came to a painful halt on the ground floor and he let the stream of people empty into the lobby. Then he went inside and pressed the button.
He opened the door and saw her there. He threw the keys onto the counter with frustration and loped over to where she lay on her side. He cursed, then slowly eased himself down.
He turned her over and saw it, the bullet hole.
He thought to check the pulse but nothing else, his medical training forgone in this suddenness. Not her, no, his only remaining kin, his sister, not her.
He dialed with fumbling, clumsy fingers, and spoke in gasps.
Then he stumbled away heavily. The phone clattered to the tiles and the loud sound broke his thought, the two notes as the sides of the phone hit the ground speaking Cla-ra.
He leaned down to pick it up and called, somehow, sitting there on the cold, cold stone.
When a crisp voice answered the words came rushing out, stumbling, nonsensical, and he mentioned no names but somehow called her Harry instead of Clara and so she knew. He let the phone slip out of his fingers mid-horrified-sentence.
He heard someone at the door but did not move. Only when he heard the door open and crystalline steps did he scramble up, wincing when he fell upon his bad leg.
He pulled out his omnipresent gun and carefully walked to the hall.
"Who the hell are you?" His voice was loud and harsh but emotionless and he closed his eyes briefly so that he could not see the body on the floor.
The two men stared at each other until the other spoke. "Scotland Yard."
"Identification?"
A card was subsequently pulled out and flipped open; soon after, a gun lowered.
"Just-" The man moved, the long tails of his coat straying behind him, toward her.
"Get the hell away from her." The gun was pointed again.
"Apparent suicide, correct? But! The angle is all wrong-"
"I don't care if you're the fucking police, I will shoot you."
The other stared at him but stepped back. "Don't you see? This isn't a suicide, this is a murder. These are serial killings, I-"
"Get out."
"What-"
"Get out. Now."
They looked at each other again.
"You're not going to shoot me."
"Am I not?"
"There's a connection. You'll see." But there was a flurry of a long coat and he was gone.