Disclaimer: I do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock nor the BBC's version. No copyright infringement intended.

Beta: Ancestral Romance

The Mug of Milo from Hell

"She's dead."

"I can see that."

"How'd she die?"

"That's the question isn't it?"

"Was it suicide? There isn't any blood."

I turned to face my older brother who looked woefully repulsed by the dead body. "Mycroft. Do shut up."

He frowned but didn't say anything. We both had to be quiet, we weren't supposed to be in this room, actually we weren't supposed to be on the premises, but is it our fault that their security was easily distracted? I think not.

Mycroft walked around the dimly lit room, we had to make do with carefully aimed flash lights and the remaining sunlight as to not attract attention.

"Don't move anything, Sherlock." He whispered and scoffed.

"Don't be daft, last time you were the one who ate one of the sweets." I reminded him whilst I examined the teenage girls body. There was no injury, aside from where she fell with her cup of Milo. If I didn't know any better I would think she just hit her head hard and died.

Mycroft knelt beside me and shined his flashlight on her body. She was sixteen, given the acne on her face and size of her hips, but was self conscious if the clotted make up was any indication. She liked comfort, since she had a mug of Milo and her nails were painted light blue, but chipped. She alsowore Uggs.

"The coppers down there think she poisoned herself."

"Yes that does seem to be the conclusion." I stood up and looked around her bedroom. It was average to say the least; except for the fact that everything was designer label and expensive-down to her socks. "If you ignore the obvious fact that she was bullied, of course."

At that he chucked and glanced out the window and checked his watch. "Ten more minutes and then we need to be home for supper." He smirked down at me. "Neglected by her parents."

"Obviously."

"Doesn't make friends easily."

"If the lack of pictures are anything to go off of." I mumbled as I flicked through her cell phone.

"Was raised overseas. I'd say America."

I smirked and waved her cell phone at him. "Not that off Mycroft. Spain. And not too long ago if her tan lines aren't fake." I motioned down to her neck where her shirt exposed part of her shoulder, showing a thin tan line.

"Well? What do you think?"

Carefully I tucked her cell phone back into her pocket and sighed. "Murder of course."

"How?"

"Via the Milo obviously." I pointed at the spill. "No marks on the body, no self defense wounds of any kind, and there is only a slim line of drool coming from her mouth. Poison. In the Milo. And someone was waiting for her to drink it and cleaned up the sick she made before she died."

Mycroft grinned and nodded. "Clever, Sherlock. Very clever. But you missed some things dear brother."

I frowned. "What's that?"

"Who poisoned her? And why?" He pointed at her face pale face. "Her expression suggests that whomever was here when she died was not a stranger nor enemy. See her eyes? Trusting, not panicked in the least? Now why would a teenage girl who was not sick before and who just emptied the contents of her stomach after a few sips of her evening Milo look so calm? She knew her killer. But what killer would be so confident to stick around after poisoning the victim?"

I looked around the room and out the window. Who indeed? Mother? Father? They would make her feel as if she were going to be alright but why would they kill their daughter? Especially one they lavish with gifts? No. It wasn't her parents.

I looked down at the street, at the parked cars. All luxury models; Bentleys, BMW's, even a few unnecessary Hummers. "Posh. They were upper class." I mumbled as everything fell into place. "They hire a nanny to care for their kids; they don't directly have contact with them on a daily basis. That's why they dress her in labels and buy gifts-they feel guilty. But not the nanny. She loathed the girl."

Mycroft smiled and nodded. "Excellent deduction, Sherlock. And the nanny wanted her dead because she had everything shenever had. Expensive clothes. Apple products at her leisure. A Bentley to learn to drive in-and yet she wasn't happy." He glanced down at his watch. "And with that, it's time to be off. Mother will start to worry if we don't appear for supper."

"How'd you know why the nanny did it?"

"Sherlock how many times must I tell you to not rush things? Speed does not equal accuracy, dear brother. Start slow. With time you will get better." He glanced down the hallway then motioned me through. "Be quiet and go through the window."

Quickly, I was down the hallway and out the window with Mycroft right behind me. As soon as he was out, we were sneaking over the fence and onto the pavement. We tried to blend in.

"When are we going to tell the constable?" I whispered and nodded at the taped off property.

"Come now, Sherlock. We're kids. Why would they listen to us?" He whispered distractedly and waved me over.

"Because we're right."

He smiled and glanced at his watch again. "That's not how the world works. I'm fifteen and you'reeight; we aren't even supposed to be on the premises. And if we don't hurry we'llbe late for supper and Mother may not give us pudding."

I scowled at him and debated going over there and telling them what happened, but then I remembered I was suppose to be grounded. If Mother had to come pick us up surely she would ground me again. "How can they be so dimwitted as to not see the answers?" I mumbled as I followed Mycroft down the road to Main Street to get a cab.

"Sherlock, surely you know you're not normal."

OOO

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