The body lay face first in a pool of blood. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade shook his head sadly. It never got easier. It was worse when it was a kid. He turned to the officer who was first on scene. The officer was pale and having a hard time keeping his composure. Lestrade hoped the younger man could keep it together long enough to answer a few questions.
Anderson and Donovan were with him, talking quietly to a shocked-looking middle-aged woman. She must have been the one who found the poor sod, Lestrade thought, glancing at the woman, who began to break into tears. Donovan placed a shock blanket on the woman's shoulders.
Lestrade hurried over to the police officer he'd been about to question.
The policeman in front of him took a deep breath before answering Lestrade's first question.
"I... I've no idea how it happened. Miss Sanders here called us up, but as far as we could tell there was no murder weapon. No signs of struggle. And if there was a murderer, he's long since run off. It's like her head just... exploded."
Lestrade nodded. He patted the officer on the shoulder. "I'll have Forensics analyze the blood, and we'll get back to you if we find anything. You and your team should get home."
The officer nodded, grateful. "Thank you, sir," he said, then paused.
"...Oy, d'ya think you should call that Holmes bloke? This seems right up his alley."
Lestrade pursed his lips. Donovan had walked over and had overheard the end of the conversation.
"The freak?" She snorted. "This isn't important enough for him, unless it's some sort of conspiracy. Leave it to the professionals."
The officer nodded and left with a group of other police.
Donovan tutted when she saw Lestrade's expression. "You can't be serious. He'd never take the case."
Lestrade shrugged. "We have to try. If Forensics comes up without any solid evidence, I'll ring him. Give it a few days at most."
"Alright. Your funeral," Donovan said, nonchalant, pulling her coat about herself, "but I'm going home. See you at the Yard tomorrow."
"Evening," Lestrade nodded at her as she grew farther and farther away. Anderson was quick to follow, leaving Lestrade alone with nothing but a few bloodstains for company.
Korbyn's phone rang.
She cursed and rifled through her pockets for it as it continued to spout verses of Taylor Swift. Eventually, she tugged it out of her jacket pocket, keyed in the passcode and held the device up to her ear.
"Sherlock," she hissed, glancing guiltily at the group of German students. "Now is not a good time."
She heard an odd noise on the other end of the receiver- her brother snorting.
"Your undergraduate Germans can wait. I need you to come to Scotland Yard."
"Need or want? This is one of your bloody cases, isn't it?" Korbyn replied, waving at the undergrads to continue taking notes.
There was a short silence. Then, "Irrelevant. I expect you to be in Lestrade's office in thirty minutes."
He hung up.
Korbyn muttered a colourful list of profanities under her breath. Turning to the students, who were still taking notes, she said, "Entschuldigung. Ich bitte sie dich um entschuldigung."
One of the students raised his hand. "Family issues?" He asked in a heavy accent.
Korbyn nodded, exasperated.
The student grinned. "Go," he made a shooing motion, "I'll call up admin and ask them for a substitute."
"Dankeschön," Korbyn said breathlessly. She grabbed her bag, buttoned up her coat and headed out the door.
Korbyn hailed a cab and told them to get to Scotland Yard as fast as traffic would allow. The cabbie shot her an odd look but complied. They pulled up to the curb beside the police building within fifteen minutes of leaving the University of London.
Korbyn paid the cabbie, tumbled out of the door ungracefully, then collected herself. She entered the Yard's main doors and took the elevator up to Detective Inspector Lestrade's office.
When she arrived, Lestrade and Donovan greeted her, the latter a little less warmly than the former.
"You must be the freak's sister," Donovan said, voice blunt, shaking Korbyn's hand. The Holmes gritted her teeth, but tried her best to keep her composure.
"And you must be Sally Donovan. Pleasure to meet you in person. My brother talks about you... colourfully."
Donovan's jaw tightened.
Lestrade cleared his throat. "Ladies," he said quickly, "let's get down to business. Sherlock called you, I trust."
Of course. He's not even bothering to work on this case. He's just sending his baby sister to do it, Korbyn thought, not particularly surprised but irked all the same. "Yes," she replied, "he did. He sent me a text about what I'm working on, too."
Lestrade looked grim. "Good. We're still baffled by how the teen died- she was nowhere near any high buildings, and there was no murder weapon. The only thing our teams found were huge amounts of potassium chlorate and sugar in the body's system."
Korbyn pursed her lips. "Potassium chlorate reacts with sugar, doesn't it?"
Donovan stared at her. "How'd you know that?"
Th Holmes shrugged. "Chemistry class in high school. We experimented on gummi bears, made them explode. I couldn't remember the chemical we used, but now..."
Lestrade pulled out a file from the stack on his desk. Flipping it open, he thumbed to a page and pulled it out, handing it to Korbyn. It was a list of the potassium chlorate's uses, and a picture of the chemical- a white, powdery substance. Donovan looked over her shoulder at the page.
Lestrade said, "So potassium chlorate is used in matches, explosives and disinfectants, to name a few. We know that it was self-administered, but how she got hold of it is a mystery."
"Okay," Korbyn mused, "have you spoken to the parents?"
"The teen's mother, yes. The father, Jonah Gibson..."
"What?" Korbyn realised, and sighed. "He's missing, isn't he?"
"Right on. We searched his office, his apartment, even his car. Nothing. Not even a sodding phone."
"What was his occupation?"
"Lawyer."
"Interesting," Korbun muttered, "maybe he had ties to Moriarty's network? Or another criminal organisation? That could have been why he went missing."
Lestrade grunted. "Ties or no ties, our primary goal is to find him. We'll work it out from there. I've already sent for a few of our top hackers to trace his bank account, et cetera. We should at least have some leads then."
"Then you've already done half the job," Korbyn replied, "you don't need me."
"We'll let you know when we do. Trust me, you'll definitely be helpful. We'll give you a ring sometime this week." Lestrade turned and sunk into his chair. Korbyn took this as her cue to leave.
"And, Korbyn," Donovan called to her as she closed the door, "make sure to tell the freak that he's a lazy twat for not bothering to even come himself."
"I will," Korbyn called back, but the door had closed and Donovan couldn't hear her.
Muttering a string of curses aimed at both Sherlock and Scotland Yard in general, Korbyn stalked out of the building and began walking back to the university.
"Absolutely not."
Korbyn glared at her eldest brother, Mycroft, and crossed her arms over her chest. "I won't even be working with him. He's holed up in 221b, as usual."
They were in the eldest Holmes' house. It was Thursday, two days after Lestrade had briefed Korbyn on the case. As soon as Mycroft had caught wind of it (though Korbyn suspected he already knew of the case long before she did), he'd dragged his younger sister to his home to chastise her about it.
He shook his head. "I sent you to Germany because you two would have been the death of each other if I didn't. And now he's sending you off on a wild goose chase for this lawyer."
"And I came back to London because Sherlock called me here," Korbyn snapped, "he expects me to help him, so I will."
Mycroft dragged a hand down his face. "That's exactly why I don't want you helping him. Your relationship is extremely unhealthy for both of you."
"And you would know," Korbyn replied, making her brother's jaw tighten.
"That's irrelevant," he countered, walking over behind his desk and opening a drawer. He produced a bottle of Macallan whiskey and poured two glasses, handing one to Korbyn. She made a face. "I don't drink, remember?"
"Suit yourself," her brother shrugged, taking a sip from his glass. "But honestly, Korbyn. What do you hope to gain from this endeavour?"
He paused. Korbyn shifted under his gaze as the silence stretched out between them.
"Ah," Mycroft finally said, placing his empty glass carefully on his desk, "it's about the criminals, isn't it?"
"That's- that's none of your business!" Korbyn spluttered.
"It's completely my business, little sister. Did you seriously think I didn't notice all the times you jumped at the chance of accompanying Sherlock on one of his cases? I am not blind, Korbyn, nor am I any less observant than our brother. Do not treat me as such."
"I wasn't-" Korbyn managed, but the words were weak. She took a moment to compose herself, then muttered, "Fine. For the sake of the argument, let's say it was because of them. So what? I'm twenty-nine, it's not like I can't make my own decisions."
Mycroft's voice softened, very slightly. "That may be true, but when it comes to matters of criminal nature, neither Sherlock nor I fully trust you to make the right choice. And you should not trust yourself either. I'm not trying to stop you," he added at Korbyn's defiant expression, "I am simply warning you."
There was yet another long silence.
Korbyn sighed. "Okay. Okay, you win. I'll ring Lestrade tomorrow."
"I did not say you couldn't take the case."
Korbyn froze. "Come again?"
Her brother sighed in exasperation. "I said, you may still take the case if you wish. Just, for God's sake, behave yourself and don't do anything stupid."
"Thank you, Mycroft!" Korbyn moved to hug him, then decided it was not the time nor the place and drew back, instead nodding curtly at him.
"Mind if I stay the night? It's a bit late for a cab."
Mycroft pointed out of his study. "Left, fourth door on the right. I had the cleaners come in, but otherwise it's the same."
Korbyn turned to leave. "Myc..."
"Yes?"
"You'll get to sleep soon, right? It's-" she checked the clock on the wall "-nearly one in the morning."
The eldest Holmes grimaced. "More work, I'm afraid. Don't worry about me. Goodnight."
"Goodnight." Korbyn shut the door and made her way down the hall.
Her bedroom was the same as always- he'd even kept the old polaroid photos on the walls from their childhood. And the five quid Green Day poster Korbyn had had when she was- what, nineteen? It had to be; she hadn't even listened to one of their albums in at least eight years. Korbyn cringed as she gingerly pulled the poster down, rolled it up and dropped it in the bin.
The bedspread was the same, too- that awful maroon colour she'd been obsessed with in the early 2000s. Wow, Mycroft really didn't change anything.
Korbyn opened her wardrobe, changed into a pair of pajamas that only just fit, and climbed into bed.
She quickly checked her messages on her phone before falling asleep.
She had one message, sent two hours ago.
Best of luck finding the lawyer. -SH
Friday, and Lestrade had received the information from Jonah Gibson's bank accounts. He'd made a deposit of £130,000 in the previous week.
130,000 pounds was a lot of money, even for a white-collar job such as a lawyer.
Lestrade took his cellphone out of his pocket and speed-dialled Korbyn Holmes.
The tone rang once, twice. Three times.
"Hullo?"
Lestrade let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Korbyn," he said, a hint of excitement in his voice, "we've got a lead on Gibson. He took over 100 grand out of the bank a week ago. It's most of his savings."
Korbyn was silent for a moment. She must have been thinking. "Why do you suppose he did that?"
Lestrade had an answer this time. "The Yard reckons he poisoned his kid, Judith-"
"The one with her head blown up?"
"Yes. That one. So he poisoned her, and collected the compensation, then hauled arse to America."
"Have you coordinated with the CIA?"
"Of course. They gave us a passport photo of a Stanley Elbert, American citizen. They're sending him back to the UK in a couple of weeks."
"So the case is closed."
Lestrade nodded. "Open and shut murder. Simple."
Korbyn took a deep breath. "With respect, I don't think that it's that simple. Sherlock wouldn't have asked me to get on the case otherwise... is there anyone Gibson was friends with that I can talk to? Colleagues, distant relatives?"
"He has a few coworkers in his business, Gibson and Woods Law. Where are you now? Do you want head down and talk to them?"
"Yes, I think that would be a good idea. I'll ring you back in a few hours."
She hung up, and Lestrade sighed and put down his cellphone. It was never simple, was it?
Damn those Holmes' for being so bloody smart.
His phone buzzed with a text a two hours later. It read,
At Gibson and Woods. Anyone specific you want me to talk to? -KH
Gibson's work partner, Arthur Woods. He may know something. -Lestrade
Ok. Talk later. -KH
Korbyn smiled warmly at Arthur Woods, a tired-looking middle-aged man sitting behind a large wood desk.
"So, Miss White," Arthur mumbled, toying with his tie, "you said you're reporting for the BBC?"
Korbyn smiled again. "Yes, that's right, Mister Woods- can I call you Arthur? Arthur, we just want the scoop on the Jonah Gibson case, that's right, I need a few minutes of your time-"
"Mister Woods, thank you," The lawyer said gruffly, shooting her an annoyed look, "but I'm afraid I've already told the police everything. You can go ask them."
"Oh no, but I want the information straight from the source, Arthur. You know how it gets mixed up and censored and all that jazz. You see, I only need-"
"A few minutes of my time, yes. Fine. I knew Jonah for fifteen years, I did. He was a good man. Not a lot of money, but good."
Korbyn nodded at him to go on and scribbled a few notes on her pad of paper.
"But a few months ago, he started acting strangely. I asked him what was wrong, he said, 'Oh, Arthur. Just family trouble, work, you know.' He... he didn't say anything else. And then he just vanished."
He was hiding something, Korbyn guessed, by the way he wrung his hands as he spoke and the sweat that dripped down his brow. You didn't have to be a Holmes to notice it, it was so blatantly obvious.
"Is there something you're not telling me, Mister Woods?" Korbyn spoke so softly, she may have been whispering. She had abandoned her chirpy demeanour. This wasn't the time.
Arthur Woods swallowed loudly. He looked at her, then at his hands, then back again.
"I... I wouldn't want to tarnish his reputation..."
"Arthur, this is between you and me. You have my word that everything said in here will stay in here. I promise," Korbyn cursed herself as the words left her mouth. What was she going to tell him when Scotland Yard came calling?
Woods inhaled deeply. "Jonah was stealing money from our business. He wasn't very careful about it- I caught him on one of the computers putting hundreds of pounds into his bank account. I never told anyone, but..."
"Go on."
"I was going to go to the Yard about it. Our company needed that money- we aren't very well-known, you see- and he wasn't at all in debt. I couldn't think of any reason other than greed for stealing the money."
But that still doesn't explain how the daughter died.
"Did you know his family? Elizabeth and Judith?"
Arthur had begun to tear up. He wiped his face with a handkerchief. "Yes, I knew them both. Judith was such a sweet little girl, and Elizabeth has been very brave about everything that's happened..."
Korbyn's phone rang, making Woods jump.
"Sorry," she muttered, pulling it out of her pocket and hanging up on the caller. "Forgot to put it on silent."
Arthur Woods nodded.
"So, you were saying?"
"Liz had a tough job, staying at home with Judy... such a tragedy..."
Korbyn's phone rang again.
She grimaced and asked Woods if she could just have a minute to take the call.
She held the phone up to her ear.
"Did you ask him whether he was diabetic?"
"What the bloody hell, Sherlock?" Korbyn spat at him. "I'm in the middle of something here!"
"But did you ask him?"
"It never came up. Can you sod off?"
"Ask him." Sherlock hung up.
"Sorry," Korbyn said again, making sure to switch her phone to silent this time, "my brother, being an idiot."
"Was that... Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes?" Arthur Woods asked incredulously.
"Ah, no. Just the same first name," Korbyn lied. She leaned forward. "Are you, Mister Woods, a diabetic by any chance?"
Woods looked surprised. "Why, yes, yes I am. Why do you ask?"
Oh. That explains it. Potassium chlorate, reacts with sugar. Jonah Gibson framed for embezzlement. The only man who knew eats artificial sugar, which is white and powdery...
"I think," Korbyn said, "that your colleague was trying to kill you."
Greg Lestrade received the call at two-thirty in the morning on Saturday. He blinked back sleep and fumbled for his phone, keying in the passcode and holding it to his ear.
"Who is this?"
"Lestrade?" It was Korbyn Holmes. "I think I may have solved your case."
Lestrade sat up in bed, alert. "Do tell."
"Woods told me that Jonah was stealing money from their company's accounts. Woods was a diabetic, so Jonah was planning to kill him using potassium chlorate, because Woods uses artificial sugar, which looks the same as the chlorate. Somehow, the daughter, Judith, got a hold of the chemical and consumed it, leading to her death- she probably thought it was drugs and snorted it, thought I can't be sure about that. Jonah, not wanting to be framed by Woods in the first place, took the stolen money and ran to the US."
Lestrade grinned. "You're brilliant, you are. Just brilliant. I'll call the Yanks this afternoon and we'll get Gibson sent back earlier, so he can stand trial and be put behind bars."
"It wasn't just me," Korbyn admitted, "Sherlock helped a little. Without him I'd have never figured it out on my own."
"Fair enough," Lestrade agreed, "but Sherlock's not here, is he? Don't try and be modest- you're taking the credit for this one."
"...Thanks, Lestrade. You have a good night. Sorry for waking you up."
"It's fine. You have a good night too."
He pressed the 'hang up' button, put his phone on the bedside table, and went back to sleep with a smile on his face.
That afternoon, the CIA called Lestrade back and told him that Jonah Gibson was on a plane to Heathrow Airport and that he'd arrive in a few hours. Lestrade organised a police force to meet Gibson at Heathrow, whereupon they put him in cuffs and hauled him off to Pentonville Prison.
All in a day's work, Greg Lestrade thought to himself as a glaring Jonah Gibson stared at him from his cell. Thanks to those bloody Holmes'.