The unexpected announcement upsets Sherlock.
He doesn't stir even an eyelash, he barely breathes.
Anderson intervenes to scientifically explain the situation, "As far as we can get from lab results, they are ... were monozygotic twins, who are genetically nearly identical.
The DNA is very similar, practically the same, with just slight differences only detectable through the analysis of single-nucleotide polymorphism.
Identical twins, however, do not have the same fingerprints. The contact with different parts of the environment inside the womb produces small variations in the same digital, making them unique."
He makes a pause to let him grasp the concept, then he adds, "I think this is all the medical knowledge you might need in order to believe we aren't lying."
Sherlock breathes heavily and protests, "It's never twins."
Lestrade shrugs his shoulders, "Apparently, this time it is."
"How can there be no record about it? Nobody could hide such a crucial information, unless..." he stops talking mid-sentence, while a distinct scene comes back to his mind.
He suddenly sees his brother standing in his living room again, leaning on his umbrella, trying to hide anguish and concern.
He relives their conversation through the memory.
/
"I'm here to give you a case..." his elder brother had said.
[...] "National importance?"
"International."
/
He is struck by a sudden revelation and mutters, "Wait, What poison?"
Lestrade raises his eyes on him, "Sorry?"
"What was the poison that killed her? Give me the lab results!" Sherlock shouts out.
Anderson disappears in the adjacent room and re-emerges a second later, holding a folder. He hands it to
Sherlock without a word.
The detective skims the report, looking for a particular substance in the bloodstream of the victim, then he tilts his head and closes his eyes.
"Mycroft" he murmurs.
The inspector scowls when he catches that name, "What? Your brother?"
"I have to go."
Sherlock almost throws the folder to him and rushes down the stairs until the ground floor.
He takes his phone and dials a number while marching hastily in the street.
"I'm busy, dear brother. Try to call me on another day, or another life" sighs an irritated voice on the other end of the line.
"Mycroft, I think I've just run up against the case you wanted to give me earlier."
"I can't speak now, Sherlock" Mycroft cuts him short.
"I need more information about them. I need to know where she..."
"I said I can't speak, for God's sake! We've just found a mole in our system. I can't speak on the phone, I can't communicate through telegrams or letters, and I certainly cannot meet you in person right now. Everything is compromised and I must sort it out.
You are on your own. Do whatever it takes, but hurry up; we're running out of time."
He hangs up right away.
"No, Sherlock, wait!"
Lestrade has followed him in the street and reaches him running.
"You can't go now. We've just started" he puffs.
"I'm done here. There's nothing of any importance."
"There is a dead woman lying inside that flat, and another one is still missing!" the inspector asserts out loud.
Sherlock shoots him a withering look. "I can assure you the worst is yet to come."