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There is a kid on the scene.
Tobias isn’t sure where he comes from. The inspector in charge of the case is glaring at the brat, fingers twitching in a way that lets Tobias know he’s about to put the handcuffs on him.
“Is he a suspect?” someone asks.
“I’m not sure…it's a suicide so…”
The kid stops staring at the corpse, getting back on his feet, and for the first time Tobias can really see him.
He’s tall — taller than average, thin with long limbs and a narrow frame. Blond curls, sharp eyes, a smug smile, about 15 or 16.
Tobias shoves his hand in his pockets. “Please identify yourself.”
The kid gives him a crooked grin. “You are in luck, for I am here to solve the case!”
Dear God.
“That doesn’t answer the question, laddie.”
His grin widens and he flicks his cap. “Herlock Sholmes, consulting detective.”
They all stare, before the inspector sighs. “Gregson, get the kid out of here.”
Tobias grabs Herlock Sholmes by the back of his collar.
“Hey, wait —”
“Only Scotland Yard is allowed on the scene,” he says gruffly, “and you are not from the Yard.”
“But I —”
He tries to protest, but Tobias pulls him out of the building. The kid is struggling, his long limbs sticking out awkwardly as he tries to free himself.
Once outside, he drops the kid on the pavement. “Now go home.”
The kid pouts slightly, sitting on the steps of the building. “Come on! I’m sure my deductive power can be of assistance.”
Tobias just looks at him sternly, but the kid doesn’t let himself be intimidated. Instead, he lifts his chin up.
“It’s not a suicide,” he declares. “If you look at the bullet trajectory—”
Who, Tobias wonders, lets a kid study a corpse. Who allows that kind of thing. Where are his parents?
“— the bullet entered his head in a downward angle, so he was shot from above, or by someone taller than him.”
“The bullet entry point is under the jaw.” Tobias isn’t even sure why he is saying this. “It came out above the ear. Suicide isn’t inconsistent.”
“No, the entry point in above the ear.” The kid shakes his head. “If you look closely, you will find, hidden under his hair, a burn mark around the wound, caused by the heat of the barrel when the shot was fired. He was shot point-blank, like this.” He presses two fingers on his head, elbow raised up, wrist angled downward, and glances up at Tobias. “Quite the awkward position for a suicide, don’t you think?”
“I think,” Tobias says, pulling out his handcuffs, “that you’ll head home right now laddie, or your parents will have to pick you up at the Yard for interfering in a police investigation.”
“Ouch, so dismissive, officer.” He looks actually hurt by the threat, but pulls himself on his feet. “Since I’m clearly not welcome, I’ll take my leave.” He tips his hat and, as he walks away, calls back; “And the suicide note on the desk is forged, take a look at it!”
Gregson watches him go with a scowl. When he comes back to the scene, he can’t help himself. He checks the wound on the head and, true enough, there is a burn mark.
As for the suicide note — it’s handwritten by the victim, dated the same day as his death. He probably wrote it just before he died. The ink, though, is smudged in some spots, like it dragged across the page before it dried, from right to left. Besides this, he doesn’t see anything odd about it — nothing to indicate it’s forged, especially since the handwriting matches other papers found at the scene.
Ink, Tobias thinks, and turns back to the corpse. The inspector noted, earlier, an ink stain on his hand, his left hand.
“He’s left-handed,” Tobias says. “That’s why the words on the suicide note are smudged and he has ink on his left hand.”
“Looks like it,” one of his teammates says. “I don’t see how it’s relevant though?”
“The gun is in his right hand,” Tobias answers, in disbelief. “That doesn’t make sense unless someone put it there.”
The kid was right .
It happens again.
Scotland Yard is called for a theft, a murder, a dead body of any kind, and the kid is here, poking around the scene.
Each time, Tobias drags him out and tells him to go home. Each time, the kid huffs and pouts and leaves, still mentioning what he’s noticed, either fully fledged conclusion or simply a detail he’s found strange.
The most infuriating thing for Tobias is that, most of the time, what he says in incredibly relevant to the case at hand. Sometimes he is off the mark, like when he thought the note was fake, but usually they can link his remarks to actual evidence.
In a couple of years, the lad would make a good copper.
In the meantime, Tobias isn’t about to let him prance around crime scenes like he’s supposed to be here. If this keeps going, he’s going to think he’s actually welcome.
After a couple of months of this song and dance, Tobias decides it’s enough. Crime scenes are no place for civilians, and even less for children.
“That’s enough,” he declares as Sholmes slips a clue out of a dead man’s hand. “Give me that and stop interfering with the crime scene.”
“I’m not interfering,” Sholmes answers, passing him a small vial. “I’m investigating .”
Tobias, right there, makes good on his promise and snaps one half of his handcuff around one of the kid’s wrists. “That’s it. You are going to stop messing with the Yard’s work if I have to talk to your parents about it, boy.”
The very same evening, Herlock Sholmes, sixteen years old, is slumped on a chair next Tobias’ desk at Scotland Yard. The boy is morose, his usual smile turned upside down into a scowl, while Tobias waits for his parents.
“I can’t believe you actually arrested me,” he says. “I thought you were joking.”
“I warned you to stop messin’ around. All you needed to do was listen.”
“Do we have to involve…” he pauses, sighing, glancing at the entrance. “ Him ?”
Him being a man in a proper, well-fitted suit, led by the bobby he’s sent out. He can’t be the kid’s father, he’s too young, maybe in his early twenties, but they do look alike.
“This is Mr. Mycroft Sholmes,” the bobby introduces. “He’s here to take the boy home.”
“My apologies for any inconvenience caused by my younger brother.”
He smiles politely, but Tobias gets the feeling he’s not quite sincere, he seems amused more than anything. He eyes Mycroft Sholmes up and down — he and the kid have the same face, but Mycroft’s is a little longer, sharper, while Herlock’s still has some roundness to it, on account of his youth. Besides that, Mycroft's hair is brown where his brother is blond, and it’s where the difference ends.
“I was hopin’ to talk to one of your parents.”
“Ah.” Mycroft doesn't look bothered with the question. “I’m afraid our parents are no longer with us. I am Herlock’s sole remaining family and, as a result, responsible for him.”
“Good enough for me. Your brother has been makin’ himself a nuisance on crime scenes.”
Mycroft glances at his brother, still smiling. “He’s always been an inquisitive one. I remember when we were children, he always tried to sneak into the morgue.”
Tobias isn’t sure he likes this man. He is much, much too calm about his young brother handling corpses, and maybe he’s even the reason the kid is so weird.
Herlock blows air out of his nose in annoyance. “I’m just trying to help.”
“The Sergeant says you’re a nuisance.”
“He’s exaggerating.”
“Is that so?”
Mycroft looks expectantly at Tobias, who plunges his hand into his corner of fish and chips. He waves a chip towards the kid.
“Just take him.”
“You have our thanks sir.” He bows slightly, and Tobias sees his eyes going over the case file on his desk. His smile gets, somehow, wider. “Say thank you, Herlock.”
The boy obediently thanks him, and Tobias sighs, fishing out the key to the handcuffs from his pocket. “Don’t let me catch you again kid,” he grumbles. “You could get into some serious trouble.”
He doesn’t have time to free the kid before Mycroft hands him his own handcuffs. “Here, Sergeant. Come on, we are going home.”
What.
“And, one last thing.” He taps a name on Tobias’ file. “This one is your murderer.”
“I could have told him that,” Herlock tells his brother as they walk away.
“Then why have you not? There is little point in showing off, Herlock.”
Scratch everything Tobias has ever thought about Herlock Sholmes. He would rather deal with the kid than with his brother.
(The worst thing, he thinks later, is that Mycroft Sholmes also turned out to be right.)
The kid starts showing up again about two months later.
“I take it you are no longer grounded?” Tobias asks, pulling him on a side street, away from the murder scene.
“Indeed! My brother freed me just two days ago, after I swore he would not have to pick me up at Scotland Yard again.”
“And you’re already breaking your promise? Some brother you are.”
“I’m not breaking anything,” Sholmes answers smugly. “He didn’t say I couldn’t keep investigating. Only that I couldn’t get arrested while doing it.”
Tobias’ eyebrow twitches. “Well laddie, if you don’t want to be more grounded, I suggest you get lost. I’m not kidding when I say you’ll get yourself into trouble.”
“I can handle trouble.”
He looks way too sure of himself, so Tobias levels him with a deadpan stare, and pulls out the handcuffs. “I will arrest you again.”
“You won’t be able to hold me for long.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The handcuff snap shut around his wrist and Tobias turns around to grab a bobby and order him to get the kid home.
By the time he turns back around, the kid is back next to the body, twirling the cuffs around his finger.
“The wife did it,” he declares.
“Do I need to send directly for your brother?”
“I’ll go, I’ll go! But don’t forget what I said.” He wags his finger. “The victim took off his wedding ring before his death, and the ring is bloody — so it was after he was killed. It’s a message.”
Before Tobias can cuff the back of his head he takes off. Then, Tobias checks the body, and sure enough the bloody ring is in his hand. There is a smudge on his ring finger where he's taken it off.
And, he notes, there are no bruises on his hands or wrists, so he didn’t fight back.
The clues are flimsy at best and Tobias wonders if the kid saw something else he didn’t mention, or just jumped to conclusions.
Either way a couple of days of investigation later, he turns out to be right.
It was a matter of time before the kid got himself into some serious trouble.
Tobias expected it to be legal trouble, from messing around crime scenes so much. At some point he was bound to be arrested as a suspect and find himself at the Old Bailey as a defendant.
Tobias does not expect what actually happens though, in retrospect, he shouldn’t be surprised.
The culprit is exposed almost immediately after the arrival of the police (with barely any input from a self-proclaimed detective) and takes off, trying to escape arrest. The kid runs after him before any officer can make a move and it takes Tobias several precious seconds to engage in pursuit, but the boy is surprisingly fast so he doesn’t catch up to him until it’s too late.
He turns the corner of the street just in time to see Sholmes grabbing the man by the arm. The killer stops, slips a small knife out of his coat and plunges it in the kid’s stomach.
He gasps, face going slack in surprise and pain. The man pushes him back, pulling the knife out, he stumbles and Tobias just as the time to take a hold of him before he falls hard on the ground. He lets him sit down slowly, before he whips out his firearm, but the killer has already disappeared on the side street.
“Your brother is on his way,” Tobias tells Sholmes.
The kid flops back down on his hospital bed. “I am perfectly fine,” he says. “It’s barely more than a scratch.”
“It’s not what the doctor said,” Tobias notes. He pulls his fish and chips from his coat, taking one. “A couple more inches and you’d have been a goner, laddie.”
“A scratch, Gregson.”
“The blood loss alone was almost fatal.”
“It doesn’t even hurt.”
“Thank the laudanum for that, kid. I warned you that you would get into trouble.”
Sholmes goes quiet at this, his eyebrows drawn together as he stares at him. Tobias learned, in time, that while he’s observant, human emotions can still be somewhat of a mystery to him.
Nothing less than being straightforward will get it across to him.
He’s about to come out and tell the kid he doesn’t want him getting himself killed by putting his nose into business it doesn’t belong in when the door opens.
“Ah, Sergeant, thank you for looking after my brother.”
“He wouldn’t need lookin’ after he you’d stop him from investigatin’.” He makes quotation marks with his fingers on the last word.
“Herlock has always done whatever he wished.” He sighs. “Nothing I can say will stop him.”
Sholmes pointedly pretends he isn’t listening.
“Well, you better figure somethin’ out sunshine because I am not happy with civilian kids getting stabbed.”
“And I am not happy with Herlock being stabbed either.” And Tobias is pretty sure there is a threat here, which is — okay, at least the guy seems to care about his brother. But Tobias has no responsibility in this. He’s a copper, not a babysitter. “I trust the perpetrator will be arrested posthaste.”
And this, he thinks, sounds like an order.
“Our men are chasing him as we speak.”
“You will most likely find him near Mulholland Road.” Mycroft checks his pocket watch. “I’ll talk to the doctor about your release, Herlock.”
As soon as he’s gone, Tobias turns to Herlock, who answers the silent question.
“He had mud at the bottom of his trousers, but it hasn’t rained in days, so he came from a place with a nearby construction site. There are two spots with those near the crime scene: Fresno Street, for the road works, and Mulholland Road, where they’re building new housing. He’s rather well-off, so he wouldn’t live in Fresno Street. Hence, Mulholland Road. And if he wants to run, he can’t do it empty handed, so he most likely went home.”
“Your brother doesn’t have access to that information.”
“Unfortunately, Gregson, knowing things is part of his work.” Herlock sighs, sounding almost depressed. “I hate when he shows off like that.”
What part of “figure something out” has Mycroft Sholmes misunderstood, Tobias thinks, watching the kid shamelessly provoke a butler.
If he gets stabbed again, Tobias won’t be the one dragging him to the hospital.
This time, the police had been called for a theft : someone broke into some elderly lady’s home, making off with jewelry and family heirlooms, almost killing a house maid in the process, before fleeing through the window.
The lady’s butler has answered all Scotland Yard’s questions and they were preparing to leave to track down the burglar, when Sholmes suddenly became very interested in the man.
Finally, the man snaps, and makes to grab the kid by the collar. He ducks, taking a step back, and Tobias almost misses the way his hand dart towards the man’s pocket, expertly pulling something out.
“I don’t think it’s yours,” he declares, dangling the diamond necklace from his finger.
“Why— you— little brat—”
There is an attempt to deck the kid in the face, but no matter how much Tobias thinks he deserves it, he grabs the man’s arm, twisting it, and pulls out the handcuffs.
“Well, there it is. Take him in, boys.”
Once the thief is out and in the police vehicle, ready to be transported to a holding cell at the Yard, Tobias turns to Sholmes.
“Are you trying to get stabbed again?”
“Of course not.” He shrugs with unnecessary flourish. “Mycroft and I had a talk, you see, and he gave me...this!” He opens his coat, showing off his gift, and Tobias stares, dumbfounded.
“Is that a firearm?”
“To use only when strictly necessary!”
Tobias is soon going to find shoving Mycroft Sholmes into a cell strictly necessary.
“Do you at least know how to use it?”
“Well, no.” Very soon. “But Mycroft learned on his own at age fourteen, how could I possibly not figure it out?”
God help me.
Tobias’ next, and probably last, hope of getting rid of Herlock Sholmes before he ruins evidence, accidentally shoots someone or worse, gets himself shot, magically appears in the person of Lord Klint van Zieks.
The prosecutor comes in on the scene one morning, looking for evidence incriminating the suspect and finds Herlock Sholmes intently studying the blood on the wall.
“Sorry my Lord,” one of the cops says. “We just can’t get rid of him.”
“Let me talk to him.” And yes, someone else is going to try to kick him out. Tobias is the only one of his team who has yet to give up on it, so having someone new in his corner is a relief.
Klint approaches Sholmes curiously, leaning over his shoulder. “Good morning my young friend, have you found anything interesting?”
“That splatter,” Sholmes explains, “is different from the rest. It’s much lower and thinner, which tells me that…” He pauses for dramatic effect. “There were two victims.”
“I’m not sure I follow your reasoning here,” Klint answers.
“Well, it’s obvious!” He twirls his finger, pointing at the higher bloodstain. “This one is the same height as our corpse’s throat, so this is the result of the slashing. But this one —” He snaps his fingers towards the one he was studying “— is much lower, roughly reaching his shoulder, and considering the amount of blood it wasn’t lethal. However,” he goes on, turning to the body, “this unfortunate man doesn’t have any wound at this level, which means someone else was injured here.”
“And what do you make of the blood on the knife?” he asks and, to Tobias’ growing horror, shows him the murder weapon. The handle is covered with a red handprint, also noted by the police on the door handles.
Sholmes narrows his eyes at the knife. “To have such stains on the knife and the door…” he thinks for a couple of seconds, before he grins. “Ah-ha! For someone to have such bloody hands —” He presses his hand on the spot he’s been stabbed months ago. “— it must have covered an injury, maybe the victims…”
“Wouldn’t we have found handprints on the victim’s clothes?”
“Exactly! Which means, baring the possibility of a third person being here—”
“Unlikely, no one but the victim and the suspect came in, according to the lodger.”
“Then the injury in question must have been the attacker’s, and the blood on the knife his own.”
Klint nods. “It makes sense. Good work, my friend.”
Sholmes’ face lights up. He tries to look confident, with his hands on his hips and a smirk, but his reddening cheeks just tell Tobias he’s happy with the praise. “But of course, always happy to put my deduction skills to contribution!” He points at another part of the crime scene. “I— I’ll just be over here. Looking for. Evidence.”
He hurries to the corner, crouching, pretending to look at something. Tobias tilts his head to see his face, and he’s trying very hard to not grin, the tip of his ears pink.
Sometimes, Tobias forgets that he’s still some seventeen years old who likes validation.
“You don’t have to indulge him, you know?” he tells Klint.
“He is smart and observant; he just needs a little push.” Klint chuckles. “He and Barok look to be around the same age, and just as my brother, he has only one thing on his mind: solving crime. A little indulgence can only be beneficial in the long run.”
Except that Tobias knows Barok isn’t the sort of kid to go gallivanting on crime scenes with no supervision. The boys have, obviously, been raised by older brothers of very different personalities.
“How beneficial could it be if he gets himself killed?”
“Ah, this is the heart of the matter then?” Klint smiles at him knowingly. “You are worried about him.”
“His brother gave him a firearm without showin’ him how to use it!” He hisses, wiping his forehead, pulling out his chips to eat some. “This is a disaster waitin’ to happen.”
“Then you know what to do, don’t you, old friend?”
Tobias almost groans to himself. “Can’t you do it? The kid seems to like you.”
“Apologies, Tobias. I’m already teaching Barok swordsmanship, he keeps me busy.”
Of course.
“Found everything you need?” When Klint acquiesces, Tobias calls out: “Alright, boys, we are done for the day. Everyone packs up and goes home.”
The investigators quickly clear out the scene. Klint claps Tobias on the shoulder before taking his leave and soon there is only Herlock Sholmes left, deeply focused on something.
Tobias sighs and clears his throat. “Look kid,” he starts.
“Uh?” He blinks, only now noticing everyone else has left. “What is it, Gregson?”
“About that firearm of yours.” He pauses, considering his words. “If you’d like, I could show you how to properly use it.”
The kid stares for a couple of seconds before he bites his lips. Then, he shakes his head forcefully. “Mycroft learned on his own,” he says with finality, as if that settled the subject.
“He shouldn’t have had to, and you shouldn’t either. What kind of detective are you going to be if you don’t accept help when it’s offered?”
How can he be of help to anyone if he won’t let anyone help him? Does he expect to be able to shoulder everything alone?
That gives him pause. “Very well,” he finally says, and he unfolds himself, standing upright.
“Great. Come on, let’s find somewhere to practice.” He puts on his hat. “You should still take up some other mean of self-defense. The pistol is a good deterrent, but you won’t always have the time to pull it out, and a good old punch in the face is faster and effective.”
It takes a couple of weeks for Sholmes to become an acceptable shot.
There is a lot of room for improvement, but he’s a fast learner. Firearms are still a fairly recent addition at the Yard, and most learn to use them because they have to, but the kid actually wants to get better at it.
Not to mention he takes criticism quite graciously for someone with such a penchant for showing off and dramatics.
“Are you getting all that ammunition from Scotland Yard’s stock?”
“Yeah.” Tobias sits on a chair, shoving a bunch chips into his mouth. “I’ll just say it was for the guys’ practice.”
Sholmes’ next shot almost hits the middle of the target. He handles the mechanical part of the weapon better than the practical part — a couple of days ago, after a frustrating practice, he’d disassembled the firearm and put it back together, showed a lot of interest in gunpowder and even took some home with him.
From what Tobias can see, figuring out how it worked on the inside actually helped him.
“Why are you doing this?” Sholmes suddenly asks. He gestures at the makeshift targets riddled with holes. “You could get into trouble.”
To be honest, Tobias isn’t sure where to start. He settles for : “Your “detective work” is dangerous.”
“I’m aware.” He taps his finger over the spot he was stabbed, where there is probably a scar. “You’ve been very clear on that point too. Which is why it doesn’t make sense — you’ve been trying to get rid of me since we first met, and yet you volunteered to teach me skills that would allow me to continue my work. There is a clear contradiction in your behavior, and —”
“Just listen,” Tobias cuts in, stopping what is sure to become a rant, and reminds himself to be straightforward. “As far as I can tell, you’re only stickin’ with crime scenes handled by the Yard, which is good, because it’s relatively safer.” He glares at Sholmes. “Unless, of course, you split from us and go off on your own.”
Sholmes has the decency to grimace and look away like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “That’s why Mycroft asked me to stay close to Scotland Yard.”
At least the man has some sense and is trying to keep his brother safe in his own way.
“But I know you, kid. You won’t be content with this forever. You’re bound to take your own cases and sooner or later, you’ll come in close contact with some thieves or killers or whatever scum you’ll want to expose out there. And when they try to do you in, you’ll be on your own. Someone has to make sure you will be able to defend yourself and clearly no one else is willin’ to do it.”
Sholmes just nods, uncharacteristically silent.
“If you’re going to continue being a nuisance, the least you can do is being a live one.”
If, one day, Tobias has to drag his corpse out of the Thames, he’s going to be very cross about it.
“What happened to your face?”
Sholmes raises his hand to press on the forming bruise on his jaw, and Tobias spots more blue and purple splotches across his knuckles.
“How could you possibly not know?” He asks. “You’re the reason behind them after all.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re excused!” he makes a little flourish with his hands. “I took up boxing, you see. You should really remember your own advice. Punching is indeed fast, though for the time being not very effective I’m afraid.”
Gregson stares at his skinny arms. “It’ll come with practice. What are you doing here? And how did you find out where I live?”
“I asked Mycroft. I’m here for a matter of the utmost importance.”
And how does Mycroft Sholmes know where he lives? “All right kid, where is the body?”
“No body today. Grab your coat, Gregson, I’m treating you to the best fish and chips in town!”
He throws Tobias his coat, who sighs and follows him out of the door. “And with what money?”
“I found myself a job.”
Tobias, for a moment, tries to imagine Sholmes with a desk job. He fails.
“Since when?”
“Three months.” He twirls on his feet to face him. “I work in the labs at the hospital. It’s a little boring, but it’s enough to cover my half of the rent.”
“You moved away from you brother then?”
“Roughly six weeks ago, yes.” He sighs. “Apparently my experiments were taking too much room and I needed my own space. According to Mycroft I simply can’t keep corrosive products in the spice cabinet, or my experiments too close to the fresh vegetables. He called it a ‘safety hazard’.” He makes quotation marks with his fingers.
“Not that I like being on your bother’s side, but he’s right.”
“I know that, and Lord van Zieks said the same. That’s why I agreed to move.”
Klint had mentioned he invited Sholmes over for tea a few times over the past couple of months. He seems to have taken a liking to the kid, mentioning him being “a great conversationalist”, though he and Barok didn’t really click.
Yet. Klint has good hopes.
Maybe that is where Sholmes learned of the concept of “hanging out”.
As Sholmes leads him to proclaimed best fish and chips in London, Tobias half listens to him rambles, and it comes to him that he’s never heard him talk about anyone but his brother. He’s been living with someone for six weeks and he’s never heard anything about them.
“What about your roommate?” He asks. “Is he interested in detective work?”
“No.” Sholmes hands him fish and chips rolled in a newspaper. His shoulders slump. “He has no scientific curiosity either. He yelled at me this morning because my experimental fireworks went off indoors.”
Maybe, Tobias thinks, he and Klint are the closest thing to friends the kid has. And maybe, he also thinks, it’s for actually good reasons.
Sholmes’ roommate gives up two weeks later and when Tobias sees him the kid is a lot more tired and stressed, working longer hours at the lab. It’s four more weeks before he shows up to a crime scene, looking upbeat, a Japanese man Tobias has never seen in tow.
Asogi, Tobias’ new shadow and one of three Japanese students from the exchange program, immediately recognises him.
“Yujin, I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“Well, I just followed my new friend.” He gestured towards Sholmes. “This is Herlock Sholmes, a consulting detective.”
“What he is,” Tobias cuts in, “is someone who shows up uninvited. Sholmes!” he calls out to the boy snooping around. “Did you brin’ a civilian on my scene?”
“Not a civilian!” Sholmes calls back. “Mikotoba here is a doctor of medicine and works under Doctor Wilson in the coroner office at St. Synner, which makes him a member of the judiciary.” He looks way too proud of himself, while Mikotoba sends Tobias an apologetic glance.
“On a technicality. It doesn’t mean he’s allowed here.”
Sholmes ignores him. “Take a look at this, Mikotoba!”
Just like that, Mikotoba is not so sorry anymore and hurries to Sholmes’ side. He takes his hat off, crouching next to the corpse.
“She didn’t bleed much from the stab wound,” Sholmes says. “The knife must have acted as a stopper, but why take it out at all?”
“One minute, Sholmes,” Mikotoba counters. “If the knife acted as a stopper, the blood would still have spilled when it was removed. The head wound, however —”
“Head wounds always bleed profusely. It must have been an initial attack, to knock the victim out.”
“Indeed they do, we can see it from the blood on her face and hair, but there is almost no blood on the ground, which leads me to believe that—”
“—she was attacked elsewhere.”
They exchange a look, a shared spark in their eyes, before Sholmes jumps to his feet.
“Another crime scene then!” He grins, much wider than Tobias has ever seen, before he takes off running. “Come on now, Mikotoba! The game is afoot!”
Mikotoba grins back, sets his hat on the top of his head again, and follows.
“God,” Tobias mutters, “there are two of them.”
Next to him, Asogi just laughs.
“I haven’t seen him so happy in quite some time,” Asogi tells them one dreary morning.
It’s a usual London morning: grey, rainy and foggy, with a dead body in a dark alley. For your run off the mill Londoner, it’s average, if not a little sad for the poor sod’s immediate family.
For Sholmes and Mikotoba, it’s a playground. They’re almost jumping around the scene, inspecting every nook and cranny. Mikotoba is taking notes — both of his observations and of Sholmes’ never ending flow of words.
“What do you mean?” Klint asks.
“Yujin suffered a personal loss before we left Japan.” Despite their questioning looks, he doesn’t elaborate. “He and Sholmes have not known each other for long, but they’re already roommates and it’s clear that young detective is doing him some good.”
The same goes for Sholmes, to be honest. Don’t get Tobias wrong, Sholmes has always been loud and open about his love for investigation but he’s never been so enthusiastic in dragging someone all over a crime scene, spilling out theories on conclusions back and forth.
Then again, very few people are able, or even willing, to keep up with him.
“Ah-ha!” Sholmes springs to his feet. “Everything is clear now!” They both turn to them, holding out two fingers. “We’ve come to two conclusions.”
“One,” Mikotoba says, ticking off one finger. “The cause of death is not what it seems.”
“Two,” Sholmes goes on, ticking off the second. “The killer is still close by.”
Sholmes flicks his cap, and starts walking them through his deductions. Soon enough, Mikotoba takes over the explanation, tipping his own hat and tapping his heels on the ground in little tap dance.
Tobias watches, with horrified fascination, as they expose their reasoning, bouncing around the crime scene, finishing each other’s questions and answers in the world’s worst dancing number.
“We are going to have to do our best to keep up,” Klint remarks as they expose the killer’s hiding place. Well, Mikotoba does, directing Sholmes to a slightly different conclusion.
“I refuse to acknowledge what I’m seein’ right now,” Tobias says.
Asogi smiles, delighted by the display. “Let them have their fun for today.”
The murderer yells something as a bobby puts him in handcuffs and pushes back, trying to run. Before the bobby can think he takes off, shoving him, then Sholmes, out of the way.
At least he tries to shove Sholmes, but Mikotoba quickly pulls the kid to the side, grabs the killer's wrist and gracefully flips him over his head, sending him flat on his back on the pavement. He dusts his hands on his clothes, not looking bothered in the slightest.
Asogi slowly claps. “One of your most impressive Yujin Takedowns so far, my friend.”
Tobias just stares, at loss of words, and, for some reason, a little relieved.
Things get a little different after Sholmes partners with Mikotoba. They show up less frequently on Scotland Yard’s crime scenes, and Tobias sometimes finds out what they’re up to through the newspapers.
Every so often, he’s called and finds the two of them already here on their own business, which just so happens to be related to the crime at hand.
It's slightly less annoying than having them just show up on his crime scenes unannounced. At least he doesn’t need to kick the kid out anymore.
Though he should probably stop calling him a kid. He’s been at it for what…three, four years now ? He has to be at least twenty.
He's filled out some, gotten a little taller and looks more like his brother than ever. Not that Tobias has seen a lot of Mycroft Sholmes over the past few years, only once in a while when he gets home and finds the man sitting in his armchair.
It's the man’s personal way of keeping an eye out for his brother, he supposed. The kid probably wouldn’t take kindly to being directly watched by his older brother.
At least Tobias knows who the detective gets his habit of walking into places without invitation from.
“So what do we have here?”
“Male, roughly fourty,” Mikotoba explains. “He was shot and thrown off the top floor of the mansion.”
“And what have the two got to do with that, exactly?”
“We were gracefully invited by the lord of the house.”
“Isn’t that a first.”
“Don’t be like that, Gregson.” Sholmes huffs. “As I was saying, we were gracefully invited by the lord of the house, Lord Johnson, who asked us for help to investigate the kidnapping of his son. The dead fellow is part of the house staff and was, until about an hour ago, our main suspect.”
“What happened an hour ago?”
“He died.” Sholmes pinches his lips, staring at the body. “Obviously.”
Alright, Johnson the prime suspect it is.
Johnson the prime suspect turns out to be Johnson the murderer. It’s a pretty easy one to prove: the firearm is his, usually kept locked in a safe of which only he has the key. The victim had also kidnapped his son — which, it turns out, was a ploy by the son to get gambling money from his parents. Johnson was furious when his butler admitted to it.
“And,” van Zieks sighs, “he was acquitted anyway.” He glares into his teacup and Gregson winces. "Thanks to a generous donation to the jurors, I suppose."
“If he doesn’t fall for this, he’ll fall for somethin’ else,” Gregson says. Herlock can tell he means it — the man may be a noble, an aristocrat, but he’s not above the law. If he can stoop to murder, he can probably do anything — but also that he’s as furious about it as van Zieks.
On van Zieks’ left, Herlock is slouched on his chair, one leg crossed over his thigh. He is quiet, pouting into his cup of tea.
He and Mikotoba had been on the scene when Johnson committed murder, and he was unable to prevent it.
The prosecution comes in when it’s too late and justice has to be done. You called the cops as a last resort, when you were sure there was a crime. You called a private detective when you still thought things could get better without involving law enforcement, when you need help. They had been here to help.
They’d failed.
“Next time, we will get him,” Gregson promises.
“There should not have to be a next time,” van Zieks mutters and as far as Herlock is concerned, he’s right.
When he’s called for the body of an aristocrat, Tobias expects something clean.
Most of the time, aristocrats kill each other cleanly — through sword duels or poisoning. In and out, controlled mess, easy. Either that or they hire someone to do the deed for them, they aren’t keen on staining their outfits.
This specific victim was a prime suspect of a previous crime, judged not guilty in court, though Tobias knows Klint suspected foul play. Just for this, he can concede the motive could be revenge and in that case it can get a little messier.
He doesn’t expect the man’s throat to have been torn open.
“Anything of note?” he asks Wilson.
“The victim is Lord Arthur Johnson.” Well, if it isn’t a familiar name.
The coroner looks over the body. “You two,” he says, gesturing to his assistants. “What can you see?”
“There are claw marks over his chest and arms,” Dr. Stevens starts. “The fatal blow is, without a doubt, the wound on his throat, which looks to have been causes by animal teeth.”
“We would need to examine it more closely and in daylight to ascertain it, but from a first inspection it could a wolf or a dog bite,” Mikotoba continues.
“Big dog,” Tobias mutters. Wilson just nods grimly.
“Some hunting hounds are particularly large,” Sholmes says, popping out from God’s know where, making Tobias flinch. “But we might need to check if the domain’s forest houses wolves.”
“Where do you come from?”
“I took the liberty of accompanying Mikotoba to the scene. Considering it’s just about three in the morning, I had very little else to do.”
“Our lovely landlady, Mrs Hudson, kicked him out because he was playing a mournful ballad.”
Sholmes doesn’t dignifies this with an answer, instead joining the three coroners in their examination of the body.
“Any wounds on the back?”
“Not any that we can see.”
“Poor sod probably didn’t have time to run.”
He may have been a corrupted noble and a criminal, but Tobias still wouldn’t wish being mauled by an animal on his worst enemy.
This situation is extremely unusual, but it still somehow rings a bell.
Asogi takes a few steps back, staring at the ground. “There are tracks here in the mud, considering the position of the body and wounds he must have been facing it. He saw it coming.”
There is little more on the scene to exploit. A cursory interrogation at the man’s home only confirmed he suddenly went out at roughly midnight. Several members of the staff, still awake and working at the time, can attest to it, though they’re unable to say what prompted him to leave.
“It’s strange,” Tobias says. “We had a similar case last month, Lord Black killed in a huntin’ accident, mauled by a wolf.”
Lord Black had also been recently exonerated from a terrible crime, the jury finding him innocent despite overwhelming evidence.
“You might want to revisit that “accident” then.” Sholmes kneels next to Asogi. “Look at those tracks here.”
“Human footprints.”
“Mikotoba,” Sholmes calls out, “what is our victim’s shoe size?”
He doesn’t get up and Mikotoba doesn’t formalise himself of the rudeness and even less of being ordered around by a civilian. Had it been Tobias, he would’ve told him to bloody do it himself.
Instead, the doctor takes out the measuring tape and does just as Sholmes says. He tells the size and Sholmes stares, pensive, at the footprint.
Asogi leans over him and looks back to Tobias. “Those footprints are larger than our victim's.”
“Someone else was here.” Tobias takes off his hat, staring at the tracks in the mud. Two deaths in similar circumstances in just over a month.
The first, ruled an accident. The second, probably a murder, casts new light on the first.
“Compare with the wounds on Lord Black, if they are the same we may have two murders on our hands.”
Two become three become four. Van Zieks, Gregson and Asogi are driving themselves up the wall in their search for the killer.
It shouldn’t be so difficult. How many people have a dog large enough to bite someone’s throat out?
“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?”
Herlock doesn’t say anything, staring at van Zieks’ investigation board. He wishes he could put into words exactly what he’s thinking right now, but he’s not sure how. He needs to be better; he reminds himself. He needs to figure this out.
But. But .
But Klint van Zieks fits the profile.
Klint van Zieks has access to those people’s criminal records, their addresses, has a large hunting hound and a visceral dislike of those who use their privileges to escape justice.
“You should go home,” he goes on. “This is gettin’ too sensitive for you to stay involved.”
Herlock slides off the table. “What in the world do you mean, Gregson?”
“This isn’t a random killer, this is a repeat murderer who’s sick enough to send a dog after people. And they broke the pattern with the Chief Justice, they’re not only targetin’ acquitted criminals anymore. Your clean record won’t help you if you run into him.”
The Chief Justice is the only thing that puts a dent into his conclusion. He was van Zieks’ friend and mentor and has never been suspected of any crime. As far as they know, they had an amicable relationship and never had any cause for conflict.
Not only the lack of motive almost eliminates van Zieks from the suspect list, but Stronghart himself gives him an alibi for the night of the murder.
(And yet there is something scratching at his brain, a nagging feeling that despite appearance there is something he should pursue.)
“You will inform me if you find anything, will you?” Mikotoba will undoubtedly keep him up to date with any forensic discoveries, but he would probably be out of the loop for the rest of the investigation.
“Lord Stronghart wants us to keep the details confidential.” Still, Gregson is ready to make concessions. “And there probably are other people who need your services. When we find the killer, you’ll be the first to know.”
Herlock takes another long, thoughtful look at the board. Maybe if he stared less at it, he would run less into circles. Maybe the bags under his eyes are making things difficult to see.
“Trust me kid, we will find him them.”
He laughs lightly, erasing the uneasiness from his face, but he suspects Gregson is not fooled by his little comedy.
If there is someone in Scotland Yard who can put an end to this series of murders, it’s Tobias Gregson. Herlock has no doubt about it.
He does need time of his own to mull over the strange, out of place Chief Justice murder. Without solving that part he can’t make a deduction.
“Very well,” he concedes, “I’ll eagerly await your word, then.”
“It was Asogi.”
Herlock isn’t sure he heard that right.
He isn’t exactly in the best of shape, to be fair. Van Zieks has been dead for just about two days and Herlock, despite not allowing himself a wink of sleep since then, is no closer to finding out what is truly happening. If van Zieks is the professor then why kill the Chief Justice? If van Zieks is the professor then why is he dead? If van Zieks is not the professor then who else fits the profile ?
(And why does Herlock's stomach turns everytime he ponders on the problem?)
“I’m sorry?”
“Asogi,” Gregson repeats. “We found decisive evidence.”
Herlock glances at his own investigation board, that he’d remade from scratch, starting over from the beginning. Asogi hasn’t even made it on his suspect list.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Can’t be more sure. We found his ring inside Klint’s stomach durin' the autopsy.”
Mikotoba did say they were going to do an autopsy when he left in the morning. Unexpected, but they can be thankful for Gregson, who pushed for it. He has yet to tell him how the autopsy went, but apparently Gregson took the initiative.
He wants to doubt his words, but Gregson has never given him reason to. Gregson is right, and Herlock is wrong on this one.
“What happens next?”
“Asogi's been taken in, he’ll have a closed trial in a couple of days. The evidence is damnin’ and Stronghart’s leadin’ the prosecution so I expect he’ll be executed.”
Herlock closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath. It’s odd hearing Gregson speak like this of a friend.
“I see,” he just says.
“I still have a hard time believin’ Asogi could…” He trails off, taking his hat off and pressing it against his chest. “But there is no doubt, and the evidence is here, he won’t escape justice.”
It's then he finally identifies the strange twist in his guts, why part of him rebels at the idea of Asogi or even van Zieks committing murder, everything .
It's grief. You are grieving, Herlock , a voice in his head that sounds like his brother tells him.
He doesn’t know what face he makes, but his eyes burn and feel full like something is trying to escape out of them. It must not be pretty because Gregson grimaces. “This has been hard on all of us. You should take a break and get some rest, kid.”
It’s like the man is freeing him from something, and Herlock feels himself nod. He doesn’t remember what happens next — Gregson leaving, Mikotoba coming home — all he knows is that the sleep through the next day and wakes almost in time for tea.
Gregson fulfilled his promise and came to him with an answer. Herlock chooses to believe him.
Case closed.
Herlock doesn’t see Gregson for a long time after this. He isn’t sure exactly how long, but Mikotoba has the time to find a baby and go back to Japan.
A baby. Klint van Ziek’s baby. Herlock’s baby now.
He tightens his grip on Iris, pulling her close — she’s tiny, if he messes up he’ll break her forever. He can barely take care of himself on his own, how many meals has he forgotten when working, who thought it a good idea to give him a baby?
(Mikotoba. Mikotoba trusted him.)
Breathing slowly, he puts her to bed and goes back to the living room. It feels so empty now that Mikotoba is gone.
He takes down his investigation board, ripping off photographs and newspaper cuttings. The pins and red strings go into a tin box that once held biscuits and, as he puts everything away, he makes a point of not thinking of his suspicions and Mikotoba’s uneasy tone as he spoke of the autopsy.
He takes in a deep breath and then, instead, thinks of Iris.
As a detective, his job is to find the truth, but also to help as best as he can. It's not helping Iris if this case is not laid to rest.
Gregson has no reason to lie to him. As for his remaining questions well, some mysteries are better left unsolved.
(And yet, one day, years later, he’ll read the autopsy report and wonder.)
KillTheActor Sun 29 Dec 2024 06:20AM UTC
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