The Autobiography of Mycroft Holmes

Chapter 15: Murder at the Diogenes

"A Senior was murdered tonight?" I asked Lestrade, furiously. "How long did you know of this? And you still had this party tonight anyway?"

"Okay, let me explain..."

"Don't explain; it takes up time and it's useless to me anyway. We have to get over there right now."

"What about me?" Sherlock asked.

"There is no way I'm bringing you to the Diogenes Club, and you know that," I said to Sherlock.

"Sorry, Mycroft, but Sherlock is a non-negotiable. They expect me to bring Sherlock," Lestrade said. I was taken aback.

"Fine," I stated abruptly. "Go to the crime scene now. Sherlock and I will take another cab."

Gina ran out, and I picked up my purse that I had dropped next to me. I checked it to make sure it had my phone, and Sherlock told me to hurry up. I ran out the front entrance door and nearly slammed it in her face as I left.

We were silent in the cab for the whole ride, except for the cabbie's rap music playing rather loudly on the speakers. I only cared about arriving at the scene of the crime before it washed away into the sewers of London because of the rain.

Upon arriving at the scene of the crime I jumped out of the cab, forcing Sherlock to pay the cabbie while I began my investigation. Lestrade met me in front of the Diogenes Club; the cabbie had parked across the street from the club because the police cars were blocking off the sidewalk in a large circle two or three cars deep depending on the area of the street. There was a large crowd of people gathered around the scene; most in suits, obviously members.

The police themselves were beyond the yellow-tape-restricted areas, but I could not make my way up to the tape line without Lestrade clearing a path.

"Where's Sherlock?" she asked me. I should have known that was the first thing she'd ask when we showed up.

"Paying the cabbie. Who died?"

"Uhh... I don't really remember his name. The only one I remember from my time is that guy Villarreal because of his relatively interesting name, but it's not him though," Lestrade said, squeezing us through the crowd of people around the scene. She lifted up the yellow tape to let me onto the scene itself when we finally broke through.

"We still don't have an identification of who this is. Do you know?"

I walked up to the body and took off my suit jacket. I gave it to a confused Lestrade, who I knew was convinced I would wait for Sherlock even though she knew my aversions to bringing her. The overarching hate for field work that I had seemed stronger in her mind, but this was a type of situation that called for measures more drastic. It did involve my Club, after all.

I bent to the ground, getting down on my knees and looking closely at the man's head. I knew who this was. I also knew his grandson was probably in the crowd watching this along with the rest of the Seniors, and I had to make a good show for them. In my peripheral vision, I saw Sherlock shove her way through the crowds, and bend underneath the yellow tape to run to Lestrade.

She talked with Lestrade for a few minutes, taking part in a heated discussion that ended with shouts and threats.

Sherlock exited the blocked-off circle, and instead of asking Lestrade what happened, I asked her for a flashlight and a magnifying glass. She provided them for me in seconds along with a pair of sterile gloves which I proceeded to slip over my now-dirtied hands.

"Who is he?" Lestrade whispered to me, kneeling on the pavement with me. "I know you don't need any of this to figure it out."

"Mr. Robert Saylor. And you're correct in your assumption. Thanks for getting rid of Sherlock nonetheless. I actually even know exactly how this man died, as well."