Corruption

She was relatively easy to find. Shiloh Treloar. It had taken Sherlock only minutes to find her existence, and only minutes more to hide the book under his coat and rush back home. And once John had gotten over the fact the book was technically stolen from the library, he was interested in helping Sherlock find the woman.

Despite John being rather skilled with a laptop, there was little to be found about Miss Shiloh. She didn’t seem to exist, despite what the worn, yellowed book had written within its pages. A deeper search would result in information about the Treloar family, but nothing about Shiloh herself. Sherlock grew frustrated; he paced around the room, a hand clenching his curly locks. There had to be a way to find out more.

“Why don’t we just ask your brother?” John finally asked, an hour later.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and stared at him incredulously. “Are you daft?” He asked, “Why would I ask him?”

John stared back, his expression nearly mirroring his friend’s. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because he must know who she is?”

“I would be better off asking Lestrade to find the woman with that fancy software of his.” Sherlock mused, looking deep in thought. “It’s unlikely Mycroft wants me to know about her.”

And so, an hour and a half later, Sherlock and John stood before Greg Lestrade. His office was open to the rest of the department; eyes behind desks were focused on whatever was happening inside. Sherlock paid no attention.

“You owe me a favor, Inspector. Several, I’d say.” Sherlock said, staring down at the older man.

“What is it, Sherlock? I have work to do.” Greg sighed, exiting a window on his computer.

Sherlock smiled at him, happy the Inspector seemed to be cooperating. “I need you to look someone up on that fancy government program of yours.”

“What, in the database?” Greg asked, his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“If that is what you call it, then yes. Shiloh Treloar is her name.”

The Inspector looked conflicted. “Sherlock, I can’t just look up someone for no reason. These things are logged, you know.”

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “Well, what do you need to do it? I simply wish to contact a long-lost sister of mine.”

Greg looked taken aback at Sherlock’s words. He had expected to be looking up a criminal or something of the sort. “Oh, lovely. I can’t imagine she’ll like you very much.” Still, the Inspector decided to go ahead and send the query, figuring Sherlock had done enough for him to deserve this. He sat back in his chair, waiting for the search to finish and send back results.

“How exactly did you find out about her?” Greg asked Sherlock, who had gotten himself comfortable in a chair across from him. John was still standing, rather awkwardly, behind the consulting detective.

“Mycroft slipped up.” Sherlock said simply, leaning forward to look at the papers scattered across the Inspector’s desk. “Tsk, rather messy you are… Hmm? What’s this?” Sherlock grabbed an opened envelope and pulled out the letter. “My dearest Gregory,” He started to read, only to have the letter snatched back by Lestrade.

“Don’t go through my things, Sherlock.” He snapped angrily, then turned back towards the screen of his computer. His flustered expression quickly changed to a slightly more confused one. “I’m not allowed to access Shiloh Treloar’s information.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock murmured, leaning forward. “Try David Treloar, then.”

A moment later, Greg Lestrade informed Sherlock he’d gotten something this time. “His occupation is hidden…some government agency, I presume. He has a wife named Mary and a son named Benjamin.”

“No Shiloh?” Sherlock asked, his mind nearly coming to a brick wall.

“No…oh, well, it is mentioned he adopted a girl over twenty years ago. No name, though.”

Sherlock groaned. “God Damn it, why must this be difficult?” He stood up and walked around the desk to stand behind the Inspector’s chair. Grabbing a pen and paper, Sherlock wrote down all contact details he could find.

“Hey, I don’t think—”

“Goodbye, Inspector.” Sherlock told the man, leaving the office quickly.

Once they had gotten back to the apartment, Sherlock picked up his mobile phone and began to dial a number.

“You aren’t actually calling this ‘David’, are you?” John asked, hoping Sherlock wasn’t doing something quite so ridiculous.

“Of course not, John. I’m calling Mycroft.”

John rolled his eyes. “Right, as if I hadn’t told you to do that in the first place.”

Sherlock ignored him.

- - -

“Who is Shiloh Treloar?” Sherlock asked when he heard the phone pick up.

On the other side of the call, Mycroft groaned. “Sherlock, you didn’t contact her did you?”

“Of course not, I can’t find the bloody woman! Who is she? Why didn’t I know?”

“I’m sure you found enough to know she is our younger sister, yes?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock confirmed his statement. “I don’t know why our parents decided not to keep her, but an older couple ended up adopting rather quickly.”

“What for?” Sherlock asked. There had to be a reason that the said couple adopted her. Mycroft had described them as old; why would an old couple, already with a son, adopt a baby?

“She was put into a government program for testing. The details aren’t important, Sherlock. What you need to understand that she is not to be contacted. Do you hear me?”

“And why not? What if I want to speak with a sister I did not know I had?” Sherlock asked his older brother, a frown on his face.

“Sherlock, she isn’t stable. She’s like you—but in a different way. If she gets involved with you, I can guarantee she’ll be corrupted. That cannot happen, Sherlock.”

Of course, Sherlock didn’t care. He wanted to know more; he was becoming infatuated with the situation. Mycroft said the she was like him. How? Sherlock had to know.

“Where is she?”

“I can’t tell you that, Sherlock.”

“Just spare me the time, I’ll find her anyways. Where is she?”

Mycroft was silent for a moment. He then listed off an address that, much to Sherlock’s surprise, was only miles away from his apartment on Baker Street. Sherlock said a quiet thank you before ending the call and turning to face John with a grin.

“We still have time left in the day!” Sherlock exclaimed, rushing towards the door to put on his coat. John hurried after him, muttering obscenities under his breath. Sherlock may have heard, but he took little notice. After stopping a cab, Sherlock rattled off the address and the two drove away.

- - -

She lived in a townhouse on the edge of London, away from the busy traffic. It was a very picturesque home, completely white with a dark iron fence and Greek columns which supported a balcony. On that balcony, Sherlock could see two benches, one on each side. Beside both was a table, one of which had a cup, of what he presumed to be tea, sitting on it. In the center, there was a potted plant that looked to have been watered only recently. On each side of the townhouse’s white stairs, there was green shrubbery that seemed to be regularly maintained. Sherlock walked up the steps and stood in front of the door.

“Won’t you knock?” John asked after a couple seconds of standing around.

“Of course,” Sherlock muttered, turning to knock lightly on the door. It was much unlike his usual knock, which could be considered forceful and impatient. As the seconds inched by, Sherlock actually found himself growing anxious. He had no idea who this woman was, truly. She could be a psychopath—though people considered him one, so could she really be that bad? In all honestly, he was slightly worried about what Mycroft had said.

“Sherlock, she isn’t stable. She’s like you –but in a different way.”

The door opened wide. Behind it stood a woman who appeared to be two inches taller than John. She had a strong, wide jaw – much like his father’s, from what he could remember – and pale skin. Her hair was dark and curly – much like his – and pinned in the back. Though her eyes shared the same shape as his, her eyes were a warm brown compared to his pale blue ones. He saw all this in merely seconds. She looked more like Sherlock than the brother he’d spent his childhood with.

The woman smiled a red-lipped smile, one that almost seemed predatory. She looked genuinely pleased to have the two older men show up, unexpected, on her doorstep. “Well, isn’t this lovely!” She exclaimed, her smile warm. “I was wondering when you would finally show up, Sherlock.”

She then turned to John, who seemed rather flustered at the whole situation. He couldn’t believe how alike the two adults looked.

“You must be Doctor John Watson, yes?” She leaned forward and reached out a hand, which John shook in greeting. “I’m Shiloh Treloar. Or Holmes – I much prefer the sound of that, anyway.”

“Well, why don’t you come inside?”