Once Upon Another Time (Third Book In The "Life Is But A Dream" Saga)

The Empty Hearse: Part One

a/n: quick! Before you read, I must inform you that I plan on upgrading this story to the next level. I have picked out an actress who can portray Aspen, as a face claim. In the next chapter, that actress will be revealed within a gif. So yeah! See you guys later!
------

"Aspen Christine Watson. Niece of John Watson, and Daughter of Harriet Watson." Mycroft Holmes declared, crossing his legs and carrying a sly smile across his face. His look was something a person like me would find unusual, but he was a Holmes. He also took me out of a prison that held me for six months. I had no fear in front of him; I had been the worst of humans, but now it was as if that person no longer existed. Something had been left behind in that hospital.

"So young, and you've seen so much. You definitely are stronger than what you seem." He told me. "You're welcome, for getting you out. I know Sherlock would have made me anyway-"

"Don't. Don't you talk about Sherlock. I could've saved him." I confessed.
"You were heavily self-sedated, and under very delicate circumstances, whilst he was well aware of his actions. I dare say you barely took part in his suicide." He added.

"What do I do now? John, he hasn't spoken to me in..." I asked.
"Move on. Live your life, and forget about the detective and the consulting criminal." Mycroft advised, and stood up, taking his umbrella.
"By the way, the hospital gave me this." He said, then threw a small paper sack at me. I caught it, and as he walked away, I opened it. My eyes stayed still as I took out the object, and laid it on the table.

It was just the watch.

Two years later...

*
A loud thud rang through the library. Some child had knocked over the small stand for a children's book. I immediately went over and picked up the plastic rod, and eased a worried child. She smiled at me, and I her.
"I'm so sorry." Her mother apologised, and I shook my head.
"Don't be, I must place it where they cannot reach." I brushed off, and presumed working.

There was a large grey cart, with two small shelves that I pushed around, putting books back where they belong. No matter how many I would put back, it would always fill up again, from despairing horror novels to exquisite biographies.
Actually working at the library had opened up a whole new world of diverse books, where I branched out from my single, old drama, and discovered new lands and realms.

Children came running by, here and there, in which I would stop and smile at them as they scurried about. Life, it seemed, was bliss, but on the inside was something like the opposite.

It wasn't sadness, just grief. One would feel it as well if their uncle had no idea they were alive. It turns out that he had heard about my fall off the bridge two years ago, and that was it. Nothing about the roof, or the hospital. Lestrade didn't say anything, for he was always talking to Anderson. Molly too had left him in the dark, though he would visit the hospital on a weekly basis in hopes of reconciliation.

My mind drifted to the hospital. It was a far more malicious place now that I had been a patient. It was like when you work in the local police force, but then you are framed for a crime, and therefore are  forced to live in the very thing you hoped to stop.
I glanced down at my right arm, which had a six-inch scar- discoloured and a light pink blotch on my skin. I dreaded looking at it, but where my jobs were I was forced to wear short sleeves.

*
"See you Aspen!" My co worker called to me as I wrapped up putting the last of several books away. The library was quiet in the evening dusk, creating an eerie mood. Once I had completed the tasks of dusting the shelves and locking cases that displayed any featured items.

On my way out, I spotted a newspaper that had fallen face down. I picked it up and placed it back on the rack, reading the text:

Death Of Fake Genius
Just last week, the late Sherlock Holmes was cleared of any suspicion regarding the illusion of Richard Brooke. It came to light that Richard Brooke was the invention of James Moriarty, a man who had broken into the Tower of London just months before. Holmes had fallen to his death from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, where the body of Moriarty was recovered. (Continued on Page B2)

No sorrow came to my head as I read the article. There was a feeling of remorse, knowing that both of these men had died. I didn't want to read on, for it only brought unwanted memories. After placing the news in its respective spot, I went out the door.
As I locked up the library, two hands touched my shoulders, followed by a playful yell. I jumped, and turned to elbow my attacker in the chest. It turned out that it was just my friend Daniel playing a prank.

"Ow! Jesus Aspen, you can pack a hit!" He exclaimed, rubbing his chest. I rolled my eyes while putting on my yellow coat.
"I was only defending my life." I added, picking up the key I dropped.
"I was just messing around. You took forever in there." Daniel said, beginning to walk.
"Shut up. Where's Lucy?" I asked, walking along him.
"My sister is waiting at a restaurant, where we will be dining tonight. Think of it as a birthday gift." He declared, stopping at a light.

I smiled slightly. "You didn't have to."
"I didn't. It was her idea." He told me, then proceeded across the street. I followed him, but stopped when we reached a series of flats.
"Wait. I've got to get something." I said to my brown-haired friend. He turned and raised his hands in protest.
"Come on, can't you just come as you are? You look great!" He assured.

"I know, I just forgot something this morning, and need it." I eased, and quickly opened the door to 221B Baker Street. "Wait here."

Entering the flat, my friend obeyed and waited outside. Immediately I went up the stairs to the rooms, opening the door to the living room.

I had lived there, on my own, since I was released from the hospital. Mycroft had made sure John had moved out before I could go back, though. He was so keen on keeping us apart, for reasons unknown. I hadn't spoken to him in ages.

Turning on a light, I made my way to my bedroom to look for the "a" necklace John had gotten me that Christmas Eve.

When I entered, I glanced over to my closet, and was tempted to go in. I resisted, for if I went in I would never come out. I bolted to my dresser, where one of three chrome hooks held my necklace. Only there was a problem: the necklace wasn't there. The watch was, so I took it, but searched the whole dresser for the small silver chain. Nothing.

"No, no no no." I began, combing my room for the accessory. I glanced out my window to see Daniel leaning against the building, texting on his phone. Just a few more minutes.
My heart began to race as I opened every drawer, and looked in every crack. A small paper grazed my fingers, and I pulled it out to see a photo of John, Sherlock and in Baskerville. I smiled at the playful mood of the photo, and placed it down to resume looking.

As my hand went to the bed to feel for the chain, the memory of me reaching out to Sherlock's coat came, and I jumped back. I then looked back to make sure that Moriarty's body wasn't there, lying lifeless.

Suddenly, as if on cue, the lights in the flat were shut off. In my bedroom, they were already off, but the living room was a different story.
"D-Dan?" I called, and went outside to the kitchen. Distinct breathing was heard, and I took a knife from a drawer. My hand shook, so I had to hold it's wrist with the other hand.
Turns out the breathing was my own, which eased my nerves slightly.
"D-Dan? Is that you?" I called, before peeking out of the kitchen. I glanced towards the fireplace and saw no one.

However, as I looked towards the couch, a silhouette was sitting there. The figure then raised my necklace in his hand, and a familiar voice rang out, making me drop my knife.

The jewellery shone in the London light, much like a pair of stunning blue eyes.
"Looking for this?" The deep voice asked.
The lights turned on.