Devil Take The Hindmost •Sequel To Life Is But A Dream•

•The Reichenbach Fall: Part Two•

Chapter Twenty-Three: Tribulation and Trials

"John."
"Aspen!" My uncle exclaimed when he got out of the cab. I could see Sherlock too, with his face holding a determined look.
"What are you doing here?" John asked.
"Class trip." I simply said, avoiding his subject as we followed Lestrade and Sherlock into the museum.
"You know you had an appointment today. It doesn't make it better that you were here, much less when there was a break in, by Moriarty no less!" He lectured.
"Are you done saying 'less?' And come on John since Baskerville you haven't given me any freedom to go out of the flat." I argued.

"Hey-except for school." He interjected.
"This was a school trip!" I added, to his spite.
"It was for good reason, Aspen. I looked at the room today and found your backpack with the blades." He said, and I stopped.
"Why were you going through my things?" I asked, shame in my voice that couldn't be hidden.
"Stop trying to make me the bad guy here, please Aspen." He begged.

"If you two are done rowing, I have something to show you." Lestrade yelled from across the room.

John looked back at me, then proceeded to the detectives. We had made our way into a security room, the three men standing in front of monitors. Through a hole I saw Lestrade play back a clip to see Moriarty preparing to break the glass. In a reverse- time lapse, I saw the shattered glass merge back into one, with a message in large letters:

GET SHERLOCK

With a smile in the "O."
The man must be smiling at this moment from the
attention Sherlock is giving him.
*
My uncle and I ascended up the stairs to the flat, when his hand on my arm stops me.
"Aspen, please. I want you to try next time. I'm not doing this for me. I'm doing this for you. You can't be like this forever." He pleaded.

"John, of course you're doing this for you. You're guilty. You think that by sending me to sessions with Madam Cheery, I'll be okay again. You think it's something that my condition just be switched off like a light. Well, it can't, and I don't need you're help. You're not my father, and you never will be." I told him, as if this is the first time the topic has come up.

I turned before he could continue, and proceeded to the flat.
*
I didn't think that this much time would pass before it came time for Moriarty's trial. I had awoken and went to the wardrobe I shared with my uncle. The one who I haven't spoken to in weeks. It felt like decades.
I plucked a grey, black and white dress out of my  portion of the wardrobe, and threw it on, finishing with black tights.
Almost the whole process was performed with dread. Deep in my heart was a gut-wrenching sensation of something that just motivated me not to go. And I truly wanted to follow it.

I stood in front of the mirror and just stared into the reflection. There was myself, my dark hair, nearly as brooding as the events my eyes had witnessed. My eyes, even I could tell they were sad, and left defenceless. Not the widest and brightest smile could light them up. Maybe one, but that was of someone who was just a ghost.
I couldn't hear it any longer. What was just a second felt like an eternity, and before long I had turned away from the mirror, took my coat, and headed out with John and Sherlock.

Silence shadowed me as I still rode in the front of the cab. Behind was John lecturing Sherlock about "not being himself," as if it was a possible action the detective was capable of pulling off.
This day was not going to end well.
*
My uncle and his companion walked into the Old Bailey, myself trailing not far behind them. My pace was so much slower than my pulse, which had risen nearly twenty beats since the day's beginning. The same gut-wrenching sensation returned, and a powerful urge grew in my feet to run away from the trial. I nearly did, were it not for my uncle calling me at the door. I proceeded in.