The Undefined Criminal - A Sherlock Fanfic

Not Over: Sherlock's P.O.V (Epilogue)

       It's been two days. Two days since I watched her die. I watched her as I clutched on the handle bars of the helicopter's rope ladder for dear life, with no way to save her. I felt like screaming her name, I wanted to climb down and chase after her killer. What would have been the point? She was dead. It was obvious. She fell to the floor and bright red stained her clothes, I could see that much. So I just hung there, silent.
      
       When I finally convinced myself to climb up the darter and into the helicopter, no one said a word. The flight back to the city was long and speechless. John kept preparing himself to say something, but hesitated and remained silent. Lestraude stood by the cockpit and murmured with the pilot. He told me that special officers picked Amy up and are transporting her back to the city (the morgue), like that would make me feel better. I found myself sitting in shadows, as if the environment made walls around me, and I just sat in silence. My eyes were double in size and my mind flooding with regret.

       Home wasn't any different. I glued myself to my armchair and never spoke a word, but my mind was screaming. John struggles to make "casual" and "friendly" conversation, a term that is still foreign to me even after living with him for years now. My eyes darted around the now boring living room, remembering all the things Amy used to do. The couch, she always preferred to sleep there rather than in Mrs. Hudson's guest room, she claimed it was more comfortable and amongst all the action. At any time of day she would fall asleep on that couch and when she woke up during a passing conversation, she would instantly know what it was about like se was listening the whole time. Was she sleeping? Or just pretending? I never knew. She would always put hats on the deer skull and hide my secret stashes of cigarets. She didn't smoke, she just did it for fun. The more I think about it, she was messing with me to try to get me to smile, perhaps. The way she tried to impress me or change something in my daily routine, it must have been for a reason. She was truly impossible to read. Undefinable.

       A long miserable day and quiet night passes. I struggle to sleep. I struggle to eat. John shared his worry to Mrs. Hudson, who claims that I am experiencing "heartache" for the first time in my life. Heartache? I thought she was convinced I didn't have one, or was that Lestraude? Afternoon comes and I find myself still in my chair. I can't understand why I am this way. Death never affected me like it is now. Maybe this is heartache, but why? Was there something about Amy that made her different... Well, yes. Obviously! She was like me, but was admired more. I never understood how she could stand being crowded by so many idiots. Maybe that's what I admired about her, she was everything I couldn't be. Perhaps, I miss the way she made me feel, and I regret not telling her what she meant to me. Maybe it's true, maybe I did lov-

       "Sherlock!" Lestraude bursts into the living room, breaking my concentration.

        My eyes screamed that I didn't want to be disturbed. "Did John let you in?" As if on cue, John walked through the doorway. "Of course," I place my pals together and lean my lips on them. 

       "Sherlock, we got something for you. A case."

       "Not interested,"

       "Oh, you will be," Lestraude nodded.

        His sincerity caught my attention. "What is it?"

        "It's better he show you," John said. "It would be easier for you to believe,"

         And just like that, I'm in a police car speeding to the hospital. Ahh, my home away from home. Always keeping me on my toes. Lestraude was practically running through the halls, John and I were struggling to keep up. "Is it time you tell me what this is about?" I ask. 

         Lestrade and John exchange a knowing look. "First, you'll see what it is. Questions will come later," John replies.

         What are they up to? What is scaring them so much that they are afraid to look at me in the eye? My confusion caused me to lose track of where we are going. We turn a corner and a familiar sign approached with the words indicating that the morgue was through silver double doors. Molly was standing in front of the doors. When she saw us, specifically me approaching, her face suddenly filled with worry. Letraude and John ran up to her and created a small circle, signaling me to stay out of their business, impossible for me to do. "Are you sure he'll be okay?" I hear Molly ask. "Don't you think it's to soon?"

        "Well, do you think he'll want Anderson studying the place?" John replied sarcastically.

        "He'll want to see this, sooner or later," Lestarude concluded.

        They all nodded to each other and broke their circle of false privacy.

        "What will I want to see?" I asked.

        Molly rolled her eyes. "Look, Sherlock, you can walk through those doors whenever you are ready, but just know that you might not like what you see. And all the questions you might have, the answers are unknown to us,"

        I looked at her strangely, trying to figure out what game she is playing. Her face proved that she is completely serious. What was this? Why am I so important to this- Wait! I refused to see Amy's body when she was transported to the morgue. They never said which morgue. No. Don't bring me here. Don't make this about her. Not again.

       I slowly made my to the doors, the others silently following me. I place my hand on one of the doors. It's cold, filled with the promise of something terrible. I muster all my courage and push the door open. I freeze two feet into the room. 

        It's a wreck. Tables flipped, tools everywhere, bodies out of the cooling units and littering the ground. In the middle of the room, however, a lone table stood upright with a light shining directly above. A body lay peacefully on the table. The body of Claire Stewart seemed to sleep with her hands placed on her stomach, clutching a small bouquet of white flowers. I slowly entered the room further and walked up to the girl's body. Her head, shoulders, and arms are visible, the rest of her body is covered by a white blanket. Someone took care arranging this. I scanned the other bodies laying around the floor. Amy's is nowhere to be found. My eyes focus in on another thing. The body of a young man, a teenager possibly, sits on the floor with his back leaning against the far wall. Stephen, was it? The other metaphorical child of the Montgomery family. A knife sticks from his stomach, with a pool of blood around him. On the wall above him, a trail of blood, drawn from someone's fingers stretches up about two and a half meters. The trail turned into words, and the words made my heart skip a beat. My eyes made me focus on one word at a time, every time I read it. "DON'T FORGET ME, HOLMES!" It seemed to scream in my brain.

         No one said a word, or I don't think anyone did. I wouldn't have heard them anyway. This proves my fear. My growing fear that this wasn't over, and I made a terrible mistake refusing to see her body.

         Amy Winters is truly an, unstoppable, impossible, undefinable, angel of a criminal.