Chapter Text
In the Perspective of Dr. Molly Hooper
It was a rainy day, much like the one last year. The day that started this spiral of depression in most of my friends' lives. Because, a year ago today, we lost Sherlock's sister.
The loss had been hard on all of us. Sherlock almost stopped working on cases all together, John has been almost absent from the hospital, Mycroft has been starting to almost decay, Lestrad hasn't taken any high-level cases in month, and as for me, I can't get my work done. I keep picturing its Elizabeth's the one on that table. That she's the one I'm cutting into and figuring out the cause of death. If only I could.
I sighed in the back of the cab I was taking to work as I watched the rain pick up out the window. I started tracing the streaks down the window; anything to keep my mind off the significance of today.
The cab stopped in front or Barts. I sighed once again as I paid the driver and climbed out of his car. I walked to the door, letting the rain stain my clothing and seep into my hair. It felt almost good. As if Elizabeth wanted me to forget.
"There's mail on your desk Dr. Hooper."
The words snapped me out of my trance. "Who's it from?"
"Don't know, I didn't put it there." The intern threw the words at me as he walked away.
All I could do was stand there and think. Who would hand deliver mail? To me? It was a good question, but then a thought crossed my mind that made me stop thinking and run, full speed, to my office. It can't be! Why would the man that murdered Elizabeth decide to re-surface now? On the anniversary of her death? Sherlock's not going to be happy about this.
I stopped at my office and slowly opened the door, expecting something to happen. But the blow never came, so I flicked on the lights to see a white envelope dead center on my desk. I walked around to my chair, never taking my eyes off the letter as I did. When I reached the other side of my desk, I let my bag fall to the floor and I picked up the letter with my name written on it.
In the Perspective of Dr. John Watson
The loud knock at my door woke me that morning. I squinted, adjusting my eyes to the light. I opened my eyes and sighed, remembering the date. I barely knew Elizabeth Holmes, but she'd meant so much to all of us, once we were told who she was, that her death became the most tragic thing I ever heard of.
I got out of bed, careful not to wake Mary or our daughter, and started for the front door. I took my time getting down stairs, feeling the sadness that almost lingered in the air.
I'd heard, technically, Elizabeth died on the morning of November 2nd, but wasn't pronounced dead until November 3rd. Why'd she pick today to have us cry, mope, and remember?
I sighed as I reached the bottom of the stairs. "He misses you, you know," I said to nothing, hoping, wherever she was, she was listening.
I turned to the door and opened it. I felt the chill of the rain, I heard the wind start to pick up, but I saw no one. "Stupid kids," I started to whisper under my breath until I looked down. And there on my mate was a piece of cloth, but that's not what caught my eye. As soon as I saw the piece of worn clothing, I saw the red initials, one set crossed out and the other even bolder than the first.
"It can't be." I reached down for the shirt as I read the bolded print and my eyes grew wide. I stood up, holding the shirt in my hands and clenching my teeth together. "Not today."
In the Perspective of DI Gregory Lestrad
I sat in my office. I knew it was early, but I wanted to be alone. The date was November 3rd, 2014. It was 5:36am. And today was the anniversary of the day I declared Elizabeth Holmes dead.
I've been seeing images from the crime scene for the past month, but today, today was the first day in a while I saw the image Donovan had taken at the bottom of the river. I remember seeing the small body, beaten and bruised, face down in the sand. We didn't bring the body to the surface, we couldn't. Not because Sherlock was there. Not because we had just figured out she was a Holmes. But because we knew what it would mean if we brought her up. It would mean she'd be dead, and we didn't want that.
I sighed and through my head back. Sometimes, I really do hate this job.
Just then I heard someone running through the numerous cubicles and into my office. "Sir, you need to see this."
She sounded urgent, but today wasn't the day to be urgent. "Not today Donovan."
"Greg, you're gonna want to see this."
I picked my head up and snatched the photo from her hands. I really wasn't in the mood for…
My eyes immediately shoot up from the picture and onto Sally. "Does Sherlock know?"
Sally shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. "How should I know if the freak knows? He's been bloody gone for months now."
I smirked. "Then we better hurry."
She returned my grin and retrieved the keys from her pocket. "After you."
In the Perspective of Sherlock Holmes
The room was dark around me as I lie in my bed, trying to sleep. I couldn't help but let my mind wonder as I drift off, and that was the problem. Now a days, every time I try to sleep the images keep coming back to me. Images of the abandoned dock that night, images of the elderly man holding the gun, and, finally, images of my sister chained up and broken.
I shook my head and turned to my side. For once in my life, I wish I could stop thinking. I was so tired of seeing the haunting images of that dreadful night, hearing the gun shot, the glass shatter, and the single splash in the river. Hearing my only sister scream as the pain overtook her…
"Sherlock!"
My eyes flashed open, but Elizabeth wasn't there. It was only a dream.
I could see the phone on my night stand flash to life. Incoming text no doubt. I sighed as I reached for the phone. Maybe it was Lestrad with a new case. Maybe it was Molly asking me how I was. Or maybe it was John giving me his condolences.
But, I was wrong it was all three. And all three texts said the same thing: 'Get to Barts now!'