warnings: death, mentions of blood (and murder)

I can feel the glares of the constables following me as I enter the blocked off alleyway. My boots click against the cobblestones, creating a sense of rhythm to the chaos around me. "Holmes, it's a pleasure to see you again. Although, I do wish it was under better circumstances."

A soft smile creeps across my face at the sight and kindness of my old friend. "Careful, Osterfield, if you look too happy to see me, you may lose the support of your constables. As for the circumstances, I'm fairly certain my presence means they'll rarely be good." Harrison chuckles and shakes his head at me. "Now, where's the body?"

The light and humor quickly drains from Inspector Osterfield's blue eyes, and they quickly flicker behind me as he lets out a deep sigh. "I ought to warn you, this is one of the worst we've seen."

Thomas and Harrison both watch me intently as I keep my features stoic and nod. Papa always taught me how to keep myself objective and detached. "You and I feel too deeply, Y/N," he would say. "That means, sometimes, we have to put them away to do what needs to be done until we have the time to sort them out."

It was a difficult but necessary lesson. Everyone already harbors so much doubt and resentment towards my father and I. Although, he lacks the additional obstacles I face by merely being a woman. So I tread carefully around the constabulary and keep a stiff upper lip as we approach the body.

"Has anyone moved or touched the body?" Thomas asks as he unknowingly steals the words from my lips and opens his forensics bag.

"No, I know how fussy the pair of you get when that happens." Harrison jokes, oblivious to the sudden awkward tension that rises at Thomas and I being referred to as a pair.

I brush it off and analyze the scene. My eyes trail over the worn, dry cobblestone and take note of the outstretched limbs of the poor girl. There are a few obvious details that pique my interest. From her outstretched arms, to the stitches that tie her lips together, all the way to the distinct lack of blood at the scene.

Harrison drones on in the background, but I only vaguely listen until he says, "We don't have any identification on who she is yet, but—"

"Rosamond Carter." I tell him as I round the body and grab a few things from Thomas's bag. Both him and Harrison give me an odd look at the sudden statement, which makes me sigh and refrain from rolling my eyes. "Her father's in parliament. She frequents many of the same events we do and is well known for her flamboyance. I never personally met her, but I'm almost certain its her."

"How so?" Harrison asks as he watches me with that glimmer of curiosity in his blue eyes.

"Her necklace." I tell him and nod to the pendant around her neck. "It's engraved with her initials hidden in the rose petals. I'm acquainted with the jeweler she got it from; he only does work like that for the upper class and at a very high cost. Only someone with a lot of money could afford something as intricate as that, combined with the initials, the only logical option left was Rosamund."

"Any idea why she would be killed or dumped here?" Thomas questions, and I barely manage to meet his eyes as he speaks to me. "Or why would they have changed her clothing? I'm sure a woman of Rosamund's status wouldn't willingly wear pauper's clothing."

"You're right, she wouldn't. I think it speaks more of her killer than her." I say and crouch down by her head. My hands are already shaking a bit as I grasp the scissors to cut away the stitches. Although, I make the mistake of meeting her empty gaze.

Her hazel eyes feel like they're accusing me, blaming me for using her death as a means of showing off and finding a way to benefit myself. It makes me screw my own shut and forcefully push the thought aside as I place those emotions in a box to deal with later. Instead, I focus on the task at hand.

"Holland, if you don't mind." I whisper and pray he doesn't notice the trembling in my hands and voice as I pass him the scissors to trade for pincers. He brushes his fingers over the back of my gloved hand as he takes them from me, and I feel my heart ache knowing he noticed. "I have a horrible feeling we're in for a bit of a surprise."

I can feel multiple gazes on me as I gently pull her mouth open and peer inside. Sure enough, there's a folded piece of paper tucked away. It unfolds with a surprising ease, and I tenderly hold it up as I read aloud. "She had it coming, and so will the rest. —M"

"So the killer left a note? Why? And what would be the purpose of signing it or saying there will be more killings?"

I pass the tweezers to Thomas who immediately reads it over before tucking it away in one of his brown evidence bags. "I don't know, but I intend to find out." I reply to Harrison's questions as I stand and brush off my pants. My eyes fall back to Rosamund's, and I feel the accusation and hatred filling up her gaze as if she knows my deepest fear.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make a few inquiries." I force myself to remain calm as I leave the crime scene, but the facade shatters under the pressure the moment I'm out of the constabulary's sight.

My chest constricts more with each breath. Tears building in my eyes and tracing down my cheeks as I swear the scar on my abdomen begins to hurt as horrendously as the day it all happened.

"It can't be him; he's dead." I whisper to myself, convinced the words will be more reassuring when said aloud. "There's no way he's back. I saw it myself, and Papa promised that he's gone."

"It wouldn't be the first time the great Sherlock Holmes was wrong." His chilling voice rings through my head. "He survived; who can truly say that I didn't too?"

"No, you're dead." I retort through gritted teeth to the figure that I know is only appearing from my imagination. "You don't get to haunt me anymore."

I unconsciously fiddle with the chain around my neck as the feeling slowly passes like a storm. It takes me a few minutes of even breathing and shaking fingers fiddling with the rings hung on the chain around my neck to truly calm down. Still, the world around me seems to be coated in the lingering panic and fear from a moment ago.

A frown etches its way across my features as I think it over. Papa survived; could Moriarty have done the same? Yet, this is unlike anything he would have done. The man—as vile as he was—always kept his movements and action subtle and crafted. A murder like this with a note left behind feels too sloppy—too careless.

Still, there's no use in being careless or dismissive. I remind myself as I try to brush off the remaining nerves and search for the nearest telegram office or phone. My best route to settling my fears is speaking with the only person who would know Moriarty as well as I—my father.

As I weave my way through the bustling crowds of the London streets, there's a lone figure that seems to be following me. The mere suspicion reignites that small bit of fear in me, and it take everything in me to remain level-headed as I duck into one of the the open-air shops.

My eyes dart around in search for anything to aid in a disguise. It's almost hard to focus with the overwhelming mix of the stench outside and the herbs burning here in an attempt to cover it. There's assortments of items scattered around which range from pageboy hats to gypsy remedies.

I hastily grab one of the long wraps similar to the women of the place wear and drop a few coins on the table as I rush out. When, I emerge, the same shadowy figure is looming a little way behind me in the market.

My disguise builds as I maneuver my way back toward the figure. I roll up my shirt sleeves and loosen my hair so it tumbles freely around my shoulders. All the while, I trade small items for each other until hardly anyone would look close enough to notice it's me.

The closer I get, I start to realize the identity of my pursuer. Thomas does his best to keep his head down in an attempt to hide the fact that he doesn't belong here and lost his query. I watch as his eyes flicker around from one face to the next; the fear in them seeming to grow with each passing second.

It sends my heart involuntarily fluttering. I brush it off and try to piece together the ever-growing puzzle of Inspector Thomas Holland. His posture remains rigid as I approach him, completely immersed in my makeshift disguise. "Care for you fortune, love?" I ask with a mimicked accent of those around me.

Thomas's eyes flicker over me as they continue his search while he mumbles a polite rejection. A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. "How peculiar," I say in my own voice, "I never took you for someone who ignores someone based on origin or status; or maybe you're simply too preoccupied."

His eyes immediately snaps to me, and he lets out a heavy sigh when he's sure it really is me. "Holmes." He grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Holland," I quip, "You know, I'm perfectly capable of caring for myself, but if you insist on being my nanny, you could at least do it properly. I would think you of all people know that I don't appreciate people lurking behind me."

"Well, you left so quickly, I couldn't exactly find you right away. I didn't want to lose you again." His voice grows tender as he speaks, and we both remain deathly silent for a moment to take in the double meaning of his words.

Everything goes a little hazy as he steps closer to brush a strand of hair from my eyes. "Are you alright? I'm certain we share the same fear after that note."

I bite my tongue as I consider how to answer. Thomas was there through everything that happened with Moriarty. He knew of the terror that lingers from his actions, of the nightmares, and the dread from the idea of his chance survival. He was the one who helped me reconnect with the world outside my Baker Street flat after it all.

Yet, I don't know if I can be that vulnerable to him again—not after how it ended between us. So, I force a calm expression. "I'll be fine once we apprehend our culprit and know the truth."

It's clear he doesn't believe me entirely, but he knows better than to push me too far. "Alright, where do we start?"

"Same place as always, where the evidence directs." I tell him with a smile, "In this case, we look further into the life of our heiress."