Sherlock had caught up with me, but he hadn't said anything. That is, until now.
"Why?" He asked, his voice cracking.
"Why what?" I replied.
"Just why. Why everything. Why can you read me? Why do you push me? Why do you help me? Why do you like me? Why do you call me a friend? How do you make me feel....some emotion? How can you stay beside me? How do you not get angry with me?" Sherlock asked. "One hell of a millennial there, aren't you." I laughed. I didn't want to answer his questions. Well, I did. I just didn't know how. Some of those were questions I asked myself daily. "Answer me." Sherlock insisted. I sighed.
"One, I do get angry with you, I just don't show it like John does. Two, I push you because I know you can be better. Three, I call you a friend because you are a friend to me." I paused and took a breath. "Four, I help you because that's what friends do. Five, I can read you because-no matter how much you deny it-you really are an open book. But only to people you want to be an open book too. And that's all I can tell you, right now."
Sherlock stared at me. He did this quite often. Mostly because I surprised him. "I-I'm an open book....to you?" He asked. "'Course you are." I shrugged. "Just like I'm an open book to you when I want to be." Sherlock shook his dark curls out of his face. His blue-green eyes looked me up and down. "Will you let me help you?" He asked. "Find the person who killed Jasmine, of course." He corrected. Or was it a correction?
"Sure." I shrugged. "But only if you listen. Don't go running off." I stated. Sherlock nodded. "Now come on," I said, slipping my hand in his. "I've got a key to her house."
Third Person:
Amelia Dryer screamed and screamed as they neared her. She twisted and writhed in the chair she was tied to. Two men. One man. The other was behind her.
"Shh." He whispered in her ear. But she didn't want to be quiet. She screamed louder as the first man neared her, a knife in his hand. He first slit Amelia's wrists, causing blood to spill out of them. This only caused Amelia to scream louder.
"HELP!" She shouted. But, of course, no one came. She cried out again and again until the man behind her covered her mouth and lifted up her head. So the skin on her neck was showing. Amelia shook her head and tried to cry out for help again, but the only sound that came was muffled.
The man in front of her slit her throat. Amelia took her final breath and fell into an endless abyss.
Emily's p.o.v:
Sherlock and I were going through Jasmine's things in her flat.
"I'll be right back, Sherlock!" I shouted at him, slipping into the bedroom. I turned and staggered backwards. On the wall where her bed was supposed to be was a wall of pictures. Endless pictures. Of two men. No. Four men. All in black. Walking along the streets. Scoping out banks, perhaps? I had no idea what Jasmine had gotten herself into.
"Sherlock?" I shouted down the hall. "Come look at this." And he came, almost sprinting. He burst through the door and stared at the wall.
"Look at this. Do you have any idea who they are?" I asked. Sherlock examined the pictures. "They look like Thorn brothers. They've been robbing banks in lower London. But why would she have pictures of them?" Sherlock stated. "Jasmine was an officer." I said.
"Why didn't you say that before?" Sherlock asked angrily. "Because it was irrelevant." I said back. "Do you know about any cases she was working on? Specifically this one." Sherlock asked with a sigh. "No. She kept her work life out of her social life completely. Not one mention of it to Molly, Amelia or I." I stated with a shrug.
"Amelia?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Amelia." I replied, also raising an eyebrow.
"Amelia who?" Sherlock asked. "Amelia Dryer."
"Why didn't you say anything before?" Sherlock asked angrily, again.
"Because it was irrelevant."
"Well, come on, Emily. Let's go find this Amelia." Sherlock said. This time he took my hand and we went off running.
Third Person:
The four men heard the door of the flat unlocking. Hurriedly, they escaped through the windows as two people stepped in. A girl with dirty blond hair and a man with dark, curly locks. Who were they? The men didn't know. They didn't care. All they cared about was escaping without leaving a trace.
Emily's p.o.v:
"Amelia?" I called through the home. She was usually home, only worked on the week days. It was Saturday. And if she wasn't with Molly or Jasmine or I, she would be at home. But she wasn't in her room. She wasn't in the kitchen. She wasn't in the living room. And she wasn't in the den. So where was she? That's when I noticed little droplets of red stuff on the wooden floor. Leading to one of the windows. I stopped and knelt down by the window. What I found shocked me and horrified me.
A knife. But not just a knife. A bloody one.
I shot up, more alert than I've ever been.
"Amelia!" I called, running down the hall. Past Sherlock and to the only place she could be. The only place no one would look because no one knew it was there. Her basement. It was odd to have a door leading to a cold damp place....in your pantry. But that wasn't originally a pantry.
I flung the first door open, Sherlock came running after me. Then the second door and I stumbled down the stairs. And there she was, tied to a chair. Dried blood running down her wrists and down her neck. Soaking the floor and her white blouse. Sherlock came bounding after me.
"Amy." I said quietly. She was long gone, and I knew that. Long gone. Gone forever.