Her eyes, her green eyes, so beautiful, so full of happiness.
Or were they? Were they even green?
No they were a cold grey, they were sad now. That's all he could think. Morgan's eyes had been happy, happy and grey. Now they were sad and green.
Hamish opened his eyes again to stare at the board intently. There was her face, her old Facebook page, her good blog, pictures of her with chestnut hair that was really quite straight. She was with her family, who Hamish realised he'd never seen, with old high school friends. Pulling stupid faces he recognised so well. But he didn't recognise the eyes, they were grey, how could they be grey?
And her name, there it was all over the board, printed in newspapers, web pages, little notes from the village school.
Not Morgan Jones, her name was Catherine Mear. Catherine who had won an art competition when she 14. Catherine who had been in her school netball team until year 11. Catherine who helped out at the village fete. Catherine who had apparently died four years ago along with her family.
"You were wrong Dad, she wasn't long sighted, she just changed her eye colour," Hamish murmured to his Father who was still frantically finding information 3 days later.
"Thank you for your input Hamish, anything else to say that obvious to everyone?"
"Careful Hamish he might start calling you Anderson," A cup of tea was placed next to him, he resigned himself to behave as if this was just another case. Not his girlfriend with an apparently whole other life he'd never known about.
"How could we have missed this, Morgan didn't even exist until three years ago? Surely the university would have picked it up?" His voice felt alien, as if it were another boy talking.
"Whoever did this was very good at what they did, they gave her a whole life, just like Catherine but with a different name and a different ending,"
"Do you think she was trying to get to us?"
"Let's hope not,"
A silence fell, only the sounds of sips of tea and the computer keys broke it.
It was an hour later when the door banged open, Lestrade and Mycroft strode in, turning on the News. There was figure covered in black, with a balaclava and a base ball hat hiding it face. There were bodies surrounding her, like at the station but this time there were more. It was a girl, the clothes were tight fitting enough to tell, she was running away from the scene. Guns left in the middle of the room, she disappeared from view just as police came running into the scene.
This was the third shooting since Marylebone, seemed Morgan/Catherine had been all over the country. People were being told to stay inside their homes, not to go out, London had been put on lock down after the shooting in Westminster. She had been fucking a murderer, a mass murderer, people he, for as long as he could remember, had been chasing down with his fathers.
But something wasn't quite right, there was a year missing in her life, she has been in a fire when she was eighteen, almost four years later she was finishing her degree. But she hadn't done a gap year, according to her records Morgan was a year younger than Catherine.
Another part of him still trusted her, not because she had lied to him but because she had told him to run, she had been scared for him and his dads. It was a very small part questioning whether she was scared scared as well.
Those people who had been shot, every single one had died, had all had a moment when they looked like they were coming for her, like she had been the target not the rest.
There was more substantial evidence which Mycroft had dug up when the had looked over the bodies and found out about Catherine. In some cases, there were records of second identities, all had died in house fires in the past 18 years, the first identities only had substantial evidence go to a certain point. Then it all became a world of made up exam results and families.
"Whatever this is Sherlock, I think it might be bigger than just you," Mycroft left the flat, his umbrella swinging as he trotted down the rickety stairs.
Lestrade flopped onto the sofa, he hadn't shaved since Marylebone, he was stressed and worried. One of the women shot had worked for him, he hadn't known her well but still.
