Terribly sad chapter, this is. And I've actually hit double-digit chapters, wow...

And I do want to hear from my readers about anything! Tell me what's right, tell me what's wrong (in a polite way, please), what I can improve on, or if you actually like this story.

The chill of the night permeated through the brick fortress that was the mortuary. The room Inspector Hopkins had corralled us in was a small workroom with several shelves lining against the wall, which were stocked with different sorts of chemicals and embalming liquids. In front of us stood a large and wide table and upon it was something that filled us all with dread and filled the room with a putrid scent. I had to pull out a handkerchief and put it in front of my nose to mask the smell.

Mr. Firth, the police surgeon, entered through a pair of curtains at the side. He looked every bit like the man who would have this type of occupation. His middle-aged face wore a permanent look of gravity on his sallow face and his back seemed hunched with the burden of bearing bad news. He polished his spectacles and then put on gloves before turning to us with a heavy sigh.

"Mrs. Andrewes, I presume?" His reedy voice asked my mother, who held a handkerchief to her mouth with a shaky head. Unable to physically answer, she nodded her head in assent but did not look at Mr. Firth. Her eyes were instead fixated on what was on the table in front of us and what hid underneath the white sheet on the table.

Mr. Firth sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry to bring you here, Madam. We need you to identify the body, if you please." And without further notice, he pulled away the top half of the sheet and revealed an image that would haunt my slumbers for the rest of my living days.

It was…yet was not…my father. My mind immediately recognized the black hair that had only just begun to grey, the Roman nose, each and every freckle on his pale skin. I knew every single line and wrinkle on that man's face. That was the essence of my father and yet this could not be my father. His bright green eyes—the same as mine—were now swollen and inflamed savagely. His skin seemed swollen and white foam exuded out of his nostrils and mouth.

Mum swayed visibly on the spot and that was enough identification for Mr. Firth. He placed the sheet back over my…the body. She tried to speak but the macabre image that she had seen added with the nerves and stress that she had endured the past four days. She soon fainted and Inspector Hopkins had caught her before she could injure herself.

I myself had begun to sway but I quickly grabbed hold of the counter with my free hand. Holmes glanced over in my direction.

"I'm fine," I whispered hoarsely through the handkerchief. However, I was quite far from all right.

As for Holmes, he had taken a look at the body and recoiled, jerking his head away from the table and refused to look at it any further. For the first time, I looked at those grey eyes and saw fear.

Inspector Hopkins placed Mum in a chair that Mr. Firth had dragged in and seeing that I was the only family that was left in the room, he decided to tell me what had happened to my father.

"He was found in the Cherwell, Mrs. Andrewes, by some students who were most likely off carousing and the like. Thought it was some sort of joke, they did but when they realized it was a body, they reported it to us. While Mr. Firth still has to conduct an official autopsy, it is most likely that he was beaten, stabbed several times, and then dumped into the river to be left dead—"

I never got to hear the rest of Inspector Hopkins' sordid tale since I bolted out of the suffocating room. With every word of his tale, I felt as if my throat were constricting. In my haste, I did not even take my walking stick with me, dropping it the moment I ran out of the room with Inspector Hopkins' yelling after me, "Young lady! Young lady!"

Outside the mortuary and on the pavement, I breathed in my first deep breath and suddenly everything that I had just seen and heard rammed into me with unbelievable force. My knees buckled and right there in the gutter, I began to vomit.

I threw up until I was coughing up little more than bile. Hot trails of tears streamed down my face and I could not help but curse at myself for crying. Dad…oh, Dad, I would never hear his voice whether it would be in a lecture hall or whispering in my ears, telling me some private joke. I would never see that all-knowing smile or feel his hands on my head when he wanted me to grasp some important point. I coughed and once again, I vomited again even though there was nothing left in me.

"Charlotte!"

I slowly looked up and saw James running down the street, his face mirroring the anguish on my own. When he reached me, he squatted near me (at a reasonable distance), observed the vomit in the gutter, and the dried tears on my face.

He gently touched my arm and grasped it in his hand. "I came home and Josephine told me where you lot had gone. What has happened?"

"She has not the strength to divulge that information." I did not even need to turn around to see who had spoken on my behalf. Holmes added authoritatively, "Your mother is in a much worse condition, Dr. Andrewes. I suggest that you tend to her while I see to your sister."

He made to stand up but I had begun coughing again. He held my arm tighter but I managed to shake him off.

"James, go. I'll be taken care of and Mum is in a much sadder state." I said softly.

"Right," James finally agreed. He rubbed my back and said sadly, "Oh, Charlie, I—"

"My name's Charlotte, James." I sliced through his words icily as that diminutive of my name had pierced through my heart, remembering that I would never hear his voice call me again. "It's not Charl—my name is Charlotte."

James looked back at me, hurt by my words but understood and started walking away from me, his receding footsteps being replaced by another pair of footsteps walking towards me. In my peripheral vision, I saw Holmes' shadow fall upon me.

I closed my eyes and saw the ghastly image of the body. I squeezed my hands into fists and slammed them against the pavement, as if trying to shatter the image in my mind. "DAMN IT!"

Holmes did nothing more than stand next to me and watch my behavior. Immediately, I saw this as cruel and hated him for this inaction on his part. Yet now as I write this, I now see that it was not out of cruelty but sheer helplessness. I doubt that the young Sherlock Holmes knew how to treat women as he later did in many of Dr. Watson's chronicles.

After some time had passed, Holmes pulled out my handkerchief and handed it back to me. I took it in my hands and accepted it wordlessly, using it to wipe my face. Seeing my acceptance of the handkerchief as a good sign, he attempted to return my walking stick. Unlike before, I shook my head and got up on my own accord. He took hold of my arm but when he touched me, I flinched as though he had struck me. He dropped his hand and started to walk ahead. After a few seconds, I slowly began to follow him.

Holmes led me home. Upon entering, Josephine saw my destitute condition and began badgering me with questions. Holmes cut through her concerned interrogation and ordered her to draw a warm bath and then fix some hot chocolate. Josephine nodded and before going off to do her duties, she gave me a brief concerned look. Holmes led me upstairs after Josephine.

"The bath is ready, Mr. Holmes." Josephine said when we reached the top of the stairs. He thanked her kindly and she went off to fix the hot chocolate. When she had gone, he pulled a flask out of his coat pocket and unscrewed it.

"Do not say a word of this to your mother or brother." He murmured as he pressed it into my hands. "Take a sip of this. This may help you calm down."

"Yes, Holmes," I assented automatically and drank half of its contents, my eyes fixated on the flask. As soon as it spilled down my throat, I began to cough and found that he had given me brandy. I practically threw it back to him and he stowed it back into his pocket. He then opened the bathroom door and led me inside.

"I would like you to clean yourself up now. I shall be in your room if you need me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Holmes," I answered yet again but this time I looked at him. Fear had returned in his eyes but I think it was not because of the night's events but of my state of mind. I normally would not have followed any of his orders without some sort of argument on my part. I had merely acquiesced to his orders. I think that was what frightened him the most that night for he knew immediately that there was something wrong with me.

Reluctantly, he left me in the bathroom. I stripped out of my clothing and sunk into the cocoon of warm water. I laid inside the tub for so long that Holmes knocked on my door twice and asked if I was all right. I answered yes each time. After drying myself off and running a comb through my hair, I wrapped my robe around me and went into my room.

Holmes had seated himself by the window with a cigarette in one hand and an ashtray sitting by the windowsill. I saw that it was filled to the brim with the ends and ash. I saw that Josephine had laid out my nightclothes on my bed.

"Could you turn around please?" I asked. Holmes obligingly walked to the farthest corner away from me (with no reflective surfaces) and I changed into my nightdress. I cleared my throat and he turned back around, resuming his position by the window and approaching me no further.

Holmes pointed towards the nightstand. "Josephine fixed you a cup of hot chocolate. It's supposed to be your favorite from what I hear."

I saw the porcelain cup filled with the steaming liquid. I took a few sips out of courtesy and then put it back down. After taking a drag from his cigarette, he took off his coat and called for Josephine. She soon came into the room and immediately went to my side, checking if I had any fever.

"Josephine, I shall tell you that I will be staying here until Doctor and Mrs. Andrewes' return. I do not want to cause any alarm on the staff's part. I just believe that it would not be right to leave young Miss Andrewes by herself."

"I understand, Mr. Holmes. Would you like me to fix the guest room for you tonight?" She asked as she brushed the loose strands of my hair away from my face as she always did when I was a child.

"I shan't be sleeping tonight, Josephine." He answered and just as she was about to kindly rebuke, he sliced through her words. "I am quite all right, I assure you. I just do not need any sleep." He finally said, "Thank you, Josephine."

Josephine nodded dubiously, her forehead wrinkled by Holmes' unconventional proclivities, and finally exited. As old-fashioned as she was, she could not argue with his sharp logic. Holmes returned to his seat, looking out the window as though it would tell him some answers.

"Will you really stay?" I asked feebly. He did not seem to hear me at first for he did not answer right away.

After awhile, he turned towards the sound of my voice. "Yes,"

"Why?" I asked as I was taken aback by this show of…kindness on my part.

He sighed and when he spoke, there was a melancholic tone in his voice. "Because I too know how it feels to lose someone and feel utterly alone."

I was about to ask who this was when he abruptly turned down the gas lamps, leaving us in utter darkness except for the moonlight shining through the window. He walked back over to the window and continued to look at it until I closed my eyes and reluctantly went to sleep with visions of pallid corpses chasing me in my nightmares crying, "Help me, Charlie! Help me, please!"

The funeral took place a week later. Our home was filled with many of our relatives. Few of my relatives on my father's side were able to attend due to the abruptness of his death resulting in the fact that they were unable to reserve passage from Boston to Oxford. My Uncle Ben, my father's older brother, was able to make it and stayed very much by my side during his visit. Anne and Geoffrey managed to trek their way back for this unfortunate occasion. Much of the Oxonian community had attended the church service, filling up the Christ Church Cathedral. We buried him in Holywell Cemetery.

The coffin laid out in front of us while our family sat in front, on view for the rest of the world. A gravestone had been carved for him and as I read it, it was then that his death became reality.

Thomas Francis Andrewes
Beloved Husband and Father

Born 14 September 1827—Died January 24, 1883

"Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time; for that's the stuff life is made of."

During that funeral, I did not cry. It was not because I absolutely refused to. That night when I saw his body had wrung the entirety of my tears out of my body. I was too exhausted to shed anymore tears.

It should be of note that Holmes did not attend the funeral. Yet, I did not find myself offended by this. I thought of what he had said to me that night. Who had Holmes lost? Yet as I asked myself this, I knew that I would never hear him utter an answer.

After the various hymns and words by the priest, the casket was buried into the ground. My Uncle Ben embraced me tightly and hobbled away with the other mourners—he too a cripple but due to the less serious malady called gout. Everyone began to disperse around me while I remained still. In the corner of my eye, I saw an unfamiliar figure.

I turned toward the figure, standing at a far distance. He seemed to have been overlooking the entire ceremony. His face was obscured by a wide-brimmed hat but I saw that he was a tall and robust figure wearing ill-fitted clothing. His hands were folded in front of him and his skin appeared to be tan. After a few moments, he walked away and disappeared into the crowd of mourners.

It was not until late that night—for I had not been able to sleep since that dreadful night—that I realized that the figure had matched the description of the man Holmes described coming to Dad's lectures.