CONTENT NOTICE: Non-graphic discussion of suicide by hanging.

"Hello, Doctor," Inspector Lestrade greeted me when I arrived at Scotland Yard, his mouth turned down in a tight frown though he shook my hand warmly.

I had always admired that about him, the way he always kept his composure and his manners even when the situation was unpleasant. He was even still kind to me when Holmes wasn't kind to him, and I was grateful to him for it. Not everyone at Scotland Yard looked on me with kindness, and some with outright loathing. I was aware that I was seen by some as simply a lesser extension of Holmes, and whether they loved Holmes, despised him, or were jealous of him, they felt free to take it out on me. Only when no one else was around, of course. It was nice to have a friend in Lestrade and some of the other Inspectors. They didn't tolerate pettiness among the ranks, and so it was rare I ran into trouble when they were around. Lestrade, like Holmes and I, didn't let personal prejudice blind us when there was a job to be done or a criminal to apprehend.

"I was wondering when you'd come calling," Lestrade continued. "You're just in time actually, if you wanted to see the body."

I nodded, grateful to him for not making me explicitly state why I was here. Admitting the sorry state I'd found Holmes would have been painful to me, and he sensed it. He was aware of how much I admired Holmes, and I knew he admired my friend as well. He wasn't above giving Holmes a hard time, especially when the two of them had disagreements about how to handle a case, but he would never hurt Holmes on purpose, and I had known before I arrived that he'd help me understand the case.

Above all, I had come to Scotland Yard because Sherlock Holmes is my friend. I wasn't there because I felt an obligation to his genius, although I did admire him, and neither was it because I simply needed a roommate to help pay next month's rent. I had come because I needed to know how to help him, because that's what friends do for each other. And from the look on his face, Lestrade knew it.

"Who was she?" I asked as we walked towards the Yard's morgue, thinking of the strange lady in Holmes' drawings who was undoubtedly the victim.

"Sarah Miller. Daughter of the late Locklan and Adeline Miller. One brother, Locklan Miller Jr. No other close family. No enemies as far as we can tell. She was engaged, receiving visitors, seemingly happy."

"Seemingly doesn't count, not in these cases," I replied with a sigh, certain I was right about the young lady hanging herself. "Engaged?"

"Young man named Clarke, Devin Clarke."

"And him?" I questioned.

"Nothing against him," Lestrade said with a shrug. "He'd been courting the girl for a few months, proposed, and was seemingly thrilled to marry her. The day would have been at the end of the month, and he'd bought tickets for a ship headed to America where they would have honeymooned in New York. Had some family there, apparently, and they were going to move there for good. Once the honeymoon was over, Clarke was all set to be a writer for his Uncle's newspaper."

"A good start in life," I sighed. "Not many are so fortunate. Anything else?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing of importance. Like I said, there's nothing against him. No debts, no enemies, a respectable family that all approved of Miss Miller. They've met her before, apparently, even though they moved to America since. Clarke and the brother used to be mates, presumably still are. That's how they met, Ms. Miller and Clarke, but he only just began to formally court her."

"And you're quite certain his family approved? They wouldn't have done something drastic to come stop a hasty marriage to a girl they didn't know or approve of, no matter what they claimed?"

"I've seen letters from the family telling her all the wedding gifts waiting for them in New York. It's all real family heirloom stuff, not the kind of stuff you'd give someone you didn't like. If they were faking that they liked her, they did it well. And in any case, they did know her before, and liked both her and her brother."

"The young man, in that case? He didn't feel pressured to marry her? Didn't have a lover on the side? Some other young woman he'd fallen for but couldn't have? And what of the brother? Not unhappy that his sister was engaged to his best mate?"

"No, neither. Not that I could tell, Doctor. The brother was happy with the marriage plans by all accounts. And after speaking with the fiancee I am convinced he loved her and was happy, too. He's heartbroken if I've ever seen a man so. No, I am sure there was no foul play there. Perhaps we will never know the cause, sometimes you never get to. You learn to live with it, the not knowing, when you've been in this business for as long as I have."

"And where does Holmes come into play?" I pressed. I wasn't sure I really wanted the answer, and was certain that I wouldn't like it, but I needed to know. I needed to be able to help him. It didn't matter how horrid it was or how upsetting; I'd deal with any of my own dark memories that it may stir later. My personal troubles wouldn't get in the way of helping Holmes. In any event, wouldn't knowing the full truth be better than having a vague imagining of what it could be? Wouldn't I regret not knowing the particulars?

Lestrade pointedly didn't look at me as we strode through the hallways, discomfort in his posture and looking quite unlike his normal self-assured self. "What do you know?" he asked quietly.

"That he was there," I said bluntly. "I know he was there, I know he saw something, and I know it has badly effected him. And I know it all revolves around the death of Ms. Sarah Miller."

"I don't know anything for certain, so keep that in mind. I wasn't there. But I'll tell you what I know. Well... as far as I've been able to reason," he began slowly, "five days ago, the brother, Locklan Junior, made a visit to Baker Street. He expressed some kind of concern about his sister. Presumably, she was acting oddly, differently than a bride-to-be should. Maybe she had expressed some of her inner turmoil and it was bothering him."

We reached the morgue, and Lestrade turned fully towards me to continue his story before we entered. "As I said, I can't know for sure what the interview consisted of, but it must have made an impression on Mr. Holmes as holding serious consequences, for he at once set off to trace the girl. He followed her as she walked along a trail that winds through a forested park outside the city. He stayed well back so as not to frighten her… and when he came into a clearing, he found her. Hanged."

I shut my eyes momentarily at the horror of it. My poor friend. Lestrade didn't have to say what had happened next, I could imagine it all too well as some of Holmes' drawings flooded back into my mind. She must have planned it beforehand, had left a coil of rope under the bench. Then it hasn't taken much to do the deed, not with a rope, a bench, and a low hanging tree branch. Perhaps her brother had been so upset because something in his heart recognized that when she came to see him for the last time, she had come to say goodbye. She must have been determined, else she would have hesitated long enough for Holmes to get to her. In her despair, she'd been oblivious of the man who was following her trying to help.

Holmes would have ran to her. He would have put her on his shoulder and cut her down. He would have done anything to save her, to breathe life back into her, but it wouldn't have helped. I'd held enough warm bodies in my own arms to know that once the breath of life is gone there's no bringing it back.

Oh, Holmes. My poor friend. There was nothing, I knew, that I could do for him; only time could heal this. He'd have to come to terms with it in his own way. But,maybe, with the help of the good Lord above, I'd be able to give him some small comfort. Even just companionship may keep him from going too deep into his own despair.

"Mr. Holmes gave a brief statement," Lestrade continued after I recovered from my momentary horror, "but he was badly shaken. That was apparent before he left the scene. I didn't know you were away at the time; I went to Baker Street later in the day to tell you what had transpired in case you didn't know yet, and to ask you to take care of him. When I arrived, I found Mrs. Hudson in quite the state of agitation. She said he'd come home angry, screamed at her when she asked if he'd be wanting supper, and locked himself in your living room. She's tried to speak with him, but he yelled that he didn't want to see anyone until you came home. I advised Mrs. Hudson to send for you at once and to do as he requested and leave him be; his behavior was beyond her ability to help, and she shouldn't have to face him when he'd in such a state of agitation."

I nodded. "I appreciate that, Inspector," I told him genuinely, once again glad Holmes and I had a friend in him. "Let me see the girl?"

He nodded back and led me through the morgue to the slab she rested on.

"Hello, Miss Miller," I said as I pulled back the sheet to uncover her face. Lestrade put his handkerchief to his nose to keep out the stench of the morgue, and pointedly ignored me. I could tell that he always found it odd and unsettling when I talked to the bodies I performed autopsies on or examined on a slab, but he always just politely let me do as I pleased. He was so polite, in fact, I sometimes forgot how terribly frightening he could be when someone came in between him and the criminal he was trying to arrest. He was like a bulldog when he got on the scent, and heaven help anyone who got in his way, including Holmes and myself.

I gave Ms. Miller my undivided attention. "You have a most beautiful face," I murmured to her. "No wonder that young man fell for you. You are clearly a woman who knows her own mind, and I'm sure you were a beauty. But this mark on your neck here isn't very handsome. You and got yourself hanged, didn't you, you stupid girl? Had some hidden trouble, and…" I trailed off as I examined her.

I frowned, stripping the sheet off her top half and taking her cold hand in mine, lifting it to peer under her fingernails. Then, I pulled the sheet away completely and flipped her to lay on her side, examining her back, her legs, the soles of her feet, and her toes.

"You're not stupid girl at all, are you?" I asked her as I did so. "You're quite clever to have left me all these clues as to how you died. I'm sorry I've come so late, but I'm here now. Thank you for keeping all this nice evidence for me. Ha! I'll see you avenged, Sarah Miller, I promise. For your sake and for the sake of that young man of yours. Love is too young a thing, it shouldn't have to know this kind of pain."

I covered her again and stood up straight with a frustrated grunt to find Lestrade staring at me with wide eyes.

"You found something," he said as a matter of fact statement and not a question.

"Don't let this body be buried," I replied, "not until I give the all clear. Tell me, is her family Catholic?"

"I have no idea. There's just the one brother and I don't know where the parents were buried," Lestrade replied, clearly a bit bewildered.

"If she is, tell the brother he may make arrangements with a Catholic cemetery," I replied

"But how do you know? What did you find? The police coroner conducted an autopsy and declared that the death was suicide. Mr. Holmes practically saw her do it. What on earth was able to tell you differently?"

I shook my head as we walked out and I washed my hands. "I feel that I need to speak with Holmes before I answer that, but I don't mind saying that yes, I found something. I have a feeling this case is not over yet." I rubbed my hands with a solution, and he lit a match for me. I held my hands over it, letting them light. I scrubbed them together before beating the flames away, my hands singed just enough to cleanse me from the decay of death.

"Doctor, I... I trust you. Really, I do. But sometimes you're as infuriating as Mr. Holmes. Just promise me that you will come back, yes?"

"I promise," I said, and I meant it. "Thank you, Inspector. Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes."

"Tell that young man that she loved him."

Author's note:

The Catholic church did not allow persons who died of suicide to be buried in Catholic cemeteries until sometime around the 1960's. That's why Watson mentions it. Watson cleansing his hands with fire is something I ripped straight from the film Sherlock Holmes and the Silk Stocking because it's always stuck with me (well, that and the symbolism of it, but mostly because it stuck with me). I have no idea if that was actually something he would have done.

To my faithful reader: I promise you, I do not make a habit of stifling anyone's curiosity. I had red velvet cake with cream cheese icing; it is one of my favorite desserts.

MHC1987: I hope you were able to spot more references in this chapter :)

And so, we've learned not everything is as it seems... stay tuned