Valiant {Book Two of the Incandescent Trilogy}

Chapter One: So It Begins

CHAPTER ONE: SO IT BEGINS

The slab of polished black marble stood out amongst many rows of grey granite that had started to crumble away due to the long years of weather. Eventually, she was certain the gilded gold letters would fade away, and it too, like the all the others, would crumble into dust, and once time had swallowed up the ground, the markers would be replaced one by one, and the cycle would start all over again, ignorant of the fact that those pieces of stone were the last remainders of the cold people below.

And one day, her body would join them.

She tried not to think of that as she sat down, cross-legged, before the black grave, reaching out to run her fingertips over the lettering. Fourteen simple letters, forming two words, all of which creating name of a person she was sure to never forget.

But she hadn't come here to remember him, although she wasn't sure she could do otherwise.

She had come here to talk.

"Hey, Sherlock." Amelia Holmes said to the grave. She could barely stand the sight of it, her reflection in the polish raising bile in her throat. She forced it back down. It hardly seemed real-none of it. She still couldn't wrap her head around the concept that Sherlock had a grave. She half expected him to show up at Baker Street, and jump out of a cake, as if it had all been some sort of sick joke, or a dream she couldn't quite wake up from.

But he'd been gone for nearly three years now, the likelihood of that happening grew slimmer by the day. During the days shortly after the funeral Amelia had, in a desperate, almost futile attempt, prayed to whatever God there was out there, pleading with them to bring him back, because his absence was agonising.

That had gone on for a two months. During the third month, Amelia had dropped half of her body weight, and her eyes were perpetually bloodshot. It was then she had discovered the alcohol. It drowned the ever-aching pain in her right forearm, and combined with the adrenaline released from the transgressions of her silver blade. She spent the next months in a daze, often starting her first drink during the afternoon in the safety of her room, and waking up the next morning halfway across London with no memory of the night before. She would get on a bus back to Baker Street, insist that she was fine to Mrs Hudson, and went upstairs to start the entire process all over again.

That was until Mycroft had shown up.

Ignoring her angry exclamations, he'd had come over with a team of men, disposing of all of the empty-and full-glass bottles, getting Mrs Hudson to force her into a shower to rid of the horrid stench of stale alcohol, and blood from her skin. Then, they'd forced her into clean clothing, and thrown every single personal item into a large bag, and had dragged her to one of Mycroft's homes.

For what seemed like years, when in fact was nothing short of two months, the man who occupied nothing more than a "minor position" in the British government kept her away from the toxins she'd grown addicted to, and, slowly, the marks on her arm scabbed over, and faded into white scars to contrast the black tattoo on her left forearm, and the scent of alcohol caused her to pull a face in disgust, rather than itch to have a glass in her hands.

And now, Amelia had started to move on.

Three years did that.

John kept arguing that Sherlock had been "gone" for two years-as if the shorter period of time it was, the better, like he couldn't believe Sherlock was not here, and that his life meant nothing without the detective at his side. Amelia agreed with her brother on the latter. But, to her, the years had seemed long, and seemingly unending. She had lived hundreds of years in the span two and a half years Sherlock had been gone.