Author's note: I know I should really work on "Because I Chose To Be Who I Was" when I have got the time – but this wouldn't leave me alone.

As you might have noticed, I am currently experimenting with different styles and points of view – and I have wanted to write this story for some time, and now, I finally thought I could pull it off. We'll see.

I don't own anything, please review.

I am not cold anymore.

That was the first thing I noticed, when I came back from – went away – was granted –

It was the first thing I noticed: I am not cold anymore.

Before, I was cold, so cold.

And before that –

The pain, the struggle, the fear –

But that's all in the past now. I'm calm. And warm. And content.

But they are not.

They are two men, and they don't seem to be policemen. I would have expected only to see policemen at this stage – I don't know why I can see. I just can. And it's alright, because I am calm and warm and content. But these two – The first one, the tall, slim man with the dark hair and his long coat, doesn't seem cold. But his friend – at least I believe it's his friend, he could be a colleague – only wears a light green jacket, and he's obviously shivering. I pity him; it is rather cold tonight – if it is still the same night, that is – and I remember how it felt. But the dark haired man seems to notice it too. He looks at the shorter man. "Don't worry John, I'll be quick". "No need, Sherlock". He answers quickly, perhaps too quickly. There is a flash of – regret? Guilt? In the other one's eyes, and the keep walking towards me on the ground.

I'm rather glad I don't feel the cold anymore. I would most likely be freezing if I did.

A man who looks nice comes to greet the two who have captured my attention. He has hair that looks like it's made out of silver, and he tells them "Young woman, in her late twenties, at the most. Killer strangled her. No clues, so far".

"Thank you, Greg" the taller man answers, and the silver-haired man seems taken aback. Maybe because he isn't used to people being nice to him on a crime scene. But I think they should.

It's my crime scene after all, so why shouldn't it be special?

So the two men come closer, the silver-haired man trailing behind them, but then they are stopped by someone who is holding a crime scene kit – I don't know the proper turn, I am – was – working in a shop – and he is sneering and I don't like him at all. I would like people to be nice to each other, today of all days.

"You back then? For good? God help us" the man says, and it obviously hurts the tall man, though he tries not to sow it, and the blonde man in the green jacket seems angry all of a sudden, and I don't think that the silver-haired man would hold him back, judging by the look on his face.

"Anderson..." he says, and it's a warning, even I can tell, so the one with the sneer should really know better.

"But we did fine without him, sir" he answers, and this time, the tall man has an answer, which makes me happy, because for some reason I don't like to see him hurt. "Really, Anderson? You think three undetected murders in a year is "doing fine"? I'd hate to see you at your worst."

And he pushes past him and comes closer to me – or what was me, not so long ago, it's hard to tell, this new state I am in is so confusing – again, and I am rather anxious now that he should see what he wants to see, because I can feel that my time to leave is coming closer, and I want to know what he sees. I can tell he doesn't see the world like normal people do. It must be fascinating.

The silver-haired man wants to follow him and his blonde friend, but a woman stops him. She doesn't look nice either. "Sir, do you really think the freak – "

"His name is Sherlock, Donavan, Sherlock Holmes, and I would appreciate it if you kept doing your job and stopped worrying about mine" with that, he brushes her off. He must be angry with her, for some reason. Still, it's nice to see him coming up to the other two, whose pace has slowed – though the tall one obviously doesn't want him to know he waited for him.

The come up to me, finally. For a moment, I wish I could tell them what happened: me, walking home from work, because I wanted to feel the falling snow on my skin; how he grabbed me from behind, the man I couldn't saw, the man who stole what was mine; how he strangled me, how I struggled and tried to scream and scratch him; how I suddenly felt cold, so cold, watching the snowflakes fall and savouring them as the last thing I'd ever feel in my skin, and the darkness that followed; and then I came back – or maybe I'm just waiting, waiting for the moment when I have to leave, which will be soon. But I am not cold anymore.

But maybe the tall man doesn't need my help, because he is kneeling next to me, looking at me, really seeing me, the person I was. He looks at my nails, to – so I must have scratched him, after all.

At least I could do that, then. At least he will be caught.

Then he stands up and looks at the man in the green jacket. "John?"

And, suddenly, the shorter man stops shivering. Maybe he didn't shiver because of the cold, maybe he felt alone, amidst all these people. I know the feeling. But he is alright now, I can see it in his eyes.

The taller man can't see it yet, because he looks unsure. But then John gives him a smile and kneels down beside me, and he relaxes. And the silver-haired man – Greg – smiles at them, though they can't see it. It's nice that he smiles at them. I have the feeling that they haven't been smiled at often, in the last time.

"Strangled" John is saying, "with a belt, I'd say. She put up a struggle – tried to fight for her life. She definitely scratched her assailant". So at least I know I am in good hands.

The other one – Sherlock, what a queer man, but it fits this queer man – nods and starts to explain. "She worked in a shop – most likely women's clothing. She was at her way home from work, walking, so she can't live far away. Single, but her parent still live – and there is a younger brother."

He is right about everything. I'm sorry about my family. They don't deserve this. But I think, I hope, I know that everything is in good hands. Sherlock and John, and – Greg, was it? – will make sure they get closure. Like I already have. There is nothing I can do, except to wait. And I'm going to leave so soon, so very soon.

"Alright, then – I'll make sure to send people out to the shops in this area, see if they can identify her" Greg says, clasping Sherlock's shoulder, and he looks strangely confused. "Good to have you back". Then he smiles and looks at John. "You both".

He turns around and leaves – or leaves my line of vision, which is the same for me – and Sherlock and John are left there, looking at me. I don't feel exposed, though. They seem kind. They want to help; they want to find out who did this for me. And John isn't shaking anymore. Not at all. So he isn't cold, either.

"You know, Sherlock..." John says, hesitatingly, and Sherlock makes a nice to let him know he has heard him.

"This feels... Well, obviously I can't say "good", we are standing over a body, after all, and – "

If only he knew I am actually glad they are here. It makes my passing away less lonely. I am going to leave very, very soon, and I want them to be there. It would fit, somehow. I can't explain how, but it would. It just would.

He is obviously searching for the right words, murmuring incoherently, then he takes a deep breath. "It feels... like the old times. Just like the old times. I missed it".

And Sherlock smiles, and he answers, "I missed it too". And then they smile at each other, before looking at me again.

"Poor girl" John says, and the he raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Do you have an idea who did this?"

And Sherlock starts to explain, but I can't hear all of it, because I am slipping away, because my time has come, but I understand enough to know that they will catch the man who did this to me.

And they are standing there, beside me, friends, two halves of a whole, they belong together, and all is well.

Snow starts falling again, and I am rather happy I could share my last moments here with them.

It's time.

Goodbye, my friends.

Author's note: Like I said, I am experimenting. Please let me know what you think.

I hope you liked it.