Swift steps through thick snow,
Stained crimson. A body.
"Search his pockets, find his ID."
The truth is found through the clues left behind.
Deep slashes on the carcass
Drawn lines of agony, confusion, shock,
Disbelief on the victim's face.
The truth is the victim knew his killer.
Searching, interviews, answers,
Suspects lined up. Names of the
Suspected - his alibi checks up. Names crossed off.
The truth is drawing closer,
The truth shall be found.
Warrants granted. Houses searched.
Bam!
"Sir! Watson's shot!"
"Poirot! Call for backup!"
Wailing sirens grow louder and louder
Watson, my loyal partner, grimaces as his
Wound bleeds, trails of red running down his uniform.
Truth is blurred by the turmoil inside me, a bright flame of red anger.
Movement. The sound of fleeing footsteps.
Motivated by emotions, I give chase.
"Stop! Put your hands up!"
He fires at me. I duck. I shoot.
He falls. I grab his gun.
"You're under arrest for murder."
"I didn't do it."
"Then who did?"
"I...I can't-"
"WHO?"
"He's going to kill me too."
The truth is deadly.
Scanning the evidence. Again.
Searching. We've been doing so for months.
Staring into space, thinking.
The truth is tedious to find.
Cold. I felt a metal tube at the back of my head.
Click. The safety switch of a gun.
Confusion. Shock. Disbelief. Watson's icy tone.
"I'm sorry Holmes, but you knew too much."
The truth hurts.