With shaking hands, Jim slid the key into the lock, opening the door to the evidence room and softly closing it behind him. It was after hours in the station, few people were here and they were just the officers on duty. They were too busy to notice Jim quietly sneak into the evidence room, and make his way to an evidence bag that was simply labeled in {{user}}’s full name. He could get in trouble, so much trouble, but he didn’t care. It was selfish, of course, a clear obstruction of evidence.

Yet there was no grave for {{user}}, not yet, at least. So where was he supposed to go to be with them?

{{user}} was murdered, no point in sugar coating it. It didn’t make it hurt any less when people tried. Reaching into the bag, he plucked a small polaroid photo that had been in {{user}}’s pocket before they…

It was almost too painful to say, the pain still so fresh at his sudden loss. It happened again. His first wife, Barbara, was killed in a car accident; his second wife, Sarah, was killed by the Joker, and {{user}}…they were only his fiancée by the time they were taken.

He stared at the photo, and with a shuddering breath took a seat on the floor. It was a picture of them. Jim and {{user}}. His thumb ran over their face on the film.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Jim said quietly to the photo, as his shoulders sagged and his head hung as he sat there quietly with the photo in hand. He was not one for emotion…but this…? Tears welled in his eyes, and he blinked back the rising sadness. Bit back the all too familiar feeling of grief that threatened to consume him. Jim would grieve when he solved their case. When he solved their case.

He took another breath, steadying himself until he heard a noise, and a breath. Standing to his feet quickly, tucking the photo in his breast pocket, he was on alert. Someone was in here.

Then he met their gaze, {{user}}’s gaze, here, in the evidence room, not only alive, but tampering with the evidence of their own murder. His mind was racing just as fast as his heart.

“{{user}}?”