Hey there.

Are you bored?

Like, really really bored?

If that's a yes, a guess you have an excuse to be reading this.

I would say enjoy, but...

Sigh...

There was something. And so Sherlock was awake. His eyes still shut, his senses fuzzy with sleep.

"Sherlock."

A voice, that was the something. He didn't want to get up. The couch was rather comfortable. Or he was rather tired.

"Sherlock."

His brain managed to piece together a few sentence fragments conveying that he wanted to be left alone. Only about a sixteenth of these vague fragments managed to leave his mouth. So, basically, all that came out was an annoyed grumble.

"Sherlock I need your help."

He blinked his eyes open. He couldn't exactly keep them open, though. After a few seconds his eyes, squinting, managed to focus on the shaded outline of Molly Hooper. He grumbled again.

"Come on, get up," she said, tugging on his arm. Sherlock tucked his arm closer and made a noise that sounded something like horse whinnying, a dog whining, and bear growling. Molly scowled.

"I just need your opinion on something! One quick question!" Molly said. Sherlock didn't budge. Then she flicked him on the nose. He sat straight up, grumbling and rubbing his nose. Molly grabbed his arm again and led him to the kitchen of her small flat. The cheap beige countertops were a mess, he saw a spill on the linoleum floor. "I wouldn't normally bother you with something like this, but I'm really unsure what to do."

"I'm running out of places for them, do you have any ideas?" Molly gestured to the table as she asked Sherlock, who was still massaging his nose distractedly. Sherlock looked down.

There are a lot of emotions Sherlock has trouble feeling (or expressing, he likes to make those words synonyms when it comes to himself and emotions). Two of these are shock and wrong. He experienced both of these when he saw what was on the table. A bit more shock than wrong, though.

On the kitchen tables were two corpses. One was covered in open slashes, blood pooling below it on the table and soaking into the dead flesh, muscle and fat and veins all visible in the large gashes. Its face was unrecognizable, the only hint as to the gender being the long curling hair. The second was even more gruesome, limbs hanging on raggedy, torn strips of flesh, the entrails spilling out, the head almost entirely detached and the eyes ripped from their sockets. And there was a third mass of fluffy hair matted with blood.

Sherlock gasped silently. This was impossible. Not happening. He was dreaming. Only explanation. Was that Molly's cat? Molly Hooper was not a killer. Not a sick murderer. Running out of places? There was more? She was a serial killer? No. no. Was that Molly's cat? Maybe she was hiding them for money. No. Impossible. Dreaming. He was sick to his stomach. Oh God, there was a bloody stomach right there. No. There wasn't. Yes there was. And intestines and blood and eyeballs. Was that Molly's cat?

"You would know good hiding places for this sort of thing, I thought. Sherlock?" Molly said calmly, turning to look at his face.

"I don't know," was all Sherlock could manage.

Molly sighed. She looked at Sherlock again, and her brow furrowed. She looked slightly annoyed. "You're going to tell, aren't you?"

Molly shook her head. Sherlock noticed the chainsaw she was carrying (how didn't he notice it before?)

"Now I'm going to have to hide four on my own, oh bother," she said, exasperated. Sherlock suddenly noticed the third butchered body on the table. In the split second he processed this he glanced to Molly, who had started the chainsaw and held it over her head. Molly opened her mouth and both she and the chainsaw made a terrifying roaring noise.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. His pajamas were pasted to his skin with sweat, and he was panting. He sat up and looked around, then stumbled from the couch to the kitchen.

Every detail was different. The green stone countertops, the polished wood floors. Each counter spotless from Molly's post-Sherlock's-experiment cleanup. The entire layout was different from the kitchen he had been in seconds ago. As for the table, it was barely big enough to fit one human body, let alone three. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He saw Molly's cat Toby sleeping soundly in the sink, his chest slowly rising and falling.

But then he heard the noise again. The roaring noise. He tried to turn and run as far as he could from the noise, but he tripped over the table chair, sending both himself and the chair clanging to the ground. Toby yowled at the noise and leapt from the sink.

Sherlock, hurriedly trying to pick himself up, heard a door open. The noise grew louder, then stopped, and Molly came into view.

"Sherlock? What are you doing up?" She asked. Sherlock noticed the hair dryer in her hand. She kneeled down next to him and felt his forehead. "Your fever's broken. Good."

Sherlock stared at her from his position on the floor sitting on his butt. She smiled awkwardly, looking concerned. "You alright, Sherlock?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I am."

"Good. I have to be out in half an hour. Go back to bed." Molly said, standing up and returning to her room.

Sherlock brought himself back to his feet, and went back to his couch. He pulled a blanket over himself, unsure if he wanted to sleep anymore. He would pretend to be asleep, just until Molly left for work, and then watch some of that fascinating show with people singing that Molly loved. Sherlock would deduce whether the singer would make it to the next level before they even sang. It was good fun.

He might as well make himself comfortable until Molly left. He turned onto his side, and stuck his hand between the couch cushions.

And felt something soft and cold. He grasped it, and pulled it out.

It was a human hand.

(Just kidding)

I have no life. Sorry for wasting your time =P