Sherlock sat slumped on the sofa, his hands steepled beneath his chin. He was wandering the halls of his mind palace, searching for a particular chamber. Of course, he knew its precise location, but preferred to spend a little time in the quest. He felt that he had to achieve a certain state of mind to be worthy to enter... and lately that was getting more and more difficult to do. No, better wait a little while longer before going in there. Funny that such a mousy (her term, never his) person would burrow into even the deepest reaches of his inner construction- as he wandered, he saw more and more traces of her personality and frankly, abominable, taste. For god's sake, one chamber even had kittens on the wallpaper! How had THAT happened? He couldn't suppress a shudder, although he then smirked a bit. She was certainly persistent. As he turned away, a shadow streaked across the room- Toby, he assumed...

Sherlock deliberately turned down an alternate passageway and viewed the paintings along the corridor, sliding down into a supine position on the sofa as he did so. As he rounded a turn, he was met with a portrait that he hadn't realised he placed there. It was so beautiful, it was physically painful- his chest ached. Molly was wearing a dress he had never seen. It was a cobalt blue, and complimented her colouring and the red and gold glints in her chestnut hair. She was smiling, the bright blue dress and big, ridiculous hair bow just screaming "Molly." In the background, he became aware that his own violin compositions were providing an accompaniment. He didn't bother to stop the tears flowing freely from his eyes. He felt safe here and could go ahead and cry, although he rarely did so. He didn't think he deserved the balm that tears brought with them, however briefly it lasted.

An odd thing happened next. He fell asleep, tears still staining his cheeks. It wasn't until the morning light came through the front windows of 221B that Sherlock awoke. He could not remember the last time he had slept for seven hours straight. Riffling his fingers through his hair, he stumbled to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Then he made his way to the shower, realising with a sniff that he was distinctly NOT fresh-smelling.

Thirty minutes later, he emerged, washed and shaven, smelling of his customary woodsy/spicy shampoo and soap and feeling better than he had in days. His hair he left just towel-dried- the curls would have to behave themselves on their own today. He looked at the coffee pot, poured a mug, added sugar, and drank it while he listened to the news on the telly, for once not correcting the reader. Realising that he was still in just his pants and a tee shirt (both worn inside-out), he threw on jeans and a green tweedy jumper and trainers, and trotted down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat and knocked. She had just made some fresh raisin scones, and Sherlock always had a knack for knowing when they were ready. She was surprised and delighted when he grabbed one, spread it with jam and sat at her table, fingers drumming out an unknown rhythm on her tabletop.

"So, then, dear- feeling better today? Are you planning on seeing Mycroft?" Mrs. Hudson asked, while fixing him a cup of tea. She noted his appearance was less haggard than usual, and it seemed he had showered and shaved- a definite improvement. Sherlock looked more like his old self than he had in weeks. She fervently hoped he was coming out the other side of whatever had been making him so depressed, but dared not hope for it even in her thoughts. Sherlock finished the scone and grabbed another, preparing it the same way as the first. He looked off into the middle distance for a while, absently chewing; then frowned and answered.

"No, I think I'll just work on my music for a bit and then maybe- well, erm, maybe my journal?" he trailed off and looked uncomfortable, then frowned again. He finished the scone, and stood, ready to go back upstairs, uncertain as to what exactly he was doing here. He raked his fingers through his curls in frustration, and frowned.

"Well, Sherlock, I don't mean to pry- I'm sure you have things to do. You're welcome here any time, you know." Mrs. Hudson said, to fill the void. "I'll be going out to do some shopping- let me know if you need anything, all right, dear? I'll pick up some milk at any rate- and some of those biscuits you fancy." The poor thing practically lived on tea, coffee, and chocolate biscuits- but at least he got some calories into him that way. She sometimes made him things like pasta, sneaking a few finely chopped vegetables into the sauce. He always knew, but didn't mind them, so he ate.

Sherlock took her remarks as an excuse to leave, and quickly ascended the seventeen steps to his flat. He picked up his violin and sat on the sofa, flipping the bow end over end and then applying more rosin. He ran a few scales, satisfied that the instrument was in tune; then played a few lines of the piece he was presently composing. A clear, plaintive tune was soon echoing around the flat.

And how are you feeling today, Sherlock? -MH

Fine. I slept for 7 hours. - SH

And are you more rested now? -MH

Of course- Mycroft, I am fine. There is no need to sound like an 18th century toff...- SH

Ah! Back to your sweet self, I see. - MH

Nonsense- I am merely aggravated by your prying. - SH

Well, then, I must be doing something right. - MH

I have to go. - SH

Take care, little brother. Best of luck in your composing. - MH

I don't believe in luck. Goodbye, Mycroft. Go meddle in some country's politics. - SH

Mycroft sighed. Well, at his best, Sherlock had been prickly since he was a child. He supposed it was foolish to expect any major changes in that area.

A/N- Well, Sherlock is definitely still depressed- will we find out why soon? Thanks for reading and reviewing!