A/N: Well, this chapter turned out a loooot longer and more complex than anticipated. Also it didn't exactly turn out the way it was originally planned, but that's fine. I'll just use the intended keyword another time :)

Additionally, a big THANK YOU to everyone who is still reading this, it means a lot!

Oh and as I finally figured out all the 'keywords' until ch. 37, I am now open for your suggestions (i. ). Just tell me what you want to 'see' of the boys and I'll write it … eventually. Might take a while though, so be warned.

Warnings: description of gross murder, involving children. (I'm so sorry!), tiny, tiny spoiler for 'His last vow'

M…

a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street"

Sherlock had been cooped up in the flat, without a proper (i.e. murder) case 'for ages', or, you know to be precise for about three days. John had been cooped up in the flat with a moody and bored detective 'for ages', or, you know, for about forty-four hours and seventeen minutes. The rest of the time he'd spent at the surgery, attending to people's minor, or major health issues.

Unsurprising, John let out a sigh of relief, when (finally) Lestrade called and asked for their help. A notion he'd soon come to regret.

Unsurprising, Sherlock took the case right away. Although it was 'only' kidnapping he smiled at the prospect of a puzzle to solve. In hindsight he'd have preferred the boredom.

Lestrade and his team where meeting them at an orphanage in Stratford. The large, Victorian, building was surrounded by police cars and officers, as well as children and staff. Nevertheless it took Sherlock merely three seconds to spot the DI among the crowd. Lestrade stood a couple of feet away from his car, talking to an elderly man with thick glasses and hair so white it almost hurt Sherlock's eyes.

When Lestrade finally noticed the consulting detective and his blogger, they were already within earshot.

"I honestly don't know, how all of this could have happened, Inspector. I am the head of this institution for more than forty years. We've never lost a child. Never. Not ever!", the old man insisted.

"What do you mean? Lost?", Sherlock asked, without preamble or introduction. The man whipped around so quickly, he nearly lost his balance. "Who are you?", he asked, a bit sharper than strictly necessary.

"Mr. Winters, this is Sherlock Holmes, a private detective who the Yard consults with on some cases and Doctor John Watson his…eh.. assistant." Lestrade stumbled over his last words, which made Sherlock curious, but before he could voice a question the DI continued. "Sherlock, John. This is Mr. Graham Winters, the head of the orphanage." Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Yes, good. Fine. What did you mean when you said you never lost a child? How can you loose a child?", he asked again. This time Mr. Winter answered. "Well, some of the children where visiting the zoo, in the company of a few staff members of course, and between the exit and the bus that brought them back here, Stephanie just vanished." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and shot Lestrade a poisonous look. "Seriously? A runaway! You brought me here for a runaway?", he spat in the general direction of the DI. Lestrade in turn raised his hands placatory. "The girl did not run away, as far as we can tell."

"As far as you can tell? And how far is that Inspector?", Sherlock asked angrily.

"Sherlock…", John said gently. The name was whispered, barely audible, though it had the desired effect. Sherlock took a deep breath and managed to calm down. Which, in turn made Lestrade lift an eyebrow.

"Okay, explain!", Sherlock demanded.

Complying Lestrade started to speak. "Stephanie has been the fifth child that vanished without a trace, during the last week. All of them girls. No traces of a kidnapper, no leads whatsoever. No clues, no suspects. No connection between the girls other than that all of them are orphans. Vanished from different institutions around London. One girl every day." Suddenly very interested, Sherlock steepled his hands beneath his chin. His eyes sparkled in the most fascinating blue. "A serial abductor, interesting. No bodies?", he asked. "Sherlock!", John cried out indignantly. The detective ignored him and fixed Lestrade with his piercing gaze. The Inspector only shook his head. "I need to see their rooms and talk to the people responsible for the children, as well as other children from the orphanages. Send every file you got on the girls immediately.", he said enthusiastically. And with that, Sherlock was gone, making his way to the large gate of the orphanage, big coat puffing out behind him like the cape of a superhero. The game was on.

Two days, and two abducted girls later John was physically and emotionally exhausted and though he would never admit it, Sherlock was too. They had been driving and running around town day and night, inspected the orphanages, interrogated staff and children, looked through the files Lestrade provided hundreds of times and were nowhere closer to finding the kidnapper than in the beginning. John had managed to take cat naps here and there, when Sherlock was thinking, but as far as he could tell his friend hadn't slept or ate something since Lestrade's phone call. Whenever John brought up the subjects 'food' and 'rest' he received a glare, that made his stomach drop.

All this considered, it was not surprising, that the mood in 221B was far from light. John was bone tired and cranky. Sherlock was frustrated to no end, and cranky as well. An explosive mixture, surely. So, when Sherlock threw a beaker across the flat in frustration and nearly gave John a heart attack, nobody could blame the Doctor for throwing a book back at Sherlock, missing him by just a fraction of an inch. Following that, John did something Sherlock would never had thought the good doctor was capable of. John rummaged around in one of the boxes, which contained medical journals, put out a small, crumpled package and lit a cigarette. A CIGARETTE! JOHN!

Sherlock was stunned. He had not known that his doctor smoked. "Not a single word, Sherlock.", John warned while he opened a window, he was a touch too late though, and a bit of the cigarettes ash fell on the floor. John didn't care.

Suddenly Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. Of course. In one, single moment of clarity all the pieces fell into place. Sherlock rushed over to John, snatched the cigarette out of the doctor's hand and inspected it intently. "Sherlock. Give that back. I'm not going to repeat myself.", John said dangerously low. But if the doctor expected Sherlock to smoke the cigarette, he was mistaken. He just watched it burn to ash and after a minute or two, threw it out of the window and ran out of the flat, grabbing his coat on the way out.

Cursing violently John followed him. He caught up with the detective when he just flagged down a cab and instructed the driver to get them to Scotland Yard. John slipped into the cab, next to Sherlock. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he asked eventually. "Care to tell me what this is all about?"

"Ash, John!", Sherlock exclaimed. "Ash?", John asked, feeling stupid. "Yes. Ash. That's the connection.", Sherlock said.

John just looked at him uncomprehending. Sherlock sighed and began to explain. "On all the abduction scenes I found ash, nothing special, I thought, but I was wrong. So wrong. I know ash, John. But it didn't occur to me, that the ashes on the crime scenes where not from a cigarette. It's a completely different kind of ash." John didn't understand. "What do you mean? Different? How?", he asked.

"It's human ash, John. From a crematory I presume. I don't know why, but I am 98 percent sure our abductor is a mortician. A careless one, as well. Everywhere he goes, he leaves traces of human ash behind, because it sticks to his clothing."

"Oh my god… But what's the connection with the girls?", John asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was obvious, wasn't it. "All children lost their parents within the last year and I guess all of them where cremated by the same person."

"The children?", John nearly screamed in shock. "The parents, John. Do follow! All we have to do is find the mortician. He's our abductor."

In a matter of minutes after arriving at Scotland Yard, they had a name and address and where rushing off to the funeral parlour with screeching tires. The building seemed abandoned. All light's were out and judging from the state of the door and display window, the parlour had been closed for quite a while. But Sherlock was not that easily fooled. Without saying a word he pointed up to the roof of the building. Thick smoke rose from one of three chimneys. Lestrade nodded and gave a few instructions to his team. Only second later they were breaking down the door and storming the building.

At first all went well, but suddenly a hidden trapdoor practically flew open and a man in his mid thirties emerged with a drawn weapon. He was covered in blood and laughing madly. Everyone froze.

"Scotland Yard. Drop the gun!", Lestrade demanded, his own weapon pointed at the suspect, but the man didn't comply, instead he laughed again, aimed the weapon at his own head and pulled the trigger. Almost everyone flinched and took several steps back. Everyone but Sherlock. He rushed to the trap door, completely ignoring the body, and climbed down the step-ladder.

John and Lestrade followed a few seconds later and shrunk immediately. The smell alone was nauseating, but the picture that presented itself in the basement was far more, than Lestrade's stomach could handle. He escaped through the trapdoor, gagging and white as a sheet.

John had seen a lot in his time, both as a doctor and in the war, but nothing, NOTHING even came close to this basement. All his instincts told him to follow Greg and look for a quiet spot to bring the contents of his stomach back up. This was not a basement, or a crematorium. This was a torture chamber, and a sound proofed one as well.

In the midst of all the abhorrent torture tools one could possibly imagine stood Sherlock Holmes, still as a statue and surrounded by the bloody remains of seven young, orphaned girls. Wouldn't it have been for Sherlock, John would have run away from that place as fast as he could until his legs would have given out, but he couldn't.

Sherlock didn't move a single muscle. John wasn't even sure he was breathing. All the doctor could see of his friend was his turned back, but it was enough to tell him that something was wrong. Don't get me wrong. EVERYTHING in that basement was wrong, but John had never seen the younger man that still. "Sherlock?", John asked quietly. He didn't get a reply, not even a twitch of a muscle, nothing. John closed the gap between them and laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock.", he tried again. Again he didn't get an answer, but even through the thick material of Sherlock's coat he could feel the tremors in the younger man's body. Slowly John turned his friend around, meeting no resistance at all. Being able to see Sherlock's face at last, John drew in a sharp breath. Not the best idea, considering his surroundings, but John fought down the urge to throw up and concentrated solely on Sherlock. His skin was ashen and a thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead and although Sherlock's eyes were shut tightly, John could see them move rapidly.

"Sherlock. Look at me!", the doctor prompted, but his friend showed no reaction. Almost as if he couldn't hear a single word. John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder tighter and shook the younger man. "Sherlock, open your eyes!", he demanded again. This time Sherlock shook his head. So he could hear John. Good. "Come on. Open your eyes and I can get you out of here.", John offered. Another tremor shook Sherlock's body, but he complied at last.

Within a few minutes they had left the building and were in a cab headed for Baker Street. There was nothing more they could do at the crime scene and John was determined to get Sherlock home as quickly as possible. During the ride Sherlock was apathetic and didn't react to anything, like a puppet on a string he only followed John's commands. Once back home he stretched out on the sofa, closed his eyes and became utterly still, except of the rapid movements of his eyes.

Another two days passed. Two days in which John had constant nightmares and genuinely worried about Sherlock's mental health, as well as his physical.

The detective hadn't said a single word since John had approached him in that basement, no matter how often John had tried to get him to talk. All Sherlock did was lay on the sofa, eyes squeezed shut, not moving a single muscle. John had tried to talk to him, had tried to shake him, had poured a glass of water over his head and (god help him) slapped him hard, twice, but Sherlock showed no reaction whatsoever.

In the night of the second day John grew desperate and grabbed his phone.

22:13 - Need advise. Sherlock has … kind of shut down. Help! JW -

It took exactly 44 seconds for John's phone to buzz.

22:14 -I am on my way. MH-

Twenty-four minutes later Mycroft Holmes entered 221B Baker Street alone, equipped with his trademark umbrella and what seemed to be a medical bag of sorts.

"John.", he said in greeting, but his eyes immediately fell on the form of his younger sibling. Mycroft sighed. "Oh Sherlock… what have you done?".

John took the question as a request and answered. "I honestly don't know what's wrong with him, but he has been like this for two days, Mycroft. Hadn't stirred once. Not even to go to the loo. I mean, I've seen him holed up in his brain for hours on end before, but this…" John pointed in the direction of his friend. "This is…"

"Self protection.", Mycroft interjected. John gave the older Holmes brother an uncomprehending look. "Sorry, what?" Again Mycroft sighed and sat down in one of the cosy chairs. "What happened, John?"

"Never mind what happened. Do something!", John demanded.

"Trust me doctor, I will but I need to know what happened first.", Mycroft answered calmly.

So John told him. He told him about the case, the abducted children, how Sherlock figured out who the criminal was, about the suicide of said man, about the basement, the dead children and Sherlock's reaction. When he was finished, all Mycroft did was nod. "So?", John asked impatiently. "Are you going to do something, or just sit there?" Instead of answering, Mycroft asked. "Has Sherlock ever told you about 'Redbeard'?" John didn't understand where Sherlock's brother was going with this question but decided to play along. "He mentioned the name once, but other than that, no." Mycroft nodded.

"'Redbeard' was a dog, John. Sherlock's dog to be precise." John raised his eyebrows in surprise. They'd had a dog? "They were inseparable, but unfortunately we had to put Redbeard down, after he was … hit by a car. Sherlock witnessed the accident and the death of his dog. He was exactly like this…" Mycroft pointed at his brother. "… for nearly three days until mummy brought him to hospital." John swallowed thickly. "Good God. How old was he?"

"Eight.", Mycroft answered. John nodded. "What happened then?"

"Well, the doctors couldn't find anything, physically, wrong with him, so they decided it was just 'shock'. They waited for another three days, without any reaction of Sherlock, until they decided to put him in an artificial coma. Back then I didn't understand why they would do that, but now I do."

"Did it work?", John asked. Mycroft nodded. "Indeed it did. They put him under for a few hours and when he woke up everything was back to normal. Well, almost normal. Sherlock later explained, that he had tried to delete the event of Readbeard's death but the 'program' didn't work as expected. He'd tried to erase all information of his beloved dog, but couldn't make it work. He called it a malfunction of his mind palace. I called it sentiment."

John chuckled humourless. "Of course you did… What happened when he woke up?"

"He demanded to be released 'this instant', and we went home. He never mentioned Redbeard again, but I saw him cry over an old picture of the dog once." John nodded. It made sense for Sherlock to avoid the topic, if he couldn't delete it.

"So what? We are going to sedate him?", John asked at last. "That, Doctor Watson…" Mycroft said, pointing at the medical bag, "… is exactly what you are going to do."

With no other choice, than to follow Mycroft's advice, John did just that. He injected Sherlock with the sedative, making sure he got the dosage right, and waited. Only two minutes later, Sherlock started to breath deeply and his eye-movements ceased entirely. John watched over his friend's drug induced sleep (and his breathing pattern) for four hours, until his own eyes grew too heavy to keep them open.

"What was my brother doing here?", Sherlock spat angrily and John startled awake. Sherlock sat on the sofa, his hand buried in his unruly locks. "Sherlock…", John started, but couldn't find any words to say. The detective looked around the room, taking in his surroundings and surely not missing the syringe on the coffee table. He nodded once, rose from the sofa and walked in the direction of the bathroom. John was surprised. That wasn't what he had expected. "What are you doing?", he asked stupefied.

"I need the loo.", Sherlock explained, and as an afterthought added, "And a shower."

John listened for any sounds of distress from the bathroom, but couldn't make out anything but the noise of the shower. Finally he knocked on the door. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Of course I am. Just a malfunction of my mind palace, nothing to worry about.", Sherlock called back.

"You were out for more than two days, Sherlock!", John tried again.

"I'm fine, John. Go to sleep, you look dead tired.", the younger man answered with the tone of finality. So the doctor did just that. He went to his room and slipped into his bed.

Neither of them spoke of the case again, or of Sherlock's 'malfunction', for that matter, but though the detective assured the doctor, that he was 'perfectly fine' John could hear Sherlock waking up screaming night by night for weeks on end.

Keyword: Malfunction