Posted by John H. Watson

Grief is different for everyone, but I think there's one thing every grieving person has in common. Even if they you knew the dead person only fleetingly, you have in some ways to re-evaluate and re-adjust your life in accordance with the fact of their death. It is as if each person is a strut, and together they form an intricate and perfectly balanced structure that is your own life-perception. The people you know well and spend much of your time in the company of are the central struts, and the people you see only fleetingly from time to time, or didn't know for very long, are the outer ones built around the centre. It doesn't matter whether the struts are satellite ones or central ones; if one of them is removed the whole structure is affected. If it's a central strut, the whole structure comes crashing down, and sometimes people don't realise how long the repairs take. And it takes time and it takes huge amounts of energy. And because of that it doesn't get easier – it gets more gruelling over time. It can take a lifetime, and even when it's repaired, the structure without its strut is altered forever.

I made a slight error of description in the previous paragraph. I said that the people you see most are probably the central struts and the ones you see least would be outlying ones. Well, that's not strictly true all the time; someone can have a huge impact on your life after only having met them once, or even after only talking online. Sherlock doesn't have friends as such, but there are certainly people who form central struts in his life, even though he only sees them in passing in his work, or out of choice. Mycroft is certainly a central strut in Sherlock's life. He may be an awkward-fitting one in some ways, but he is central, and if anything happened to him it would affect him considerably. Maybe not in the conventional ways, but still have a big effect. Lestrade, too. Sherlock may not give Lestrade much respect as most people know it, but he listens, and he does, to some extent, what Lestrade says, albeit often with protest. If anything happened to Lestrade, I have a strong suspicion that Sherlock would take it personally and lay the full blame on himself. Now Molly. Unlikely Molly, diffident Molly, gentle Molly, persistent Molly, innocent Molly. Sherlock definitely didn't feel for her what she felt for him, but somehow after several years of working together, she had wormed her way into his esteem and earned his respect. She had become a central strut, and I don't think Sherlock realised that…and now that she was gone for good it hit him hard.

He was up and pacing all evening, poker-faced and deep in thought. He picked up his violin to play but didn't. I knew there was nothing I could do to help, and I doubted Sherlock would appreciate it even if I had tried to intervene. Finally he threw on his coat and scarf and made for the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Can I help?"

"No."

And with that he disappeared.

I kept myself awake by reading and bad-clarinetting and surfing, but at three in the morning my eyes started to get dangerously heavy. I kept almost dozing off and waking up with my forehead touching the top of the laptop. So I put the laptop down and tried to read again. The story became progressively more lurid and surreal…I had no idea Bernard Maclavity could be so trippy. It was at that point that I opened my eyes and saw the real words…and the sunlight. It was nine in the morning and a draught was coming from the front door of the flat.

I closed the door, thinking that either Sherlock had got back, or we'd somehow been burgled. The door to his room was open. I poked my head round, and did a double take. Sherlock was lying face-down on the bed, still in his coat and scarf.

"Hello." I said, feeling a bit foolish.

A muffled voice came out of the pillow. "Leave me alone."

Of course, when somebody says that, it's impossible to obey them. I crossed the room with mounting disbelief, mixed with curiosity. "You're…are you…you're not…crying are you?"

"No," mumbled the pillow.

"Are you upset about Molly?"

"No. Sociopath, remember."

"Hmmm. So what did you find out?"

"Nnrthn."

"Hmmm?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing that I didn't know already." One hand reached out and groped around for his phone, which was on the bedside table. He thrust it in my direction. There was a text from Lestrade: "No point investigating alternative theories. We have damning evidence."

"Lestrade's little self-glorifying fanfare," he explained.

My sympathy turned in that moment to irritation. This wasn't grief over a lost friend; it was the shame of being beaten by someone whom Sherlock considered to be inferior.

"Look," I told him as nicely as I could. "Get up. You're being a drama queen."

"What's the point?"

"What's the point in getting up?"

"Mmm."

"Did I hear correctly? Sherlock, there's an innocent man in a cell and nobody knows except for us! And the person who murdered Molly is still at large!" I decided to be assertive. "Today we're going to the crime scene. I know it's old, but if Lestrade found something damning then maybe you can find something absolving."

There was a pause, and Sherlock rolled over onto his back. Then he sat up and rubbed his tired face. "The remains were Molly's," he said. "I spent all night running and re-running the tests on the remaining sample just to make sure. I thought maybe someone had used Molly's blood or something to cover the real victim. But it was definitely her DNA. All of it. There was no question. It was in surprisingly good condition, having been burned."

"Well…" I said, slowly, "The best we can hope to do now is find out how she died, who killed her and why she was killed."

"I've never been wrong about a hunch before. I've failed because I've been too sure of my abilities, and I've failed because I've been slapdash before, and I've failed because I wasn't able to prove my solution. But the hunches have always been right. I knew Molly wasn't dead…" he looked positively unnerved.

"Well…there's a first time for everything. " A nod. "You need breakfast."

"Don't eat when – "

" – You do this time. I'll do the chopped bacon and potato thing. How does that sound?"

Sherlock contemplated this, and then the corners of his mouth turned up a tiny fraction, and he inclined his head very slightly.

"I'll need your support today," he admitted quietly, meeting my eye for a second.