Sherlock laid her on the bed, the pale doll with Molly's face. Shaking, he ran his hands through his wet hair. Something was fluttering maddeningly in his chest like a caged thing, his breath coming fast and hard. Desperately, trembling, he half fell onto the bed, gathering the blankets around Molly's cold limbs.
"Molly, Molly, please, you're freezing, I can't..."
Sherlock gathered her into his arms, swaddled in blankets, willing the warmth back into her. He had felt her steady pulse by the lake, checked her breathing, listened to her heart (his head bent to her chest in the blinding, metallic rain, his hands under her knees and neck to lift her-her ribcage felt so fragile under his cheek, bird-bones under the thin wet cotton of her nightdress).

She was freezing, but alive.
Keep her warm. Body heat is the most effective, readily available source.
Sherlock's sharp analytical ego cut neatly through his whirling confusion. He cradled Molly closer against his chest.

777

The thunder woke John, or the heat in the room, or some other sound that broke off just as he edged into consciousness. He wasn't sure.

3.01 a.m. Wincing at the brightness of the phone's screen, John cleared his throat. Rain was still pattering against the windows. It was a comforting sound, but as he lay still John fancied he could hear a voice underneath it, low, murmuring. This damn House put a sick spin on everything... He turned over to go back to sleep.

No, wait.

There was a voice.

John sat up straining his ears. It was coming from down the hallway, the direction of Sherlock's room. It was Sherlock's voice.

"Oh, god," John muttered, swinging his legs out of bed. "Not him too."

He pulled a jumper on over his pyjamas and padded out into the hall. Sherlock's light was on, the door open. John could make out words now-

"Perhaps you can't hear me but enough research shows that people in comotose states respond to communication so... God, you're cold."

A floorboard creaked as he entered, and John started back as Sherlock whipped round to look at him, almost snarling. He was holding Molly like a wolf hunched over its prey. With his hair darkened and wild from the rain, the cavernous shadows on Sherlock's face made him look feral, unearthly. Molly's head lolled on her neck at a strange angle. One wrist, pale and slim as a lily stem, curled slackly onto the coverlet. Her lips were blue.

Sherlock didn't say a word. When he looked like he did now, it made John wonder where the sociopath in him ended and the psychopath began.
"Sherlock," he whispered, "What have you done?"
"Nothing!" Sherlock spat, his eyes flashing. Then, visibly, his body slumped as though the strings had been cut. He began to shake again. John limped into the room as Sherlock let Molly's ragdoll body tumble from his arms and onto the bed.
"John, you're a doctor... Look after Molly, she-" His voice wavered and he stopped. "I have to go."
Unsteadily, Sherlock left the room, his shoulder hitting the lintel hard on the way, spinning him slightly off course.

John knelt by the bed. Routine checks, but it was always different when you knew the person, wasn't it? Molly, sweet, disarmingly sweet girl. He brushed her wet hair off her forehead tenderly. Exposure, he reckoned, and shock. Had she been out in the rain? Sherlock knew...

Gently, John raised Molly up to lean against his shoulder as he began to peel off her wet nightdress.

"Sorry, love," he muttered. "Got to warm you up."

777

Sherlock tried to slow his breathing. One hand on the wall for balance, he staggered towards the stairs. The dark hallway pitched and swayed in his vision. He couldn't breathe. A peal of thunder shook the old windows in their frames. Gasping, Sherlock let himself fall to his knees, struggling to tear his scarf from his throat, gulping down hoarse lungfuls of air.

The face in the water. That pond weed smell. The girl who wasn't there.

A concerned face swam vaguely in front of his eyes. Hands grabbed his quaking shoulders and pushed him back into a sitting position against the wall. Sherlock felt two fingers take his pulse.

"I can't breathe," he croaked. John's voice seemed to come from miles away as he repeated his name.
"Sherlock. Sherlock. That's right, look at me. Sherlock. Alright, good."
His friends voice was an anchor. Sherlock made a superhuman effort to overcome the tightness in his chest.
"Alright, Sherlock? You're having a panic attack." John had turned on his firm but gentle bedside manner. Even in his present state Sherlock managed to frown at him.
"Don't be... Ridiculous... I've never had a... in... life."
"Just concentrate on breathing alright? Count to ten with me. One, two, nice and slow-"
"Why have you... left Molly... she needs-"
"She's going to be fine Sherlock. She's suffering from shock. You don't need to worry about Molly for now, concentrate on yourself. Three.. Four, come on-"
"There's no need to... talk to me... like I'm... a child."

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed both palms flat against the floor, letting its steadiness calm him. When John reached ten, Sherlock was breathing almost evenly. It was a minute or two before he spoke.
"I saw a man under the lake."
Sherlock rubbed his eyes fiercely.
"I'm going mad, John. I'm losing my... My mind."

John sat back on his heels. The two men stayed silent, deep in thought. John hesitated twice before speaking.
"Listen, Sherlock. I... You're going to think - well, I mean it doesn't really matter what even you think at this point. We're all going bloody mad."
John looked up at the ceiling.
"What I reckon is this. I don't think we're here to solve a murder case that happened a few weeks ago. I think... That we are here to solve a murder case that happened a very long time ago."
Sherlock said nothing.
"Just imagine for a second that this is really happening. That this house really is haunted."
John paused, expecting a sneer of derision from the detective. But Sherlock stayed quiet, gazing at him steadily.
"And imagine that these 'ghosts' are actually... Steering us towards and sometimes warding us away from... Clues."
John picked his words carefully. A spark had already began to creep into the depths of Sherlock's eyes.
"In a way, it's a sort of cold case. But with, em... Dimensional variants."

The shadow of a smile hovered at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

Now," John climbed to his feet with difficulty and held out his hand to Sherlock.

"Doesn't that sound like a game worth playing?"