There is little or no sound in this place. I'm beginning to see why Sherlock likes his supposed mind palace so much. But then again, I'm not sure how long I intend to stay here; Sherlock can roam the halls of his sanctuary for hours if not days, I have no idea if I am that patient.
I have often wondered if I am there, in one of those mind locked rooms of his, or if those are only reserved for those who hold a special place in his non existent heart. I swear if I were alive I would be crying right, but I am not and no one, not even Sherlock, can deduce me now.
For being dead, I can still feel so much, it's pretty confusing, this feeling of constant pain in my chest. Almost like a fire, burning my battered body, well, corpse rather, taking every breath I had and erasing it.
Today I roam my Mind Morgue, looking into each room forlornly, it is concerning how as each moment passes more seems to disappear from the space. All my memories are slipping away. There is one room that is still full however, my own, it is puzzling to me, for some reason things that were never there before seem to be appearing; it was my immediate assumption that after death memories died with you, dispersing back into the very atmosphere they came from. But each minute I enter this particular room there is a new byte of information lodged there.
For instance only a short time ago (at least I think it was a short time) a new file appeared in the Mousy Molly section of the room, an item which made little sense to me, and still brings tears to my eyes now, a ring, scintillating there in the darkness. I have no idea what it means, but for some reason, I wish too.
The strangest item that has appeared in that room is an anatomical heart, beating in rhythm to an unheard beat; it sits on the important shelf, next to the self appointed head of admissions, the brain. Each day the heart seems to shrink, and when this happens a single droplet of fluid runs from the brains hippocampus, pooling underneath the organs mid section.
In the hospital, more monitors are hooked up to the young woman's arms aiding her failing heartbeat, she lies despondently in the small bed, her body frail and white as a sheet, her hair spreading out as if immersed in water. The heart monitors beep faster as each spike on the cardiograph documents another pulse of the weakened organ.
Slowly the door to the room opens and a tall man in a black coat strides in, paling at the sight of the woman, it is clear he is unprepared for the shock of her injuries or the fragility of her life balance, slowly he stutters out a few choked words, "what have I done?"
Somewhere in her Mind Morgue there is a small tremor, it spreads eagerly around the space, and emanating from one of her rooms, running fast, her heart beating she reaches the source of the shudder. Stopping in front of a familiar door with a large knocker and gold lettering, creaking open a little the room reveals a slowly pulsating object. Molly smirks; it appears that somehow: Sherlock Holmes, has grown a heart.