She is beginning to hear things, jumbled noises spinning irritatingly round in her mind, opening the doors of rooms that she doesn't want to enter. Unearthing memories of complete irrelevance. Why? What are these sounds?
BEEP
The sound of shuffling feet is palpable, nurses moving back and forth between their stations, tending to patients who are destined to survive. The writing still flashes in his mind, red, pulsating, dangerous. They are an ominous reminder of the decision he must make. She is clouding his judgement, cluttering his mind palace with her constant confrontation and her information overload.
Sherlock is confused, for once in his life he doesn't know what to do, he has to find Molly's assailant, but can he afford to loose every single precious memory of her existence, can he cope without her, is sentiment really that much of a distraction?
She doesn't know why, but running around the Mind Morgue is becoming more difficult, every move she makes is laden with stiffness, it hurts to open doors, and her memories have become more distant. As each sound grows clearer her grasp on her Mind Morgue fades, structures of infinite importance simply slipping away into the catacombs of her inner self conscious.
They grow louder, these unidentifiable noises, clamouring and shuffling, and there constant serenade backed by a single ominous
BEEP
She doesn't understand, why is it suddenly so loud. She thought that silence suited her, such a change from the usual noise filled requiem of her day to day life. Until one day she feels something change, she begins to feel her limbs, or what she believes to be her limbs start to wake. Her Morgue, her carefully constructed version of reality, begins to slip through her fingers, till there are only two rooms remaining. Her own, and that of Sherlock Holmes.
She isn't improving; it seemed so, for a start, odd twitches here and there, movement of the eyelids. All circumstantial, all of little consequence. He has not left the hospital, choosing instead to watch her breathing apparatus working her lungs, studying to find any signs of life. Knowing that he won't. Sherlock Holmes is not a stupid man, far from it, but he takes little pleasure in watching life slip away before his eyes. He knows he cannot stay here indefinitely, he understands that he cannot simply abandon a case for the sake of another human being.
Sherlock Holmes knows that he must come to a decision, and it will not be an easy one. Each time he tries to access the reason section of his Mind Palace it is blocked, rendered virtually impenetrable by his own head. He knows that he must help her, he knows that it will not be that simple: for it concerns emotions, and that is something which cannot be allowed to affect the Great Sherlock Holmes, it is better for others to believe that the man has no heart than to allow them to crush it with their own inadvertent foolishness. It is for this reason that Sherlock shuts his eyes, retreats to his mind morgue and faces the red writing. When he awakens he feels little regret at walking out of the clinical building he has almost lived in for the past week, his long coat bellowing behind him, his eyes once again as cold as the stone walls surrounding him.