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CHAPTER 6: YOU GET A STIFF NECK FROM SLEEPING ON A COUCH.

Sherlock was wondering in his numb mind palace, not searching for anything particular. He didn't even know what he was doing there. Everything was pitch black, so he couldn't see or feel, but walking down a familiar corridor, he didn't even need his sight.

Suddenly he noticed a dim glow from under a door. He carefully pushed it open, just to back off a few steps when a wave of heat hit him and an orange light blinded his eyes.

What the-?

The walls of the room were on fire. Not the things in there: a laptop, some patterned sweaters, a cane, books. Not the furniture: a comfortable armchair, shelves, pillows. Not the pictures hanging. Just the dark brown walls, that kept everything safe and in order, separated from other things.

The fire didn't stop. It spreaded as fast as light to the next room and then the next. All Sherlock could do was to stand and watch as his mind shattered. All order was gone, his knowledge scattered around, while the walls of his mind palace, created to keep him organized and safe, burned down.

He walked in the ruins, mind overflowing with random facts, that were of no use to him without their right place. He had been on the top floor of his palace, but now it didn't matter anymore. No up or down, everything reduced to it's original state, like Sherlock had never even built it. The fire had died in the places it successfully destroyed and was still glowing in the corners, where there was left what to burn.

Suddenly Sherlock's lifeless body halted to a stop. One more place that was glowing in the dying fire, the strong confines of the door having their final moments, until they were gone to ash.

The basement.

And then Sherlock could feel it. Feel the flames, the heat, the pain. He drowned in the wave of everything he had locked up in the cellar since he was a boy. He sunk down and curled in a fetal position, no chance of fighting back, as the emotions, memories and thoughts surrounded him fully, giving him no exits, making him feel all the things he had forbade himself from feeling.

Saturday: 8 a.m

Last night Molly had stayed up as long as she could to look after the man in her bedroom, who was still having a high temperature, but even she couldn't push her tiredness away for too long. So she finally fell asleep on her sofa, after grabbing an extra blanket from her closet.

In the early Saturday morning she woke up to the sound of her doorbell ringing. Molly opened her eyes with great effort and stretched her arms and shoulders, beginning to feel a slight ache in her neck.

The doorbell rung again, this time more impatiently. Molly got up from her uncomfortable sleeping place and went to the door. After she had recognized the face, she opened it and let the tall man with an umbrella walk into her tiny flat.

Molly had only seen him a couple of times and gotten the impression that he and Sherlock didn't get along very well. She had two older brothers herself, but they had always been best friends with each other. But then again Sherlock was risen in a completely different society, so much she could tell. He never spoke about his childhood and family.

Mycroft Holmes seemed very foreign in Molly's two-room flat. The soft colourful pillows, mismatching furniture and family pictures on the bookshelf full of medical books, romance and criminal novels spoke volumes about a cheerful woman, not the emotionless and posh member of the government.

Molly spent no time on unnecessary words and opened her bedroom door for Mr. Holmes and herself to see the state his brother was in. She entered her room and carefully touched the sleeping man's forehead for temperature with one hand and massaging her neck with the other. It was as hot as yesterday and he still hadn't woken up. The older Holmes didn't enter the bedroom, polite as he was not intruding a woman's privacy, but stood in the doorway, observing his sibling.

"He is exactly as I found him. I don't know what's wrong with him, but he hasn't come conscious," Molly said silently.

Mycroft nodded. "You have graduated King's College in London, am I correct, Miss Hooper?"

"Doctor Hooper," she corrected him, "and yes, yes I have."

"Very good. I'm sure you can take good care of him. It would be... unwise to take him to a hospital right now, as he is wanted for murder."

Molly's eyebrows rose and she was extremely startled. "What? What happened?"

Mycroft stepped back into the living room and waved his hand slightly as a sign to Molly to sit down on the sofa. She obliged, but were cautious of what were to come.

The man looked out of the window for a moment and then started speaking. "Last night when I was reported of my dear brother running on the streets like a madman, I took the liberty to track down Mr. Watson, so he could bring a little sense in his possessed mind. Unfortunately after locating his phone and sending my assistant to collect him, I was notified of the dreadful events that had taken place. By that time I was also contacted by DI Lestrade, who kindly let me know of my brother's whereabouts."

Molly frowned. "Dreadful events?"

Mycroft had been avoiding looking at Molly before, but now he eyed her seriously, a slight look of sadness on his usually stone cold face.

"You were a friend of Dr. Watson, correct?"

"Yes." Molly's heartbeats accelerated, fearing for the worst.

"Then it is my burden to let you know, that John Watson was found dead last night, along with the body of Helen Roylott, of whom my brother is a suspect of killing."

Molly hid her face in her hands and shook her head in denial. It can't be! I just saw him!

Mycroft continued: "As you are well aware of Sherlock's close relations to him, it is explainable, that he so-to-speak 'shut himself down'." Suddenly he looked older and more distressed. "It has happened once before, when he was younger. His mind works in peculiar ways, almost like a computer. Do take care of him, Dr. Hooper."

Molly's face was still hidden and she was about to break down crying, so Mycroft knew it was time for him to leave. He took out his chequebook, scribbled something in it, tore the paper out and placed it on her coffeé table, under the remote control.

After reaching the door, he turned again towards the woman, saying his final words: "Miss Mary Morstan has already been contacted and she has has decided to spend some time with her relatives in Scotland. Good day, Dr. Hooper." The tall man exited the flat silently and as soon as Molly heard the familiar click of the lock, the first tears escaped her.

Soon she was violently sobbing, her shoulders shook and she grabbed around her waist to tame the trembling.

No... It can't be. John can't be dead.

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Ave.