You trudged up the stairs to your flat, practically falling inside as you opened the door. You stayed there for a moment, letting out a groan.

"God, having a job sucks," You said to your empty flat.

You walked farther in, pulling a small notebook out of your purse before hanging it up with your coat. As you continued forward, you flipped through the pages of the notebook until you reached the newest entry.
Over the course of the past year, you had started writing down the things you could remember about your brother's mysterious death. You scribbled down every little detail you thought of. What did you do with all of this information? Well, you had decided to take a page out of Sherlock Holmes's book and created an evidence wall.
The wall you chose was in your bedroom across from the foot of your bed. In the center of it all was a picture of your brother—the most recent one you could find. The rest of the wall was covered by taped up paper with those little details. Some had questions on them, others had something random you'd remembered, one section had the lyrics of the little girl's song that you kept recalling. You still couldn't figure out the order of the song, and the tune kept escaping your memory. But you kept all of the lyrics grouped together.
Today, you brought just one more piece of information. While at work, you remembered gravestones for some reason. You were unable to figure out what the names on the stones were though. You stuck the paper where there was some open space. Then, you grabbed a few more blank sheets and started writing questions.

'Where are these gravestones?'

'Was this for the funeral?'

'Whose gravestones are they?'

'Are the names important?'

Each of these, you taped up beside the new paper. After you'd done that, you sat down on your bed and just took it all in. Your wall was almost completely covered with everything you'd remembered.

"Very well done, y/n," A deep voice said from behind you. You closed your eyes, deciding to remain silently frustrated. "Your 'evidence wall' might be even more impressive than any of mine."

The source of the voice now stood in front of you. At least, that's where you imagined him now. Sherlock Holmes smiled at you as he leaned against the empty space on the wall.

"Why are you here?"

He shrugged. "It's your mind. You chose me to come."

You sighed. "I knew you were going to say that."

"Like I said, it's your mind."

"Alright." You pushed yourself off your bed. "Since you're here then, why don't you help me out?"

"I go where you tell me."

You rolled your eyes, realizing for a moment that you were annoying yourself. You shook aside the thought, placing Sherlock beside you. Both of you were looking at the pictures and papers.

"Okay, I need you to be Sherlock Holmes," You said. "You need to think like him."

The image clapped his hands together. "Right! Yes! Let's think like Sherlock Holmes." With a wave of his hand, a magnifying glass appeared in his hand. "What do we know for certain about this case?"

"He was murdered-" You began.

"Obviously," Sherlock interrupted, tossing the magnifying glass over his shoulder. It disappeared into thin air.

You gave the detective a look. "I wasn't finished yet." Sherlock stiffened and tightened his lips. "He was murdered by the little girl I keep seeing, I'm sure of it." Your hand hovered over the information you talked of. "I have no idea who the little girl is, but every time I remember her, I hear her singing."

"Why would she be singing?" A woman asked.

You and imaginary Sherlock both turned to see Mary walking along the side of your bed. Your heart ached at the sight of her, but that little voice in the back of your head reminded you it was your own fault. After all, your mind conjured the image.

"Why would she be singing?" Mary asked again.

"I haven't been able to work that out, yet. But I think I have all the lyrics. If I don't, then I am very, very close."

"The lyrics have to mean something, don't they?" Sherlock inquired.

"That does seem likely," You answered.

"But what do they mean?" Mary questioned.

You shook your head. "It's impossible to know unless I can figure out what order the words go in." You stared at the jumbled mess of the song. "I just don't know what the order is."

"You do know." One more new voice said—one that caused your entire body to go rigid. The image of him stood just beside Sherlock. "You just have to unlock those memories somehow."

You turned slowly, your eyes wide. You stared at the newcomer. "Who are you?" You didn't like how shaky those words came out.

"You know who I am, y/n."

You shook your head. "No, I've never seen you before."

"Yes you have." The man looked down at his form. "Well, not like this you haven't. But this is your mind, so you know who I am and why you made me look this way."

You glanced at the picture of your brother on the wall. Tears stung your eyes. "I'm picturing you all grown up."

"All grown up and here for you like a proper big brother," He said with a smile. He then shook his head. "Anyway, back to figuring out how I died, yes?"

"Yes, right." You turned back to the evidence. "But how?"

"We were discussing the song," Sherlock said.

"You need to unlock your memories," Mary added.

"If only it were that simple." You crossed your arms over your chest.

"It shouldn't be too difficult, should it?" Your brother questioned. "You've heard the song many, many times."

"How do you know that?"

"We're born from your memories, y/n. We know what you know."

"Okay, so help me, then."

"We can't," All three of them said.

"We can only remember what you remember now," Sherlock explained.

You groaned. "So, you're all useless." You sat down on your bed and dropped your head in your hands.

Your brother stepped forward, examining the wall while you were indisposed. Sherlock and Mary watched him.

"The girl," He said.

You lifted your head, looking at him with confusion. "What?"

"You're thinking about the girl—the one that killed me."

"And?" You pried, standing back up.

He looked down for a moment, tuning in to the memories you were foolishly feeding him.

"You don't know who she is, but when you think of her..." He locked eyes with you, "...you picture yourself."

Your mouth dropped open slightly. Hearing that out loud was like a punch in the gut. All three of your conjured ghosts stared at you.

"You blame yourself," Mary said.

"You think it's your fault," Sherlock added.

"You think that you're the one that killed me," Your brother said stepping forward.

You blinked rapidly as tears pooled in your eyes. "No." Your voice came out tightly.

"The lyrics of the song, y/n," He continued, "what do they say?"

"'Help succour me now the east wind's blow,'" Mary started singing.

"Stop."

"'Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go,'" Sherlock joined in.

A tear finally slipped down your cheek. "Please stop."

"That one word 'brother' must tie you into it, right?" Your brother stepped forward.

You stepped to the side, but he followed you. All three of them were starting to surround you. Your back was pressed against the wall, and they continued forward.

"You killed me, y/n!" Your brother shouted. "Didn't you?"

"No! I didn't!"

"You did!" Sherlock said.

"Killer!" Mary cried.

"Murderer!" Your brother accused you.

They all continue to shout at you, brandishing you with these titles. You covered your ears, trying to block it out, but all it did was make them louder. You felt tears slipping quickly down your cheeks.

"Admit it, y/n!" Your brother shouted. "You. Killed. Me!"

You couldn't take it anymore. You let out a loud scream and turned away. Without thinking, you pulled at the papers, tearing them all down. You didn't stop until everything was on the floor.
When it was so, you looked down at the mess. Your shaking hands covered your mouth to withhold a sob.

"Y/n!"

You gasped when you heard Sherlock's voice. Instinctively, you looked behind you, expecting the image of him to still be there. He wasn't and neither were Mary or your brother. The sound of pounding footsteps made you realize that it was actually Sherlock rushing to your rescue. He burst into your room.

"What happened?" He asked, stumbling forward. "What's wrong?"

You sniffed and wiped at your eyes. "Nothing. I'm-I'm fine."

You turned to face him and, when you did, you were surprised to see him in such a disheveled state. His hair was unkempt and greasy-looking. He had unmanaged facial hair. He wore his blue robe worn over his suit. But what caught your attention more than anything was the revolver he held in his hand. You watched as his eyes went from wildly searching for danger to softly wondering if you were indeed all right. He stepped up closer to you and placed his free hand on your cheek. He wiped away a tear with his thumb, causing you to realize how shaky he was.

"Are you sure?" He asked.

You grabbed hold of his hand, letting it rest against your cheek for a moment longer. You nodded while lowering your intertwined hands. "I'm sure."

Sherlock nodded and looked down. He saw the large pile of papers. "What's this?"

"Hmm?" You looked as well. "Oh, that's nothing. Just...a project I've been working on." You wiped more of your tears away, already calming down.

One piece of paper seemed to catch the detective's eye, for he knelt down and picked it up. You watched him carefully, wondering if he would lend any useful information.

He read what was written down. "'I that am lost. Oh, who will find me?'" He snorted in laughter. "Sounds like some kind of strange Shakespeare..." He dropped the paper, "...or...something."

You watched as his eyes suddenly lit up, an idea striking him.

"Oh! Shakespeare! Brilliant!" He exclaimed and then rushed out of the room with no explanation.

You stood there in shock for a long moment. When you heard his flat door close upstairs, you sighed. "So much for his help, I guess." You took another look at your mess, before shaking your head.

'I'll deal with that later.'

Instead, you decided to climb into bed. Curling up under the covers, you found your eyes drooping closed very quickly. Within minutes, you were fast asleep.

***

It was only a couple hours later when you awoke. The loud voices and even louder thuds caused you to sit upright in your bed. You listened for a moment, trying to figure out what was going on outside your flat. There was a sudden silence. You leaned your head farther forward. You heard nothing.
With a shrug of your shoulders, you were about to lie back down when there was suddenly someone knocking at your door. You jumped in surprise. Quickly collecting yourself, you scrambled out of bed and hurried to the door. Throwing it open, you were quite shocked to see Mrs. Hudson standing there. You stared at her confusedly.

"Mrs. Hudson? What's going on? Is everything all right?"

"Everything's fine, dear," She assured you, but you could tell there was some nervousness in her expression. "I need you to come with me though."

She began to walk away, clearly assuming you would just follow her. You stared after her. With a shake of your head, you snapped back to reality.

"Wait!" You called after her. You grabbed a pair of your shoes and hurried out the door. "Mrs. Hudson, where are we going?"

You struggled to put on your shoes while simultaneously following the landlady.

"I think it's high time we talk to John about Sherlock," She said, stopping just in front of the door.

"What do you mean?" You asked, finally shoving your second shoe on which nearly caused you to fall flat on your face.

"Well you've seen what state Sherlock is in!" The landlady cried. "Ever since Mary..." She trailed off for a moment. "...neither of them have been the same. The only way for things to get close to the way they were is if we bring them back together."

You watched her for a moment. You could see the pleading look in her eyes and you knew how much this meant to her. It meant a lot to you too. You smiled at her and then nodded. "I agree. Count me in!"

Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together. "Wonderful!" She then waved you forward again.

As soon as you stepped outside, your mouth dropped open. Parked in front of the flat was a beautiful red sports car. Mrs. Hudson casually walked over to it, getting into the driver's seat.

"Come on!" She urged.

You did as instructed, your shocked expression still plastered on your face. You climbed in on the passenger side and buckled your seat belt.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is your car?" You asked.

"Yes," She answered, buckling herself in.

"Your car?"

"Yes, dear." She started the engine and then grabbed her phone. "Now, hush up, I need to call the government."