Molly had gained something new and advanced in her elven life. While autopsies were performed in the human's forts, very little were willing to do it, and they did not have the advanced knowledge that the wood elves did. Elves embraced the nature of death and its cycle of decomposition of the body, of letting one's body blend with the earth. When the illness first started, Molly was unafraid and she examined the bodies, determining many things people had not known, but it helped to fight away the illness. Past Molly would be proud of the new things she learned to help others.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked. He turned to her instinctively, but felt paralyzed for a moment as he recalled that he had not told her his name, nor had it been said by anyone in front of her.

He shook his head, recovering quickly, or pretending that nothing had affected him. When she had his attention, he realized that she was not looking at him any differently, that she did not remember who she was; although she remembered his name, she did not realize that she had never learned it.

He would take it; it meant he was a step closer getting her to remember. But nothing had happened, nothing out of the ordinary occurred to give any evidence. Unless she had remembered it before, he thought, and went along thinking she had known it all along, or that he had told her.

"Sherlock…" she said again, a nervous edge in her voice as she grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the open corpses. He followed her willingly, looking at her curiously as she led him down the path, weaving her way around like she already knew where she was going. She may not have previously been familiar with his house outside of the kingdom, but she was an elf of the forest; it was second nature to her, something that came naturally.

His eyes narrowed as he saw the worry on her face. "You have to burn that body before others are exposed to it.

Sherlock's focus left her remembering his name as he let go of her hand, letting his mind take over.

"It starts with a warm forehead, but-"

"I know the symptoms," he cut her off.

"It was what my sister had," she told him and he looked at her with alertness. Though that idea was scrapped quickly as he told her what he thought he would hear. "But the people you have alive here with the illness, the duration without healing is a week, not a day or two as these two have died."

"The development is so rapid that the only thing I can think of is…" she hesitated, looking down for a moment. "Well, is that it's dark magic," her voice quiet now as if she was worried someone else would hear them even though they were alone.

He always misses something.

"Eisha'miai, we call it," she said, the words rolling off her tongue unfamiliar to Sherlock. He knew the language of the elves better than most, but this was not a common word. "It is a sickness of the spirit that can be applied using the old language," she told him. "It can inflammate the symptoms, making them progress quickly…"

He turned, beginning to walk away as he processed what she told him. He wanted to look at the body again; he wanted to test if there were visible signs from an autopsy that would make dark magic known. He'd been so plagued by it before that if he had opportunity to catalogue the effects on the body, to catch it, then he would research.

But before he could take a few steps, he felt Molly's hand on his arm. She walked in front of him and her hands moved to cover his. He had been comfortable with her before, but she was so hesitant to lay a hand on him. She was afraid of the familiarity, her care for a man she barely knew frightened her, but she was determined she would not let him get hurt.

"Please," she begged. "Don't go back to that body. If you're exposed to it, with the eisha' miai…" she closed her eyes for a moment. "You could become ill, you could die."

"I won't die," he assured her, and he felt her hand twitch over his, as if her body jolted. She was looking downwards now, into his chest, and her breath caught for a moment.

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she looked back up, recovering quickly and seemed as though it didn't affect her, as if she didn't remember her body reacting in that way.

Whenever her body seemed to give off a jolt near him, she felt as if memories were trying to force their way in, and she pushed back. She was afraid to remember, as if something in there would break her heart. She had the deepest craving to, like she would gain something large from remembering, but as soon as she fought back against the memory, it escaped her mind as if she never fought it in the first place.

He looked to her, lowering his head to try and look into her eyes, but she seemed distant for a moment. "I think I know who is doing this," she told him, her voice shaking. She sounded as if she did not want to talk about it, as if it frightened her. And truly, it did.

When she looked back up at him, her eyes were wide with terror; terror he had not seen in anyone's eyes since the last time he saw Molly before she died, afraid to leave Sherlock alone.

"Molly?"

She took in a deep breath; "Her name is Jane Moriarty," she whispered.