It was early, he knew that. The sun had barely awoken from its slumber though the stars had long since receded. At least that's what his scrambled mind tried to tell him. The heat of the day had no effect on him as he shivered, chilled by his nightmares and afraid to see whether what he saw was true. He felt like screaming; like yelling from the rooftops about the hatred he felt for them all. All the fake, stupid people who he was forced to reside with, he wished he could just leave. He wanted to be free from them - the dull, boring, unintelligent baboons who he had once called his friends. They were dead to him, they wished he was dead. He had changed too much over the holiday.
He had reached his potential over the holiday, under a new mentor, a new father. He was new: smarter than Hermione; braver than Dumbledore; more resourceful than any of them! He was finally good enough to be the Saviour they wanted- perhaps it was irony that it was only now he realised he could never be. He had more chances in the muggle world; a job, a home, a family. They loved him, (as much as people like them could) and he loved them (as much as his stone heart could).
He hadn't meant to 'go cold', as his father put it. It had come on slowly, the insidious emptiness slinking deep into his putrid, broken soul to fill the cracks and make him whole after the events of the Ministry. His father found it worrisome that one so young, though he was almost 16, could be so disillusioned with life, though he himself was the same. After seeing so much, after peering so deep into the decaying abrasion in society that was the world of murder and crime, how could he not be emotionless? His father was a machine, perfect in his intelligence and almost as empty as his son inside. His father showed no feelings, save for extreme situations. Three days before he himself had left, for example, he had solved it but one second too late; the boy had lost his life. Near the beginning of their adventures also, the girl had been murdered; she had described but one thing. One thing, and POOF, there was nothing left. It was the first time he had seen his father so upset, so upset in fact that he had been ill. No food was consumed by his father for days after, the mere thought of the girl causing him to empty his stomach.
This dream he had suffered from, he had dreamt of death; of ruin: of pain. The death of his mentor, the death of his father. It weighed heavily on his mind now, and he had half a mind to write and reassure himself. That would be stupid though, and as his once friend woke in the bed opposite him, he told himself that all was well.
It was hours later, when he received a hastily written note attached to Hedwig. She at least he still cared for, and She cared for him to, or at least the food privileges. She held an air of melancholy today though, and remained silent as Harry detached the paper from her. He scanned it, then collapsed, large wracking sobs coursing through him, rendering him useless. He was right, his father was dead.
Sherlock Holmes was dead.