The Mind Palace

Chapter Seven

~WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS RIDICULOUSLY SAD, AND POSSIBLY TRIGGERING. PROCEED CAREFULLY, AND please take care of yourself, my message box is always open if you need anything sorry okay please enjoy carefully~

We approached the house very slowly, and I made certain that Sherlock was doing okay every few seconds, checking on him with brief glances. He was pale, face still wet with the few tears that he couldn't keep from falling. It was a bit upsetting to see my friend in such a state, but I figured the best way to eliminate his feelings of hesitancy towards the situation.

Sherlock had mostly settled down by the time we had reached the house, but his hand was still tense in mine. I reached for the doorbell, but Sherlock held up his spare hand to stop me. "Unnecessary," said he, voice hardly above a whisper.

I nodded and moved my hand straight to the handle of the door. "You ready?"

His words were confident, but his voice was cracking. "Of course."

The door opened easily, but the sight inside was harder to watch. A boy, about fourteen, sat on the stairs, head in his hands. He shook, whimpering slightly, obviously very upset. His dark curls bounced as he quaked in misery.

I reached a hand out towards him, but Sherlock slapped it down harshly. "It's too late now," he said, sniffling, but trying to maintain a cold stance on the situation.

The boy raised his head, but seemed to look straight through us, as though we weren't there. I stifled a gasp. Though so many years had past, that face was clear- it was a young Sherlock that sat before us in such misery.

The boy stood slowly, shook his head, and began to climb the stairs. About halfway up, he disappeared into thin air. I made a move to follow him, but Sherlock stopped me once more.

"They're just memories. Nothing we can fix, nothing we should follow. Let's just get out of here."

I nodded slowly, shocked by the scene of sadness we had just witnessed. Had all of Sherlock's teen years been so bad...?

We made our way through a little hall, into a kitchen. A toddler, dark hair just starting to thicken on his head, ran just in front of us. However, instead of your average, laughing, stumbly run, the child (who I figured to be toddler-Sherlock) was in as fast a sprint as he could manage, thick tears streaming down his face.

Before I could realize what was happening, a group of seven or eight year olds were tearing after the boy, throwing rocks at him. The little Sherlock fell to the ground, shouting and screaming for the help, but the boys didn't stop. Some of the stones were as large as a child's fist, and they were tossed, hard, into the toddler.

The boys didn't stop, and I held my hand up to my face, shocked. Next to me, present-day Sherlock was shaking in misery, tears now streaming down his face. I was doing my best not to cry, myself.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said through his sobs, and I realized exactly what was going on before us. Could Mycroft and his friends really be so cruel to Sherlock?

Finally, the children faded away, and, silently, we moved on to the next room- the living room.

A ten-year-old Sherlock stood in the living room, facing a man that I assumed was his father. The man was shouting at Sherlock, and Sherlock, being himself, was shouting back.

I heard the slap before I saw it. More followed, until Sherlock lay on the floor, beaten and broken. It was then that the kicking began. The man, Sherlock's own father, didn't stop until Sherlock was in tears, hardly moving except for the gentle shaking of his body through his weeping. They faded away.