The Mind Palace

Chapter Twelve

It seemed that the Shakri leader had completed his grand speech, so we were free of interruptions as the Doctor gave us a good talking-to. He stood very close to us, speaking in a quiet, low voice.

Placing a hand on my shoulder, he began. "Alright, you two. First off, we need to figure out where we are. If we can do that-"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Actually, Doctor, I think we've already beaten you to that deduction."

The time lord raised his would-be eyebrows. "You know where we are?"

My colleague shrugged. "We have an idea. Not much more than that, but it's better than nothing." The Doctor said nothing, so Sherlock continued, "I have this... Thing. A mental oasis that I reside to when the real world becomes far too idiotic to put up with. It's called a mind palace, and I think we're standing smack in the middle of it."

The Doctor nodded slowly. "Ah, that's a new one. Brilliant, though." He turned towards Sherlock. "So, Mr. Holmes, as you know how this palace is mapped out, can you tell us where you would hide a big blue box?"

"I have an idea," the consulting detective said, "but the palace seems much harder to navigate in real life."

"An idea is better than nothing," said the time lord. "Lead the way."

We left the trashed flat and began walking down the corridors again, Sherlock in front. He walked confidently, and his calm aura settled me down. If I had been stuck in the mind palace without Sherlock, I would have lost my cool within the first ten minutes.

I turned to the Doctor after a few minutes of silence. "So Doctor, do you know who attacked you with that knife?"

He shrugged. "I remember being chased by a few of the Shakri. At one point, a few of them caught up to me, and I suppose one of them just slashed me right then. I kept running, though, and got away. Barely."

I sighed. "Lots of running around here, then."

"You get used to it."

At this point, Sherlock had lead us into a decently-sized circular room. It was empty, excluding a stone staircase that wound up the side of the brick wall. It was impossible to tell from our position, but I figured there were several round floors above us.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Up we go, then."

Without any warning whatsoever, Sherlock took hold of my hand and began to walk up the stairs with me. I didn't complain, and couldn't help but smile when I caught a glimpse of the Doctor's surprised and somewhat confused expression. He recovered, though, and followed closely behind us.

Within five minutes, we had reached the second floor. As I had guessed, it was another circular room, with more stairs winding around the outer edges, but this one was not empty. A lit fireplace jutted out of the opposite wall, and in front of it was a large armchair, back faced towards us.

"Sherlock, I think it's time we had a nice, long conversation."

It was obviously a man's voice that rose from whoever sat in the armchair. The man seemed to be daring Sherlock to do something, and there was a hint of cruelty, a hidden bite, in his words.

I felt the consulting detective's grip on my hand tighten as he tensed up next to me. "Dad," he whispered, voice shaking.

The Doctor placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Remember, Sherlock, this is all just in your head. He isn't real. It's okay."

I remembered the scene of abuse I had witnessed a few hours prior in Sherlock's childhood home. This had to be another vision of his father... How many versions of this man were wandering around the Mind Palace anyway?

I gently pulled Sherlock's hand, and we walked up the stairs. The Doctor stayed a few feet behind us, watching Sherlock's father like a hawk.

Upon reaching the second floor, I realized that Sherlock's father was just the beginning of our problems. This room was completely dark, but every few seconds, a person around the room was illuminated, like lightning was striking outside just enough to show that they stood there in the darkness. I shuddered upon realizing that these were all of the people that had died because Sherlock couldn't help them, solve their mysteries in time.

"Sherlock, what is this place?" I whispered.

"Everything I fear. I sure can't wait to see what the next floor holds," he said dryly.

The Doctor hurried us along. "I don't like this floor," he muttered. "I can actually relate to it."

Up the next flight of stairs was a room that set me on edge like no other. About twelve of me were wandering about, shouting in confusion, laughing, talking quietly. So many of me. Sherlock feared... me?

Then, all at once, the room went dark for just a moment. When the lights flickered back on, the twelve John Watsons lay spread across the floor, dead.

"No!"

Sherlock had dropped my hand and run across the room, staring, panicked, at the dead versions of me that lay around me. He didn't fear me. He feared losing me.

I looked at the room around me in shock. It was just me. That was the scary bit. Sherlock didn't fear losing Molly, or Lestrade, or Mycroft. He just couldn't lose me. My friend was now curled into a ball in the center of the room, helpless.

The Doctor raced towards Sherlock and crouched next to him on the ground. "Sherlock, it isn't real. You have to believe that it isn't real. John is right over there, standing in the doorway and you can't leave him there. He is alive. Look. See?"

Sherlock looked up at me and silently stood, terribly embarrased. "The door is over here. Come on, John."

He was, as always, correct. On the side of the room opposite of me was a tall door, one that you could only find in a palace like this one. Sherlock faced it, and I stood next to him. However, when I reached for his hand, he pulled away.

Sherlock Holmes was far more human than I'd originally thought.