Sherlock needs to change his mind-palace once again. He had hoped he wouldn't, he had thought he wouldn't, because they were invincible, weren't they? Were. Simple past of to be, modal verb, used with 2. Person in singular, and all persons in plural. His mind supplies these facts, he doesn't like it. They are useless, and don't help to change the current situation, but at the same time they are better than other thoughts he might have.
Changing the mind-palace is different every time. When he first created it, he made a pirate's cave, with treasures and coins as facts. When he grew up, he had used up a day to make it into a more primitive form of his palace, it had been annoying, but okay.
His mind-palace had always been his safe haven, the place where the bullies couldn't reach, where Redbeard was alive and where he was accepted. He had worked on it, the memories he stored became more and more detailed, he was able to store them better and more efficiently.
Over the years, when he met DI Lestrade and had to get clean to get to go to the crime-scenes, his mind-palace had changed from the primitive house to a cold, clinical, precise manor.
And then, everything had changed. Embarrassingly he hadn't even noticed in the first few months. His palace had grown warmer, louder, as there now was violin playing when he was inside it. A whole new wing had opened up, first only a small cupboard for the ordinary man who was John Watson, which had then grown and conquered other facts to store everything he could about the extraordinary man.
He could pinpoint two huge changes though. They happened three days after their first meeting. The stair-case of his palace changed to the one of Lauriston Gardens, marking the beginning of his cases, adventures as John called them, with John. The wide hallways in his palace, now like the hallways in the Roland-Kerr-College, marking the size of loyalty and trust John had shown only a day after their first meeting.
His palace was much nicer, years after that day in the lab of Barts, softer, more human. Mary was in John's wing, and their daughter, his god-daughter as well, they shared it. It had grown bigger as well, taking over almost a fourth of his palace. In there was also the room he kept for his emotions. It fitted, they are the ones who helped him with sentiment. Next to the wing was a big library in which his other friends resided, Mrs Hudson was there and Lestrade, who was holding hands with Molly, Janine sat in the corner and smirked at him. Even Anderson was there, sitting near Janine, but with a safe distance. He seemed to have realised that she was out of his league.
Mycroft's room was finally big enough. It was smaller than the library, but not the little dustbin in the corner anymore. Mummy and Daddy are in Mycroft's room as well, but they do have another room connected with one door. Privacy is nessecary, after all.
The change is complete after Sherlock shot Magnussen, after he got out of that plane, to be exact. Even though that had been an awkward moment.
And then, everything changes. This time, changing the mind-palace hurts. It's agony and he is crying and screaming and begging, but nothing helps.
The grey stones are next to the one with his name on it, not as imposing, but much more painful. John on the left, Mary on the right, and little Ellie in the middle. The names are ingraved in the stone, with the numbers underneath, and they don't show how important these three people were. How important they were to Sherlock Holmes, who thought it impossible for him to care and then found himself doing just the same.
A car crash, it seems so boring, so dull for them to die this way. None of them had expected it – even though they had been more careful on their cases as soon as Ellie came, the possibility of harm or death had been there. But for an ex-assassin and an army-doctor, who had been a soldier, who had been the blogger of the only consulting detective in the world and their daughter, whose god-father was their best friend who also was said crazy detective, to die like that was not something they had thought possible.
How come that they survived Moriarty, Magnussen and then Moriarty once more, and also all those more or less petty criminals and their attempts on their life and safety but not the idiotic driving of a drunk on the way to Bakerstreet.
Sherlock is standing in front of the stone, in front of the graves and closes his eyes. He remembers the smile of John on their cases, remembers John's and Mary's happiness on their wedding, remembers the quiet wonder he had felt when he was allowed to hold Ellie for the first time, remembers all the happy times. But he also remembers the sad, annoying, boring, tense, angry moments, because they were with them. It's a lot of memories, eighteen months before the fall just with John, then the year they had after his return with Mary until Moriarty came back, and then the nine years with Ellie. But it is not enough, Sherlock will always crave more, something he'll never get.
He is fourty-seven now, he still has many years to go, even though he can feel that his age is catching up with them, and he wonders how he will cope.
When the change of his mind-palace is complete, it looks quite different. It's colder again, the music the violin is playing is sadder, it's harder and more precise. But there is one wing he only visits deep in the night, far away from other eyes, which he kept in his old design. Change isn't always a good thing, the old design is better, but it's far easier this way.
His friends, from his time with John, then Mary and then Ellie, but also new ones are there. They notice the change, he is colder again, and they call him heart-broken. He isn't as harsh and cruel as he was before John, but everyone sees it.
The thing everybody misses is the little, slightly longing smile Sherlock's lips form when he sees something like an oatmeal-jumper or a little bright-red umbrella. Even Sherlock. Because at night, he is with them, and the music is flying.