Night Terrors

by SuperWhoLockian75

After Sherlock returns from his 3yr escapade taking down Moriarty's web, John begins to notice him having bad dreams. But these "nightmares" aren't what they seem; something dark has escaped from Sherlock's Mind Palace and now it's wreaking havoc on Sherlock's memories. Can John help Sherlock stop it in time? Or will he lose Sherlock to the memory that should've stayed hidden?

2. The Mind Palace

Most people using this technique had simply a road or a room or two to help them remember things easier, but Sherlock wasn't like most people. In every sense of the word his Mind Palace was every meaning of the word "palace" with its several stories and countless rooms, its ornate decorations and furniture, and its vivid images placed all around the giant structure. Each step brought him back further and further to memories and events from long ago that anyone else would forget after a few minutes of experiencing. But to most people ordinary things that occur in their everyday lives aren't that important in the first place to bother remembering. Except for Sherlock, where these things made his job possible.

He entered through the tall and decorated front gate and began walking down the long drive to the palace. Already memories from decades ago were coming into focus, but these things weren't what he wanted to remember right now. With practiced effort, Sherlock focused on the top floor and northern wing of the building and soon found himself time-jumping there. It was a little different than teleporting because there was no disappearing and reappearing somewhere else, it was as if he took one long step and everything around him stretched and warped until he was where he wanted to be. Now he was placed in the middle of a finely carpeted hallway where golden candelabras illuminated the walls as well as a chandelier atop a four-way intersection further down the hall. The walls were wallpapered the familiar pattern of the sitting room in 221B and Sherlock found himself placing a hand on it, finding comfort in the place he now called home with the only person he'd ever consider sharing it with. These hallways were specifically reserved for his memories with John at the flat hence why they were so finely preserved and cared for, but there was something odd further down the hall that wasn't supposed to be there.

Sherlock walked down the seemingly endless hallway, passing dozens of rooms where memories of him and John were always being replayed and catalogued for relevance. If one of them seemed to have outlived its usefulness, it was discarded and renovated for a new memory to take its place. However, this rarely happened in this section of the northern wing lately, considering how long Sherlock had been away from John he wanted to make sure he held on to whatever memories he could of them. Those memories were what kept him alive every now and then during those three years.

As he was approaching the seemingly damaged part of the hallway, Sherlock felt something different change. There was no clear distinction as to what, but something had definitely been altered, and not by his own doing. The air in the hall felt as if it was slowly getting sucked out and Sherlock began finding it hard to breathe. This wasn't supposed to be happening, not here. Not in his Mind Palace. This was where he could go and shape everything into the image he wanted and needed to see, where he could remember all the good times and learn from the bad times. And now it looked as though the palace had a mind of its own.

Now at the section, Sherlock could see what was wrong but couldn't believe his mind's eye. Wall after wall and door after door was scorched nearly black and what was left of the wallpaper was peeling away and was distorted. The candelabras hung off of the walls at odd angles and were badly damaged from the apparent flames while some of them were just plain gone. The fine rug that once held a complex and beautiful pattern was now torn and ashen, parts of the wooden floor showing underneath where the rug no longer covered. Even the sturdy wooden doors made from maple wood much like most of his violin were beginning to crumble and blacken. Sherlock braced his back against an opposite wall and sank to the floor, staring in horror at what had happened. It was possible that a memory had gone rogue, so to speak, but there was no event in his life that directly linked to a fire. Sure there were the odd experimental explosions here and there and that one time in Baskervilles with the mind field, but nothing like this. This could be compared to a standard house fire or worse, arson, and nothing like that had ever happened to him before.

Sherlock brought his legs up in front of him and placed his elbows on top of his knees, bowing his head and placing his hands on the back of his neck trying to think. What memory could possibly have done this? It was going to take several hours of deep thought just to fix this section of the hall, and God only knows if any other part of the palace was damaged. After all, the actual size of the palace was always growing because Sherlock was always remembering; always cataloguing what was and what wasn't important. Lifting his head up and leaning back against the wall, Sherlock knew he'd have to go in the one wing he thought he'd never have to go in again.

The Dungeon Wing.