Heyyy guyyys! Sorry for my tardiness, hate to keep you all waiting. See heres the thing, I have tendonitis in my hand lol, so I'm not exactly supposed to type and so I got yelled at annnnnddddd...carried on typing anyway! Hah! :) it's painful, but I can't leave this fic, I am so proud of it! Also! This chapter is a bit longer, thought you guys needed a good firm chapter. :) mostly mind palace, this one. :D

Thanks to everyone who is continuously reading, and reviewing! I love reviews so please leave them!

"Sherlock, that's a big responsibility." She stated sternly, staring down at her son with gentle eyes. "Obviously." The clever, young teenager shrugged with narrowed eyes, holding the red leash that led to the red dog. "Hun, can you care for the life of another?" She asked softly with a large sigh. "I expect so." He stated with a hint of hesitation. His father grunted from the kitchen counter as he sipped a cup of tea, "You'll need to walk it, feed it, play with it." He informed his son. "I am aware." Sherlock huffed in irritation, frustrated by the way his parents were speaking to him, as if they seemed to think he was incredibly stupid. "And don't even think about expecting me to watch him for you." His older brother snapped with a shake of his head. Sherlock sighed and stood up straight. "I'm keeping Redbeard. He's my partner in crime. My first mate." Sherlock smiled and placed his fists on his hips, his grip tightening around the dogs leash. "And those of you who object, will have to challenge the most dangerous pirate on the seas!" He exclaimed as he sprinted from the room, his dark curls bouncing, grabbing his black pirate hat from the sofa, and dashing into the outside world, not before he called out, "Arg!"

The dog simply followed, barking and jumping with pure excitement.

Sherlock shook the memories from his head, as they attempted to overrun his concentration. He couldn't allow that. Not with this Walter character out and about. The man needed to be punished. Sherlock was intent on carrying his punishment out himself. Sherlock only heard the door fly open, as his eyes were closed in an act to visit his mind palace. If this was John, the mind palace would most certainly have to wait.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, anger in his tone of voice as he stared at his friend, sprawled out in his black chair, his eyes shut tightly. He legs were crossed and his arm, the one with the injured shoulder, was held up by a hanging splint. John was actually surprised Sherlock hadn't removed it.

"Hello, John." Sherlock sighed, "What took you so long?" John rolled his eyes and stomped towards the kitchen. He needed some coffee. Cigarettes were to Sherlock, as coffee was to John. He slammed his finger down on the kettle, and waited for the water to boil. He turned to look at Sherlock's, who was blindly staring up at the ceiling. John wasn't sure what to deduce about his friend's emotions at the moment. He seemed in a world of bliss, yet oddly panicked.

"What is it, John?"

John quickly turned away and cleared his throat. "Um, how did you leave the hospital so fast?" It wasn't what he wanted to ask but he was unsure of how much Sherlock could take in one day.

"I was convincing." Sherlock sighed, his eyes still closed.

"Convincing?" John asked with raised eyebrows, building his cup of coffee.

"Yes, John." Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to gaze at his flat mate. "And by convincing I mean as soon as they finished the stitches I snuck out the window."

John couldn't help but chuckle and nod, as he figured that's what he had done.

"Now if you could please leave me be, I need to go to my mind palace." Sherlock stated with a long exhalation.

John stiffened, "Sure." He took hold of his coffee, and moved down to his small arm chair. Narrowing his eyes, he watched as Sherlock dug deep into the memories, and rooms of his absolutely baffling mind.

Sherlock swayed down the long corridor, his eyes fixed on one memory in particular. The death of Oliver J. Jones.

"Sherlock, you know you shouldn't go that deep." The dissatisfying voice rang in his ears. He turned to his older brother, a scowl piercing his expression. "Mycroft, must you always get involved?" He scolded, and rolled his eyes as he continued down the empty, lonely hallway.

"This concerns your well-being, brother mine. So yes, I must."

Sherlock turned to glare at his brother.

Finally, he reached an intersection of four doors. He heard Mycroft's graceful footsteps sliding across the ground behind him.

"So brother. Which one will you choose?" He questioned with a small smirk, and interested eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "The right one." He went towards the door to his right, pushing slowly so that it opened without making a single noise. He swayed awkwardly inside; hesitant with each step he took. And then he saw him, Oliver, sitting comfortably on the ground, Redbeard beside him, as he and a young Sherlock discussed the properties of a deadly, dangerous case. Sherlock waited, until the moment came where the door flew open and in stepped the man with the gun. He paused the memory, and crept gradually towards him. It was, in fact, the same man who shot him in the shoulder. Sherlock sighed and let the scene play out. Oliver was shot. Four times. And then the man smiled maniacally at a frightened boy hugging an outraged dog.

"We'll meet again, kid. One day, before I die." Just as he remembered.

Sherlock walked from the door and out to face Mycroft again. His brother stood, smiling widely with a look that said, 'I told you so'. Sherlock groaned and quickly turned to face his brother sternly. "I haven't the faintest idea what he wants from me." Sherlock stated, much to his dismay. Mycroft's grin lessened, "Who? Walter E. King?" His brother asked, with raised eyebrows. Sherlock nodded.

"Well, brother dear, how can you be sure he wants anything from you?" Mycroft questioned with narrowed eyes of intrigue.

"Because. Why would he show up now? Of all times? Why let me live, when today he would simply kill me anyway?" The voice that seemed to reply to Sherlock's rhetorical questions wasn't that of his brother's. He whirled around to face him, who stood wearing his sinister grin.

"Why not?" The voice snickered, his dark eyes sinking into a black void.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Mr. King." He replied.

"Sherlock, I let you live because I could." Walter smirked, taking a step towards the detective.

"Quite the control freak aren't you?" Sherlock grinned sarcastically.

The man chuckled deviously and shook his head. "Sherlock, if you have the power to take a life, then you are unstoppable." The man stated, and instantly he was gone in a wave of black smoke, contrasted against the white walls of Sherlock's mind. Sherlock held his breath for a moment.

He reached for another door, which opened forcefully with the slightest touch, revealing the memory behind it.

Oh, do your research. I'm not a hero; I'm a high functioning sociopath! Merry Christmas!

Sherlock froze as the gun went off. Suddenly, his vision was blurred with red liquid. He reached upwards and laid a hand over his forehead. Lifting it, he saw the blood staining its creases in crimson. He cringed, and stared back at his memory. The memory where he had shot Magnusson in the forehead.

If you have the power to take a life, then you are unstoppable.

Sherlock shook his head, and ran back out the door, slamming it behind him as he sprinted into the white corridor, detesting himself for what he had done. He was a killer. Just like King. But this was different, wasn't it? He had been trying to protect his friends, his family. But that didn't change what he was. "A murderer." Mycroft's voiced echoed through the empty hall. Sherlock cried out angrily and went for the third door. He dashed inside, shutting it hard behind him without even turning to look at the "wound" he had just reopened. John was standing over his red armchair, glaring at a past-Sherlock, sat in his own sofa chair. Sherlock stepped forward, "John." He stuttered, but he was inaudible. It was, of course, only a memory.

There are lives at stake... Sherlock. Actual human li... Jus-just so I know, do you care about them at all?

Will caring about them help save them?

Nope.

Then I'll continue not to make that mistake.

And you find that easy, do you?

Yes. Very. Is that news to you?

No. No.

Sherlock cringed at the past argument unfolding in front of his eyes.

I've disappointed you.

That's good…that's a good deduction, yeah.

Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.

Sherlock shook his head at himself and sighed. If only it could be that easy. If only he didn't care. But he did. It was so much easier when it was only his life on the line. But now he had others to watch out for. Friends.

Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.

He winced and turned to exit the room. Once he returned to the white corridor, his heart constricted at who was there to greet him.

"Hello, Mr. Sherlock Holmes." Her voice carried through the entire hall, soft like a melody.

"Ms. Adler." Sherlock swallowed and gazed right into her eyes. She reached forwards and gracefully took his hands in hers.

"Wasn't it you who always assumed love is a dangerous disadvantage?" She smirked devilishly and turned to walk away. "This King fellow is strong, Mr. Holmes." She stated, and spun once more to stare at Sherlock longingly. "Know when you are beaten." She winked and vanished.

Sherlock hesitated before entering the final door. But when he did, he was surprised to find that this memory was completely different. It was insignificant. He saw himself, in his silky, blue robe, handing a handgun to John. John seemed flustered, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

Don't know what's gotten into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, confused by the random memory entering his mind.

So you take it out on the wall?

The wall had it coming.

The past-Sherlock seemed to nudge the wall, and then fall onto the couch in boredom, his blue robe flying out underneath him.

Sherlock found himself smiling at the old memory. Before he'd disappeared for two years, filling John with guilt and devastation. His smile faded.

Some friend he was.

"Lestrade." John sighed as he got up from his red armchair, laying down the newspaper he had been reading ever so gently.

"John." He greeted with a bob of his head. "Sorry for barging in so late, just wanted to make sure everything was okay." Greg sighed with a shrug.

John shooed the thought away, "It's no problem. Would you like anything?" John asked with a friendly smile. He'd had no one to talk to for the past hour, and the paper was getting quite dull.

"A hot cup of tea wouldn't be all that bad, thanks." Greg nodded and sat at the crowded table in the messy living room, bombarded by testing tubes, papers, books, and some things even John had never seen before. Lestrade turned to gaze around the room, catching sight of Sherlock, his head laid back on the cushion of his black, leather armchair, and his eyes shut peacefully, however with a slight crease above, on his forehead, like he was thinking about something extremely difficult.

"John?" Greg whispered, as John made room on the table for the detective inspector's cup of tea.

"Hm?" John hummed and sat down in front of him, his own mug in hand.

"Is Sherlock," He hesitated, as if doubting himself, "Is Sherlock sleeping?"

John let out a loud laugh and shook his head, "No, but that would be a rare sight, wouldn't it?" John chuckled softly, and Lestrade joined in.

"Then what's he doing?" He asked with a small smirk.

John sighed, "He's in his mind palace. It's like his whole body goes on autopilot. I presume he's digging through his oldest memories as we speak." John informed his friend with a simple shrug. "Let's hope he snaps out of it soon. I'm sure he still wants to speak with you about the case." John stated to Lestrade, as he continued to watch Sherlock.

"I doubt he will though." John added, "He's got a lot to think about."

Sherlock couldn't figure out the importance of the last door's purpose. That had been the day he first met Moriarty. That had also been the day he and John had almost died, but there were plenty of those. So what does it mean? Why that memory?

His eyes fluttered open and he lifted his head to scope out the flat. John was sitting at the table, eating an annoyingly obnoxious bowl of cereal as Sherlock rose to his feet to pace. John jumped at the sudden movement of his idle friend. "You okay?" John asked with raised eyebrows, as he pushed his cereal to the side.

"I'm fine, why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock answered quickly.

"Because you were in 'mind palace' mode for two and half hours." John scoffed, with a shake of his head. Sherlock stared at his friend, "Oh."

"Lestrade came by and waited for twenty minutes, but you were totally out of it." John shook his head with disbelief at how his friend could possibly think so hard for so long a time.

"So?" John questioned, wanting to know the details.

"So, what?" Sherlock shrugged, pacing faster now.

"So, did you find anything?" John asked with a sigh.

"Find anything?" Sherlock grunted in irritation, "It's not like I go digging through the sand with my handy-dandy shovel, John."

John shut his eyes for a mere moment and chuckled softly. "Sorry."

"I have to sort through my memories. It's like I'm in a giant, never-ending file cabinet of my life." Sherlock groaned and plummeted into his chair again.

John nodded his head, used to Sherlock's dramatic explanations. "But honestly," John started, "Did you get anything valuable?"

"Nothing." Sherlock snapped, directing his anger at himself.

"You mean, you were in there for nearly three hours and you got nothing?"

"Yes, John. Must I repeat myself all the time?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John shrugged, "What happened?"

"I was bombarded with useless, tormenting memories."

John looked down, "Like what?"

"We'll figure this out tomorrow." Sherlock stated, dodging John's question, much to John's dismay.

"But-" John begun, but was cut off by Sherlock's deep voice. "It's late, John. Get some rest." Sherlock disappeared down the corridor towards his bedroom.

"Sherlock!" John called out, but was only answered by the slamming of a door.