A/N: Here's Sherlock's mind palace. Sorry if this isn't your version of the palace-I literally just made it up as I went along. I would call it a cross between a pillow-stuffed library and a life-size iPad. See what you think (and, of course...REVIEW! I desperately need feedback!).
Sherlock stopped to catch his breath as he ran through London, and suddenly wasn't sure where he was. But then he laughed at himself and went to his Mind Palace for help.
He walked through the breathtaking great hall. Its forty-foot ceiling, flawless arches, and gargantuan Greek columns filled the space with power that was perfect for a man of his sheer intelligence. Light streamed in through hundreds of windows; piercing, blinding light, but they were all too high up to reach. At night the space would be completely dark, cold, imboding, so Sherlock would move on to the chambers deeper within his mind palace.
He could run down the hallways where his encyclopedic memory was kept. With one flick of a wrist whole categories would spin, dance, transform, as they rushed to show him what was desired. Things as basic and boring as information were paper-thin and approaching invisibility in their translucence. They appeared like images, projected in the air from every angle imaginable, but small, and manageable, so as not to crowd the master of the palace.
In Sherlock's mind palace, he was wanted.
Those were the most commonly accessed rooms in his palace, but a few lay unused for long stretches of time. Sometimes new rooms appeared that weren't there before, and Sherlock would discover them when he went exploring at night. Like John's room.
John's room was a palace in of itself. It had a circular base, and the walls rose up, twenty, thirty, forty feet to make a perfect dome. The style was similar to his great hall, but John's room was warmer, somehow. Less grand, overbearing, and more comforting. In the center of the room, there were three small couches in a semi-circle surrounding a stone firepit. Even in summer, the firepit was always burning, although usually very calmly. But when Sherlock was worried about John, or thinking about John, the flames grew.
He could sit on a couch, feeling the warmth of the fire, and look around at all his memories and encyclopedic knowledge about John. Who has John dated lately? Sherlock could think, and the women's pictures and deductions would appear to him. How does John take his tea? He could ask, and the recipe would materialize-not that he ever used it.
Today, however, Sherlock spent only seconds in each room, looking for his map of London. Finally he found it, in a library full of practical, useful, information. He scoured it for any idea of where he was, and then found the fastest route back to the flat, where he hoped John was still standing.
Sherlock closed his eyes, and the mind palace faded away. Then he saw a dazzling flash of light, and the real world appeared again, almost too bright for his eyes.
"Time to find John," Sherlock murmured to himself.