Chapter 1: To a great mind, nothing is little

In Sherlock's Mind Palace

Sherlock was thrust unceremoniously into the foyer of his mind palace, the stone floors cold and hard against his skin, as he lay sprawled upon the floor. Through the large glass windows moonlight shone, giving the open room soft shadows. Candles lit up the otherwise dark palace, illuminating other parts of the majestic building.

Strange. I've never experienced nighttime within my mind palace before, Sherlock thought slowly getting to his feet.

Hm, I'll look into it later, Sherlock thought, straightening his blazer. The differences to his mind palace were subtle, but his trained eyes noticed every anomaly in his mind palace. He moved to the entrance cupboard, where he stored all data regarding immediate events; waiting for him to shift through and categorize it all at his earliest convenience. As soon as he opened the door, flashes of pain and maniacal laughter flooded him.

Ah, the insecure businessman; secretly gay, raised by conservative parents, judging by the self-loathing over his sexual orientation. Strong, big boned, rather artistic in his torture methods. He'd been mutilating gay men for the last three months. It was rather simple. He was slightly clever in his abductions; still nothing compared to the cabby. The cabby had talked me into going with him, the manic torturer had to drug me first, Sherlock shifted through the events. The torture he'd suffered had been brutal, but the pain was muffled; indicating his mind had removed itself from the circumstances. Sherlock huffed in annoyance and continued shifting through the data.

Ah, here's where my torture session is. Then John rescued me; I knew he would figure out where I was, No you didn't, popped into his head at his unspoken comment. He shook his head in denial that it had been hope rather than certainty he'd felt in those… Twelve hours of agony.

Then I ended up here... Evaluation of transport: severe damage, possibly permanent. Requires concentration, time and no outside stimuli. I'm in a self-induced coma to maximize effective recovery. Dull. It will be dreadfully boring in the mean time. The coma does explain the change in time, at least. It seems when my transport shuts down it becomes night. It's logical at least.

Sherlock closed the cupboard door and began ascending the winding stairs. He walked purposefully to the grand library. The detective went straight to his section on cases, and placed the new data into its corresponding book. The words case closed and the date elegantly scrawled themselves under the original title. The experience of the torture he placed in a separate book entitled Personal experiences: unpleasant that was further towards the back of the library, in his private section where he didn't often trespass.

Once finished, Sherlock made his way to the main ballroom a level below the library. The room was baroque in style, with massive bay windows that lead to a marble balcony; offering a breath-taking view of a crystal blue lake. The ballroom was where all his music was stored. Sherlock walked to the center of the room.

He brought his hands up in front of him, and the notes appeared before the detective. He planned to continue his composition entitled John. Sherlock had been composing it ever since the man limped into his life, but was having trouble finding a proper theme to accurately represent the complex human. There was something that made the doctor different, something that made him special. A mysterious quality that made him the exception to Sherlock's usual treatment of the rest of his species.

He dismissed the percussion part with a wave of his hand. Too obvious, He huffed. Instead he put the metric accents in the string section with the cellos and violas playing on the beats while the violin and clarinet exchanged the theme. Clarinet? No, trumpet, perhaps. No, French horn. There was a buzzing in his mind that prevented him from focusing on the composition. He placed the composition aside and brought forth an older piece instead. He picked up his violin from its stand beside him and began playing the theme that represented the chase and the adrenalin-filled sensation that began his career as a consulting detective.

The music was strange. It felt muffled directly around him, but it echoed as if the surrounding areas outside could hear the notes better. He went to the window and for the first time noticed that the forest was darker, more wild, and the lake more muddied than before. Sherlock dismissed his violin and left the ballroom with a flourish.

Sherlock made his way past the unused private chambers on the uppermost floor that contained all of his personality traits. He never entered there, nor slept on the bed that existed in there. He instead entered his lab that occupied the north tower, he grabbed a flask before swiftly descending the stairs. He briskly walked towards the body of water. Sherlock opened the tube and filled it with the murky water, swirling it about to try and determine what had caused his subconscious to become so dark and obscured. He noted that the murky water almost seemed foreign, as if it was not truly his subconscious obscuring the clarity. Busy analyzing the tube, Sherlock hadn't noticed the elegant boat that crept through the mist. His eyes flicked upwards and caught sight of it.

A boat? I didn't make this, why has is appeared, where'd it come from? Am I to just climb in and let it sweep me to the great unknown?

He touched the boat with caution, and found it secure. He gingerly climbed in and found himself being taken from the shore. The boat was silent and powered by nothing he could detect. The mist Sherlock boated through was opaque and seemed to be endless; as did the lake he travelled across.

Sherlock's boat persisted onwards in total silence. After a few moments, a grand building arose out of the fog. A large castle reminiscent to one in a fairytale, although it looked as if abandoned. A tower was crumbling down; stain glass windows were shattered, giving a haunted look to the fortress. There were even scorch marks from some strange internal blast visible from the distance. Even ruined, however, it was breath taking. Sherlock cautiously stood in the boat and as he got a better view, he could see the river bank where a boy, who appeared early adolescence, was lying in the grass.

"What did you do to my lake?" he called out to the boy. The child scrambled to his feet as Sherlock reached the shore.

He's malnourished, cramped living quarters, causing height deficiency—age approximately fifteen or sixteen years. Heavy set sibling? No, he's a cousin, grossly obese, not a close relationship; although they've lived together more than a decade. He was orphaned at young age, sent to live with immediate relatives—no parents would feed one child and starve the other, not to mention those rags. Writes with a quill—based on placement and size of callouses on thumb, index and right ring finger—good penmanship due to lack of ink smudges on right hand. Unknown callouses on thumb and index finger; not consistent with any tools I know of. I need more data. Recent scar on right hand, old scar on forehead—both purposefully done? The bags under his eyes indicate insomnia, PTSD? Could be from trauma. Not recent, though, but life altering. Most likely from his parent's death. Car crash? Unlikely as the shape is very distinct, almost intentional, and could not have been caused by any car part in a normal car crash.

It was as he finished his deductions of the boy before him that he noticed the glowing ball floating near the child who he now realized looked eerily similar to him. What is that? Some extra essence or soul? I need more data. As soon as he finished his initial observations, Sherlock stepped off the boat and onto the shore. The boy scoffed at him.

"Your lake?—"

Sherlock stopped listening as he realized that was probably not the best way to approach a wary teenager he'd just met in his subconscious.