Chapter 15: The Art of the Personal
John grunted as Sherlock's weight bore down on him, his arm looped around his waist in a desperate attempt to keep him upright. But Sherlock was deadweight, unresponsive, still trapped deep within his mind palace. After a few unsteady steps, John's strength gave out. He dropped Sherlock to the ground, breathing heavily as he leaned against the wall. Sherlock's eyes remained vacant, his body slumped like a marionette with its strings cut.
"Come on, Sherlock," John muttered, rubbing his own aching shoulder. "I can't keep carrying you. We have to figure this out."
He looked around the room, hoping to find something—anything—that would provide a way out. The walls were plain, almost featureless, their monotony broken only by the occasional crack. John's hands roamed the surfaces, fingers tracing the lines and grooves, seeking a hidden lever, a button, or some clue that would lead them to freedom. But there was nothing. Every wall was solid, every crevice meaningless.
Think, John, think. What would Sherlock do? The phrase echoed in his mind like a mantra, but no answers came. He needed a way out, a solution that Sherlock might have found, if only he were conscious. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of their entrapment. What was Moriarty's game this time? What was the point?
He thought back to the last coherent conversation they had before everything went sideways. Sherlock had been ranting about Moriarty, saying he dealt in the art of the personal, that his games always boiled down to something deeply individual, designed to cut at the core of his target. Sherlock had said it was always about him, every move, every trap. And at the time, John had chalked it up to another display of Sherlock's ego, his narcissism peeking through in the face of real danger. But maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe it was all about him. Maybe Moriarty was pulling strings to see how Sherlock would dance.
John clenched his fists, frustration bubbling up. "If this is all about you, Sherlock," he muttered, casting a glance at his unresponsive friend, "then Moriarty's not going to like this."
John pulled out his gun, the familiar weight comforting in his hand. He cocked it with a sharp click and aimed it directly at Sherlock's temple, heart pounding in his chest. "You hear that, Moriarty?!" John shouted into the void. "I'll do it! I'll shoot him if it means getting out of here and saving Hermione! Sherlock would understand. He'd want me to do whatever it takes."
The room seemed to shudder, the dim lights flickering once before plunging into complete darkness. John's breath hitched, the silence suddenly oppressive, as if the very air had been sucked out of the room.
Inside his mind palace, Sherlock pulled on the handle of the room with the warm light. The door creaked open, revealing a familiar yet unsettling sight: Mycroft's office, perfectly organized, not a single item out of place. Sherlock stepped inside, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor. The room was pristine, every detail meticulously arranged as if Mycroft himself had just left moments ago.
On the large mahogany desk, a series of articles and a brown folder were neatly laid out. Sherlock approached, curiosity driving him forward. He picked up the first file, his eyes scanning the headlines. One article detailed a fire that had ravaged a home, claiming the life of a little girl. Another piece covered the mysterious disappearance of a boy from a house nearby, his image faded but haunting.
Sherlock's brows knitted together as he flipped through the files. His mind raced, trying to place these fragments of a past he could not recall. He had not put these memories here... Had his family lived in that burned house? Was the missing boy someone he should remember? The questions buzzed at the edges of his thoughts, elusive and frustratingly out of reach.
He set the articles down, his attention shifting to another stack of papers—this time, they were about Hermione. A moving photograph, the kind found only in the wizarding world, caught his eye. The headline above it read, "Mudblood on the Loose, Undesirable No. 2." Sherlock's jaw clenched as he watched the image of a younger Hermione, her eyes fierce and determined even as she dodged through the frame, pursued by shadowy figures.
Another article praised the heroic efforts of the so-called Golden Trio, chronicling the trials they had faced during the war. Hermione's face stared back at him from the page, alongside Harry and Ron, their expressions grave and resolute. Sherlock's gaze lingered on Hermione's photo, and he remembered storing the details of her war efforts in his mind palace long ago—details she had shared with him over late-night conversations and quiet confessions.
But why were they here, now? And more importantly, where was here? This wasn't a space he had created, at least not consciously. He had no recollection of the burned house, no memory of the little girl or the missing boy. None of it fit with his meticulously cataloged mind. It was as if someone else had crafted this room, piecing together fragments of his past with elements that didn't belong.
Sherlock's mind spun with the implications, trying to reconcile these foreign memories with the structure of his own mental sanctuary. The door he had entered through creaked again, pulling him from his reverie. He turned, and the room around him began to blur, the banker's lamp on Mycroft's desk flickering for a moment.
--
Back in the room with John, the lights had gone out completely. John squinted, his gun still aimed where Sherlock had been, though he could barely make out his friend's silhouette in the gloom. His breaths came in ragged gasps, adrenaline surging through his veins as he waited for Moriarty to make his move.
Suddenly, the door to the right creaked open, a shaft of faint light cutting through the darkness. John tensed, his finger hovering over the trigger, ready to follow through on his threat if it meant escaping this twisted trap.
But before he could act, two henchmen in black cloaks stepped into the room, their movements swift and deliberate. John pivoted, aiming at the intruders, but they were faster. One of them lunged forward, wrenching the gun from John's grasp with practiced ease. The other swung a heavy fist, catching John across the jaw with a brutal force that sent him sprawling. Pain exploded through his head as he hit the ground, his vision swimming.
John's last coherent thought before darkness claimed him was a stubborn refusal to let this be the end. For Sherlock. For Hermione. For all the promises left unfulfilled. Then the world went black.