chapter one: categories

Sherlock Holmes pulled the sheet over himself tighter, and pressed his face into the cushions. It blocked out the noise, and let him escape into his mind. The mild bangings of a busy Mrs. Hudson and the clickings of a typing John Watson faded into oblivion, and Sherlock stood in front of his mind palace.

Palace was an extravagant word, and his mind palace was indeed extravagant. Not in decor or architecture, he had no use for things like that. But it was an endless hall of doors. Behind each door lay a recess of information on an individual subject. Sherlock wandered down the halls. The blue battered door was everything he knew on soil samples. Across the hall was a fresh green door that held a file of decomposition rates in damp conditions.

But where Sherlock headed now was a disused, red door. He didn't venture in here often. Not before he'd moved into Baker Street. Lately, however, it had be irking him, like something was waiting behind it. And with that, the door swung open.

Here lay the piles and stacks of information on John Hamish Watson. Army Doctor, Afghanistan, initial psychosomatic limp, used to play rugby. The words flashed in front of Sherlock's eyes, and he pushed them away with a wave. He knew this already. He had deduced this within seconds of laying eyes on the doctor.

An array of subjects rose into Sherlock's view, like an imaginary whiteboard before him. He scanned through them with lightning speed. Family. Work. Personality. Relationships. History. Interests. Wait, he had seen what he wanted. Sherlock went back, and brushed away all the words except for one: Relationships.

Names flew up. Harriet, Sarah Sawyer, Jeanette, and on and on. Sherlock eradicated some categories. Family was the first to go. Then coworkers were tossed. Finally, all that was left was the romantic category.

Women's names that Sherlock vaguely recalled and cared little about rose up onto his imaginary board. They had similar personalities, nice women, homely professions. Typical, ordinary.

With that, Sherlock discarded the rest of the names, and brought up another sparse category. Friends. He went to his own name.

This what had been bugging him. What was the relationship between Sherlock and his flatmate? Sherlock didn't really have friends. But then, why had he categorized himself under Watson's friends? Something else dug a hole in a corner of Sherlock's mind, but he pushed it to the side. It was irrelevant, distracting.

Sherlock thought. He thought for a long time. He thought about how John had exhibited so much bravery in A Study in Pink. He thought about the patience the army doctor had for the high functioning sociopath. He thought for a long time.

Something tried to break Sherlock's thought. Something like a voice. He tried to shut it out, he still had work to do. He hadn't reached a conclusion yet. However, the voice won out.

"Sherlock, I'm going out. I'll pick up some of that tea you like." John shut the door with a small bang, and Sherlock shifted and frowned as he gathered his thoughts.

He had reached a conclusion, however. He cleared his board, and shut the door. He winded through corridors that were seemingly endless until he had reached a dark, plain black door. Sherlock went inside.

Here was Sherlock's own room. One he almost never went in, he knew himself. But he had business to do.

He summoned up a word to his blackboard, creating a category that never before had held a space in this part of his mind palace. He added what was necessary, and packed the category away, filing it among everything else.

There, nestled between enemies and family, lay something entirely new to Sherlock.

Friends: John Watson.