~WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS RIDICULOUSLY SAD, AND POSSIBLY TRIGGERING. PROCEED CAREFULLY, AND please take care of yourself, my message box is always open if you need anything sorry okay please enjoy carefully~

We approached the house very slowly, and I made certain that Sherlock was doing okay every few seconds, checking on him with brief glances. He was pale, face still wet with the few tears that he couldn't keep from falling. It was a bit upsetting to see my friend in such a state, but I figured the best way to eliminate his feelings of hesitancy towards the situation.

Sherlock had mostly settled down by the time we had reached the house, but his hand was still tense in mine. I reached for the doorbell, but Sherlock held up his spare hand to stop me. "Unnecessary," said he, voice hardly above a whisper.

I nodded and moved my hand straight to the handle of the door. "You ready?"

His words were confident, but his voice was cracking. "Of course."

The door opened easily, but the sight inside was harder to watch. A boy, about fourteen, sat on the stairs, head in his hands. He shook, whimpering slightly, obviously very upset. His dark curls bounced as he quaked in misery.

I reached a hand out towards him, but Sherlock slapped it down harshly. "It's too late now," he said, sniffling, but trying to maintain a cold stance on the situation.

The boy raised his head, but seemed to look straight through us, as though we weren't there. I stifled a gasp. Though so many years had past, that face was clear- it was a young Sherlock that sat before us in such misery.

The boy stood slowly, shook his head, and began to climb the stairs. About halfway up, he disappeared into thin air. I made a move to follow him, but Sherlock stopped me once more.

"They're just memories. Nothing we can fix, nothing we should follow. Let's just get out of here."

I nodded slowly, shocked by the scene of sadness we had just witnessed. Had all of Sherlock's teen years been so bad...?

We made our way through a little hall, into a kitchen. A toddler, dark hair just starting to thicken on his head, ran just in front of us. However, instead of your average, laughing, stumbly run, the child (who I figured to be toddler-Sherlock) was in as fast a sprint as he could manage, thick tears streaming down his face.

Before I could realize what was happening, a group of seven or eight year olds were tearing after the boy, throwing rocks at him. The little Sherlock fell to the ground, shouting and screaming for the help, but the boys didn't stop. Some of the stones were as large as a child's fist, and they were tossed, hard, into the toddler.

The boys didn't stop, and I held my hand up to my face, shocked. Next to me, present-day Sherlock was shaking in misery, tears now streaming down his face. I was doing my best not to cry, myself.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said through his sobs, and I realized exactly what was going on before us. Could Mycroft and his friends really be so cruel to Sherlock?

Finally, the children faded away, and, silently, we moved on to the next room- the living room.

A ten-year-old Sherlock stood in the living room, facing a man that I assumed was his father. The man was shouting at Sherlock, and Sherlock, being himself, was shouting back.

I heard the slap before I saw it. More followed, until Sherlock lay on the floor, beaten and broken. It was then that the kicking began. The man, Sherlock's own father, didn't stop until Sherlock was in tears, hardly moving except for the gentle shaking of his body through his weeping. They faded away.

At this point, I was almost bawling, a sniffling, tearful mess. The fact that someone so beautiful could come from a past so broken had taken me and ripped me within less than ten minutes. Knowing that I was too late now to fix what had happened in the past affected me in heartwrenching ways that made me want to take present-day Sherlock into my arms until it was all okay- because now, it seemed like it never had been okay before, not for him.

I heard Sherlock swallow, and he squeezed my hand. I gave him a squeeze back. I knew now, that I had to support him through anything and everything. I had to support him enough to make up for his wretched, broken past.

He cleared his throat, but his voice was still tearful, as it seemed that neither of us could stop crying. "The exit has to be around here somewhere."

We entered a small hallway. A door was ajar, and I pushed it open to reveal a sixteen-year-old Sherlock, razorblade in hand, wrist extended.

Real-time Sherlock pulled back his jacket sleeve, revealing several deep scars across his wrist- but vertical, rather than horizontal. "Three attempts on my life," he said quietly. "Four years of self-harm addiction. Makes for a few bad memories, I suppose."

I stared at him, mouth agape, and he took my hand again. The young Sherlock disappeared, and we continued down the hall. Soon enough, I realized that we were back by the front door. There was nowhere else to go but upstairs.

Sherlock trailed behind me as we walked up, but I still made sure he was close to me at all times. At the top, we were met with a long, straight hallway, several doors on each side.

The first door on the right was a bedroom. It appeared to be Mycroft's. We peered inside.

A twelve-year-old Sherlock faced his brother of nineteen. "Mycroft, where did you put Lizzy? She needs to try a new recipe I made for her!"

"Lizzy's dead, little brother. Leave it."

The young Sherlock gave Mycroft a swift kick in the shin. "She's not dead! You can't say that!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled a shoebox from one of his desk drawers. He took the top off, revealing the corpse of a small, green, gecko to the young Sherlock.

The boy's scream was ear-splitting. "You killed her! You killed Lizzy!"

Mycroft remained calm. "For the last time, Sherlock, it's a he. And I didn't kill him, it was probably one of your stupid recipes that did that." He put the top back on the shoebox. "Now, get out of my room!"

Young Sherlock took the shoebox and ran from the room, straight through where we stood in the doorway. He and Mycroft disappeared.

"That little lizard was my only friend through fifth and sixth grade," present-day Sherlock explained, a little smile appearing on his tear-soaked face.

I nodded, and we moved along to the next room, which seemed to be the master bedroom. A twenty-year-old Sherlock sat in a chair by the bed. A figure, one that I could tell was Sherlock's mother, was bundled under the covers.

The young Sherlock held his mother's hand. "It will be alright, Mum."

The frail old lady seemed to shake her head. Her voice was light, airy, as though it was hardly clinging to the surface of reality. "Sherlock," she said quietly, crackily, "my child. You can tell where a man has been with a glance at his tie. You can identify a medical proffesional through their posture when they sit. You know I won't survive this sickness."

Her son rubbed a tear from his eye. "Please, don't say that."

"It's okay, William."

The boy winced upon hearing his real name, but wasn't about to complain to his dying mother. "It isn't. You have so many unlived years, millions of unspoken words-"

She cut him off. "I have said plenty in my lifetime. I have done the things that must be done, as well as a few extras. I have raised you and your brother to be lovely gentlemen, with bright futures. My son, I am happy, and I am complete."

The Sherlock next to me loosened his grip on my hand, but didn't let go. Tears were no longer falling, but they were certainly welling in his eyes as we watched his mother take her final, heavy breaths and pass on.

The memory faded away, and we were left staring at the empty room. Sherlock nodded. We moved on.

Across the hall was another bathroom, door wide open. Inside, a fifteen-year-old Sherlock was perched on the counter, cross-legged next to the sink. He smoked a cigarette, and next to him sat a pack of many more.

Present-day Sherlock sighed. "I was young, I was foolish, and I was addicted. Made for a few rough years."

The teen faded away, and we moved to the final room on the hall, which could only be Sherlock's.

Inside it, an eighteen-year-oldSherlock sat on the edge of the bed. A girl stood in front of him, pushing him down.

"I don't want to," the boy said, trying to push the girl away.

She didn't like being shoved out of the way, and planted a slap across Sherlock's face. "Shut up, you wimp. Any boy would be lucky to have me. You know you want to."

"I really don't."

"Timidity isn't good in bed," the girl, who was about the same age as the young Sherlock, said quietly.

"I don't think I would be either. Please leave."

She pushed him onto the bed. "Oh, I'm not about to do that..."

Sherlock pushed back. "Please. Leave."

The girl wagged her finger in front of his face. "Oh no," said she, "not today."

With that, she had picked up one of Sherlock's many textbooks that were strewn about the room and hit him over the head with it. He was out cold, and the memory faded.

Present-day Sherlock shook his head. "Veronica Woodinwars. Seventeen-year-old. Date rape."

I nodded, not sure what to say. What do you tell a person you love, when you find out that their past is so clouded with tradgedy? How does a person rid himself of emotional scars so well that you would never know he had feelings at all?

I squeezed his hand, giving up on my search to find the right words, for I wasn't sure anymore that they existed at all. He nodded.

Across the room, a white door appeared. It seemed that we had to live through all of the bad memories to get out of the house, and I was glad to realize that there weren't any more that I would have to witness.

As soon as we were out the door and met with a long, straight corridor, Sherlock turned to look at me, dropping my hand. "John, I don't want you to pity me, or think of me differently now that you've seen all that. I know it's painful, I know it's hard, but please. Just erase it. Don't focus on any of that, because that isn't me. None of those people are the same as the man I am now, and that man is the only one I've ever wanted you to know. Okay?"

I nodded. "Okay."

He gave me a quick smile, which looked odd in comparison to his tear-stained face.

"But... Don't you think we should talk about some of this? Figure things out?"

"John, I have had years of figuring these things out. I can't think about it any more. My past is filled with too many dark years, and I want only bright ones in my future."

I understood. "Okay, Sherlock."

He took my hand once more, but it was different this time. Stronger. I knew the man I stood by better than ever, and though I was beginning to realize the blackness of his past, somehow...

...I loved him more for it.