Personal Narrative: Sherlock's House

I stood on the patio, for some reason almost expecting for the door to magically open for me. I shook my head, chuckling at myself. I really had been spending too much time in the wizard world. Sherlock's house more or less looked the same to me. There were only slight adjustments here or there, a small chipped roof tile, a new paint job on one of the sides of the houses, some new bushes in the yard. Other than that, though, it was inherently the same house I had seen when I was a third-grader. It was as if stepping back into a portal into my childhood. At the same time, though it wasn't like that either. The house just seemed so much inherently smaller than I remembered, and a lot colder too. Perhaps though that was because I had grown up
Some of the same posters still were on the walls, like that of Einstein and Tesla, but for the most part the walls had either been converted to shelves to carry the numerous books, test tubes and other scientific equipment, obscure body parts with models, and strange scientific things that I didn't really care to know about. The room as I had suspected was a chaotic mess; on the floor were mountains of papers and files of various things from how to pick a lock to the types of dirt found in New Hampshire. There were also manuscripts and other assorted knowledge, all in aimless piles across the floor. Red strings danced around the room, weaving with each other, attached to the red strings were tack which also connected to the wallpapers Sherlock had hung up. This woven string of red made it nearly impossible to walk in the room without tripping, and I did many times. Besides the mess, there was very little room for much else. There was only a small drawer filled to the brim with other complicated things, his bed which was surprisingly clean of everything, and a table which contained his old computer along with many chemicals that I could only assume were very toxic. It was hard to tell what the actual table looked like though, as it covered with a clutter of tools he used, from blow torches to
He then dragged John and threw him out too, much to his loud protests and cries they were pointless. Sherlock then slammed the door shut, leaving us both on the outside and very miffed.

"He's going to his mind palace again," John said, glaring at the door.

"What's his mind palace?" I asked curiously.

"It's some sort of memory trick, he explained it to me once. Supposedly you can remember anything that you need to, and somehow find an organisation for storing memories. I don't know if actually works or he just uses as an excuse to be alone. Either way, HE GETS WHAT HE WANTS!" He said, shouting the last part.

"How long does he usually do this?"

"I don't know really. It can be for five minutes or even days. The longest time he stayed in his room was three, and the only reason he came out was because I physically broke the door down to make sure he was okay. He was fine by the way, well, he was annoyed I had broken his door down." He said.

"Hm, usually he gives a bit more warning when he does it, though, although he did seem in a bad mood already. Odd since he usually is in a generally good mood when he's on cases; he lives for them. I guess sometimes though he can even hate something to an extent." John said,