I'm not stupid. I know what this is. The symptoms all add up to a perfect figure, every digit just as it should be. Except we're dealing with emotions here, not numbers. This business cannot be calculated, and to say that it's disconcerting would be a gross understatement.
Worse are the thoughts. The way that he infiltrates my mind. The irrational stomach plummet when he walks into the room and smiles at me. The feeling that I'll be fine, more than fine, as long as he's by my side. The urge to slip my fingers between his, to tuck his head under my chin and feel the salt and pepper hair tickle my skin.
I'm not stupid. Just to clarify that. No, I know that I am, for lack of a less disgustingly cliche word, regrettably in love with John Hamish Watson.
And ever since, my mind palace has become disorganized. Cluttered. Disoriented. Flawed, perhaps irrevocably. Changed, certainly, and corrupted by these new sensations and desires. I fall asleep, I dream of him. I hum a sonatina, I hear his voice. I walk down the street, I see him.
A virus is attacking my mind palace, and it needs to stop.
I've tried to treat it before. Kick it out, smother it in denial – but there is, to my knowledge, simply no antidote. Nasty infection.
My mind palace is generally pristine, predictable, and runs like clockwork. Anxiety enters in the form of a character dressed in white, pressing a scarlet pulsing panic button. Depression, a hallway cast in shadows and a silently crying figure wearing a black trench coat. When I'm high – which, because of John, because I am terrified of disappointing him, because I love him, hasn't happened in awhile – outlines are blurred, ground sloped at odd angles, no distinction between where one corridor ends and another begins. Contentment and victory throw everything into light, shapes larger than life and over saturated.
I have yet to find a place in which feelings for John fit.
The door opens and he's walking into the flat. Look calm. Remember how to breathe. His jumper is worn thin, exposing the thick muscles across his shoulders, the slight curvature of his spine, the narrowing of his waist.
"Tea?" He's smiling at me. Inquisitive. Do I look strange? I don't know. Oh. Still holding the eyeball. I set it back down on the table.
"Yes," I manage shortly. Good. Sound annoyed. Curt. Anything but adoring. Anything but the truth.
"Thinking?" he asks. I hear water running, a stream hitting the kettle bottom with a tinny clunk.
"Mind palace."
"Ah."
He doesn't speak; he understands me, sits quietly while I pace, declares my deductions, no matter how modest, to be "extraordinary," and my mind palace erupts with sunshine at every compliment. Heart aches.
I shut my eyes. Partly to concentrate, partly so I'm not caught staring at him. Unlock my mind palace. Hello, old friend.
Right.
Construction begins. Walls go up, stairways erected, paint applied. This place, this John room, is in a turret, separate from and superior to the dreadfully dull compartments in which I store meaningless things, like memories (the ones not involving John) and defeats.
He hands me a cup, the soft brush of his fingertips across my hand making me start. The echo of our physical contact dissipates too quickly. Be quiet, heart. "Thanks," I say.
"Figured it out?"
My mind palace is complete. Full of John, full of open doors and balconies and beauty rivaled only by the man sitting before me. "I have indeed."
His mouth quirks in a lopsided smile, shooting straight into the John room, closely followed by his next words. "Extraordinary," he says, and reaches for a biscuit.