.
Sherlock woke up with a jolt and the nagging feeling that he had overslept. Which was ridiculous. Sherlock was sure he needed less sleep then the average human, and to assume he had indulged in a waste of time for more than necessary was outrageous. Hence, he woke up in a foul mood.
As soon as he took a good look around, his mood morphed into something different. Relief.
Sherlock was home.
Not his Baker Street home. The other home, that no one could ever damage or taint, that was only his to proudly carry as a secret treasure. His Mind Palace. His secret home, that he could pull out of the hat whenever he needed to, that allowed him to relax, and ponder, and find solutions to his beloved cases.
This was the first time that Sherlock woke up into his Mind Palace, but it didn't really concern him. It felt right, homely, warm, cosy. He belonged there.
As soon as he got out of the comfortable duvets of his imaginary bed – okay, everything there was, strictly speaking, imaginary, so he'd lower his accuracy standards and just call it his bed – his feet touched the hardwood floors, they felt warm. There was a rug nearby, and old oak wood furniture, a busy patterned wallpaper and some pictures on the walls, and a window, shedding sunny daylight into his bed. It wasn't his bedroom in Baker Street, but it felt familiar. Sherlock just couldn't quite place it.
He didn't mind, not yet. There was a sense of peace in him, one that it was so rare, that he embraced it fully. It wouldn't diminish his curiosity, though, and he set off to the door, to hang about the Palace.
He still couldn't recall what got him there, but that was okay, it'd come back to him. Later.
He was in one of his long hallways, symmetrically laid doors on each side. The corridors were, in contrast, empty and cold. White parallel walls, punctuated by dark solid doors, as if guarding the memories they held inside. Everything was ordered, neat, rational in the hallways. They were the bone structure of the construction, as if branches on a tree.
Sherlock walked slowly and knowingly into one of the rooms, his dressing gown flapping to his each step behind him, replacing his usual long wool coat.
He took his hand to the handle, twisted it, and opened it. The warmth of the room hit him, appeasing. It smelled of burning logs in the fireplace, and of tea. It reminded him of Baker Street. And sure enough, there was a familiar Bauhaus leather and steal chair, by the fireplace. All around the chair and mantle, there were stacks high of bookshelves filled with hundreds of books describing his memories, mostly in old binds and musty smelling pages, because even though they were being kept as precious pieces of his past, he didn't revisit them often. That was the Library of his childhood.
He looked back behind him. By the tea tray on a small side table there was a wagging tail dog, staring back at him with an affectionate smirking dog, full of loyalty and bustling energy. Redbeard.
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A/N: "Why?" I don't know. It's very 80's-ish. I only have the first few chapters down, and I'm uploading two just for added pressure (make or break time). Please let me know if it's just too weird (in a bad way), if you feel like reviewing. –csf
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or their previous feats.