Sherlock Holmes found himself standing in the lobby of his mind palace with absolutely no idea how he had gotten there. This does not bode well, he thought. There was a rather long hallway in front of him, containing doorways to various insignificant rooms. A library to his right, and a laboratory to his left. A winding stairway led to the more important rooms on the second level. But since he couldn't recall why he was there in the first place, Sherlock turned around to find the imaginary door to his imaginary mind palace, only to realize that it was no longer there. This bodes even worse!
What was the last thing he could remember? He was with Lestrade, and the DI's evil doppelganger Sally Donovan. They had been finishing up a case, preparing to arrest the perpetrator, when the unexpected happened. The man was an accountant, for god's sakes. Accountants don't turn violent and attempt to flee the law. They go quietly, and call their barrister. This one, however, had not read the rulebook. Donovan had approached the suspect first, accosting him as he got out of his car. He had taken her down with a knee to the abdomen and a kick to the shins, then jumped into his vehicle to flee the scene. Lestrade jumped into the police car, with Sherlock hopping into the passenger side, a place that should have been occupied by Sgt. Donovan, but as she was still writhing on the pavement, Sherlock noted with a slight snicker, was left empty. And so the chase began.
Sherlock had always told people that sentiment was not his forte. He was now beginning to find out that car chases were also not his thing. He was used to dealing with crime on a much more cerebral level. He got his adrenaline highs from solving problems, not barreling through the streets of London on a rainy night. He looked over at Lestrade as they took a particularly sharp turn and…
That was it. That was his last thought. No, strike that. Hopefully NOT his last thought. He couldn't be dead, could he? Of course not. He didn't believe in an afterlife. If he was dead he wouldn't be wandering around in his own mind construct. If he was wrong, and there really was an afterlife, he would expect it to be much warmer than it was in here. Considerably warmer! So, no, he couldn't be dead. The most logical thing was find the last person he was with, and see if they could shed any light on the situation.
All the important, or even semi-important, people in the detective's life had a room in his mind palace, where he stored memories and any other relevant information about said person. Lestrade's room was on the second level. But before Sherlock trudged up the stairs, he decided to look into the cramped powder room tucked under the stairway. This was Sherlock's mind palace, after all, and he could arrange things as he liked, and he had chosen to have the small lavatory perpetually in need of repair/cleaning/investigation. He stuck his head in the door and greeted Anderson, "Find anything?"
"Nothing yet. When do I get out of here?", groaned Anderson in response.
"Have you checked the sewage line?"
"Not again, Holmes!"
"Yes, again, Anderson!" Sherlock shut the door and chuckled to himself. That cheered me up a bit! Now to go and talk to Lestrade.
Sherlock bounded up the stairs, then walked along the corridor until he found the room labelled G. Lestrade. The Detective Inspector was seated at his desk in a facsimile of his office, glancing up when his visitor entered.
"Graham, what's going on?" Sherlock greeted him.
"When are you going to give that up, mate? You know my name as well as I do!"
"What makes you think I can remember your name, Grant. It's just not that memorable."
"I make one lousy crack about your bloody name, and I have to put up with this for years."
"My name is NOT weird, Gareth. It's sophisticated. It's noble. It's classy. It's memorable, dammit! Not like yours, Gary"
Lestrade sighed and said, "What took you so long, Sherlock? I expected you a while ago."
"I had to check on Anderson."
"Still working on the loo, is he?" Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Speaking of which, when are you going to let Donovan out of that closet over there. She's kinda cramped. All she does is whine, Sherman."
"The name thing is not going to work on me, Grady. A small closet is all she needs. She's relatively insignificant. She should be grateful I don't store some lab specimens in there with her. Come to think of it, I could…"
"Enough, Sherlock. What are you here for?"
"What happened to us, Lestrade?"
"You know as much as I do, mate. We took that turn, the car skidded out. I don't know if we hit something, or something hit us."
"Nice use of the pronoun 'we', George. As I recall, I was just an innocent passenger. You were driving!"
"Right. Well, sorry if I've killed you. Sorrier still if I killed me! Let me know what you find out, willya?"
Sherlock didn't like the way this was going. He firmly believed that he, himself, was not deceased. At least, not currently. Not yet. But now he had doubts about the continued existence of the man from Scotland Yard. And it appeared that he was going to get no answers about the accident from anybody in here. He just had to figure out a way out.
The next room he came to was that of Mrs. Martha Hudson, landlady and somewhat more. He entered right into Mrs. H's kitchen which always smelled of freshly baked biscuits. The elderly woman was already setting a cup of tea on the table, and motioned for him to join her.
"So, Sherlock, what's new?"
"I think there's something definitely wrong, Mrs. Hudson. I can't seem to find my way out of here."
"Well, dear, have you figured out how you got here. Maybe you can retrace your steps? Or find someone to help you?"
"The nearest I can make out is that I was in an auto accident. I suppose head trauma could account for…"
"There you go, luv, you're beginning to work it out! Have you spoken to Mycroft?"
Sherlock didn't want to talk to Mycroft. He never really wanted to talk to Mycroft, and now his eyes were drifting around Mrs. Hudson's room, looking for distractions. Her walls were covered in photos of her more colorful life as the wife of a Florida drug lord. The was a stripper pole in the corner of the kitchen, and the overhead light was a disco ball. His landlady's room in his mind palace was certainly one of the more interesting ones!
"Sherlock! Pay attention! You really should go and talk to you brother. Go on, now! But don't forget to go see mum and dad, just in case, you know…"
The detective did as he was told, and went to visit Mummy and Daddy. His parents shared a room in his mind palace, as they shared everything in life. Mummy, as always, knew what was wrong instinctively.
"Sherlock, why did you jump in that car?"
"I'm asking myself that same question, Mummy."
"Of course you are, dear. I'm only a construct. If I'm asking it, you're asking it."
"Don't confuse me Mummy. I already have one hell of a headache!"
"Are you feeling pain, Sherlock? Maybe that's a good sign!"
"I would hazard a guess that I suffered some sort of a brain injury. I don't know what the prognosis could be."
"Will they have to shave off your curls, Sherlock?"
"You're worried about my curls, Mummy? I could be dying, and you're worried about my curls!"
"No, dear. You're worried about your curls. I'm a construct of your brain, remember?"
He heard his father chuckle at the conversation. Ever the practical man, Siger Holmes said, "I know I sound like a cliche, son. But they will grow back, you know." But then the man looked suddenly stricken. "If you live, that is."
Siger Holmes was not as intellectually gifted as his wife and sons, but he was far wiser than any of them. He loved his family, and he always knew instinctively what they needed. And now he told Sherlock what Sherlock already knew, "You need to tell your mother that you love her, son. And even you brother. And anyone else you can think of!"
"But if you're all mental constructs, you already know that."
"It's not so much that they need to hear it, son. It's that you need to say it…"
"But Mycroft says…"
His father chuckled, "I never could figure out why that was the one piece of advice your brother gave you that you listened to. Hell, he doesn't even believe it himself! If he didn't believe in sentiment, you'd have been dead of an overdose long before this. He's protected you. He's protected your friends. He's protected your Molly. He watches over your mother and I like a mother hen. Perhaps he was afraid you were too delicate to deal with sentiment. But you're not son! You're much stronger, now. Mycroft is just being overly protective, as usual. Now, say goodbye to your Mum, and go take care of things. Right! Off you go!"
Sherlock wrapped his mother in his arms and whispered in her ear. When they parted, they were both smiling.
So Sherlock Holmes went off in search of his brother. But before he approached Mycroft's room, he was distracted by the room labelled John Watson, and couldn't resist entering, if only to say goodbye. John was sitting in his new flat, the one he shared with his wife, Mary. But surprisingly John was sitting in the chair Sherlock would always consider his, the one from the sitting room at 221 B Baker Street. John rose from the chair as soon as his friend entered, and embraced him. But in a manly manner. It wouldn't do to give Mrs. Hudson cause for further speculation.
"So, you git, since when have you taken to becoming involved in car chases? See what happens? This is definitely not good, Sherlock."
"Believe me, John, if I get out of this, I'm never getting in a car again! I shall become a recluse, living in my flat, eating takeaway food, and never dressing except for a sheet…"
"Sounds a lot like your current situation, mate."
"I'm serious, John. I can solve crime via the internet. Between my phone and computer, I will never have to leave the flat again."
"There are other needs, chum…"
"Please, John, you taught me all I need to know about web porn!"
"What?!" came the exclamation from Mary Watson.
"Not good, Sherlock," said John, sotto voce.
Sherlock looked over at Mary, and felt a pang of guilt about possibly leaving John behind to fend for himself in regard to Mary. He liked Mary, he really did. Despite the fact that she put a bullet in him. And John loved her. But only John, Mary, and himself knew the facts of the situation. Sherlock couldn't help but worry that, given the rate of failed marriages in the world, Mary might opt for a very drastic means of divesting herself of a no longer wanted spouse.
John seemed to sense his thoughts, which of course, he could. "Don't worry about us mate! We'll be fine. Get out of here and take care of yourself!"
"I guess it would be impractical to never leave the flat again, John. But I shall stay in at least until my curls grow back!"
After leaving John, Sherlock knew that the next stop had to be Mycroft's room, a reasonable facsimile of the Diogenes club. He approached his brother, who motioned to a chair next to him. "Well, little brother, no need to ask to what I owe this visit, heh?'
"Daddy told me that I should tell you that I care for you, Mycroft."
"I believe his exact words were that you love me, Sherlock."
"Yes, well, I was paraphrasing."
"Yes. And I am inconveniently fond of you."
"Inconveniently?"
"Yes. Well you can be a real pain in the arse, brother dear. But all that aside, I once told you that losing you would break my heart. I've seen you with a broken heart, Sherlock, and I certainly don't want to go through that myself." With that, Mycroft Holmes made a snapping sound with his fingers until a large red Irish setter bounded over and nuzzled his hand. The dog then approached the younger Holmes brother, and jumped onto his hind legs to plants wet kisses on his face.
"Redbeard! You never liked Redbeard!"
"On the contrary, I always liked Redbeard, and he liked me. And you always knew that, deep down. But he was your dog, little brother, body and soul. You've kept him here in your mind palace, of course, and you've grown less possessive and jealous. I am grateful that you allow me to enjoy him now. But enough about the past. I've always tried to protect you, Sherlock. To save you from your more self destructive tendencies. But you've got to get yourself out of this one."
"But I can't find the bloody door, Mycroft!"
"Well, think, you bloody git. If you can't find a door, perhaps you should try a window! You constructed this place. You must know where you put a window! It won't be the first time she's saved your life, after all!"
Of course Mycroft would know about the window. In this place, Mycroft was him. And he was Mycroft. He was simply talking to himself using different avatars. This thought was making his head ache even further, especially when he thought of conversing with Anderson. Ugh! But he knew exactly what his brother was talking about, and he hurried off to Molly's room. As he left, he noticed a large cake had appeared on the table next to his brother, and smiled. It seems he was grateful for his brother's advice after all!
He hadn't really wanted to go into her room, at least not on this occasion. He was almost beginning to think of this as his farewell tour, and he never wanted to say goodbye to Molly Hooper. Not again. He had said goodbye after his "death", when he took himself off for two years to demolish Moriarty's network. He had mentally said it when he had returned to find her engaged to the "meat dagger". He had said it again, at least in his mind palace, when he went off on his four minute exile. But Mycroft was correct. She may be able to save him again.
When he got to her room, which by this time had grown to huge proportions as he could not bring himself to delete a single thing about Molly (except, perhaps, "meat dagger's" real name), he found her sitting quietly at a lab table as if awaiting his arrival.
"What do you need, Sherlock?"
He smiled at her familiar words, as he took her hand and led her through the large room. They walked past her office where she would sit for hours, filling out reports on her laptop as he sat in the office chair opposite studying her as her brows knit in concentration. Past the morgue tables, where he would admire her technique (and her dimples) as she stood up to her elbows in a cadaver's chest. They went through a small area resembling the sitting room of her flat, where they would sit at the coffee table, sharing takeaway and crap telly. Finally they arrived at his latest construct, her bedroom. Sherlock liked to sit in the small chair in the corner of this room, and watch her sleep. He would indulge in his fantasies, some innocent, and some far from innocent, as he memorized her features illuminated by the moonlight. The moonlight which streamed through the one and only window in his mind palace, added solely so that he could admire the delicate beauty of the woman he…
"You have to say it, Sherlock. Remember what your father told you!
"I do care for you, Molly."
"Paraphrasing again?" Molly smiled at him. "I'll let you get away with that here, because, being an extension of you, I actually know what you mean. I've known as long as you have. Maybe longer, if we want to get into that whole subconscious thing! But once you get out there, you're gonna have to tell the real me. Promise me, Sherlock!"
Sherlock breathed a heavy sigh, and whispered, "I promise."
"Louder!"
"I promise!
"Better. Off you go!" Molly guided him to the window and kissed his cheek as he started to climb through. "Keep your promise, now, and you'll get a better kiss on the other side, luv. And maybe some of the fantasies will come true. Maybe the one where we…"
"Molly, how do you know about that?!"
"I'm you, remember? And that was nothing compared to the one about…"
Sherlock Holmes climbed quickly through the window and was hit with a pain in his head, an ache in his ribs, and a desert in his throat. But instead of asking for water, the first thing he gasped out, before he even opened his eyes, was, "Molly."
Molly Hooper gasped, but never let go the hand she had been holding for hours, or even days. She had lost track of time. When Sherlock Holmes finally opened his eyes to look up at her, he said in a very weak voice, "My father told me to tell you that I love you. I would say that much louder, for everyone to hear, if I wasn't so damned parched!"
Violet Holmes rushed to give her younger son the water he requested, as his father looked on, slightly confused. "I wish I could take credit for that. Soundest piece of advice I never gave him!"
Sherlock then asked, "Greg?"
"Greg is fine. A couple a cracked ribs, and some bruises, but fine." Molly was smiling and crying at the same time. "And I see you remembered his name!"
"Whose name?"
"Greg's"
"Who's Greg?" Sherlock managed a wink.
"I do have some bad news, however." Molly's voice had turned serious. "There was a casualty. More than one, actually."
"Did we hit someone, another car?" The detective was now concerned.
"No, nothing like that, But I regret to inform you that your Belstaff did not survive. Nor you purple shirt. I'm really going to miss that shirt, Sherlock."
"Not to worry," Mycroft's voice came from the doorway, "I've arranged for replacements to arrive before you leave the hospital, brother."
"Thank you, brother. I'll make it up to you. I'll buy you a dog!"
"At the moment, I'd rather have a cigarette. And a slice of cake." Then he left, in search of one or the other, or perhaps both.
Doctors arrived to check out the patient. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, exhausted by their long vigil, and relieved by its outcome, made their way home. John and Mary showed up, to reassure themselves in person, of the good news they had received. Eventually, the only ones left in the hospital room were Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.
"You know, Mind Palace Molly promised me something better than a kiss on the cheek."
Molly leaned in to press her lips to his. Sherlock brought his hand up to rifle through her hair, as Molly placed hers gently on his chest. His heart monitor beeped impressively, and his breathing quickened.
"You'll have to do better than that if you're going to live up to her promises, Molly! I mean, there are several fantasies that she shared…"
"What?!"
"Don't worry, Dr. Hooper, I'll explain them in great detail as soon as my ribs are healed!" Sherlock answered with a smirk and a wink.
Exhausted, Molly climbed into the bed and gently wrapped her arms around him, avoiding his injured ribs. "Get some sleep, Mr. Holmes. We'll talk about those fantasies later. And stay away from Mind Palace Molly! She sounds a little too brazen to me." And with that, she fell asleep, entertaining fantasies of her own.
Molly was fast asleep when Sherlock suddenly reached up to run his fingers through his undamaged long dark curls. "Thank god," he muttered as he drifted off.