It is indeed a palace.
Sherlock loves the smooth architecture. The high beams and the smooth arches; he admires the wide windows and the nooks and crannies. His heart sings at the sight of the fascia and the balustrades. He strolls among the corridors and hums contentedly at the sight of all his rooms settled in neat little rows. In the library, the balcony is reached by a spiral stair case. At the center of the roof, a wide, circular glass peers into the sky- day or night, it is whatever time that pleases him most. He feels safe, here. He can reread books without having to have them in his possession (though the details may be foggy, here and there). Information is abundant and while he knows everything that ever crosses the wide, marble court yard with the emerald fences into the wooden doors of his palace, he finds it soothing to revisit nonetheless.
He chases memories up to the bell tower and leans over the edge. The stone walls are scribbled with facts and numbers and statistics and really, the tower is only to keep his palace esthetically pleasing. From the top of the tower, Sherlock can lean out and peer over the entirety of his estate. The hills and dales stretch for miles and miles and miles and though it is impossible, he can still see the outline of London on the horizon.
Beneath the ground, in the basement, hidden by a trap door beneath a fine Persian rug, he keeps unpleasant things. The room where the basement is hidden is kept bare and the door locked. The key is tucked away in the kitchen (which is nearly bare, too) in one of the unused drawers.
He finds his father in the study, stern and quiet behind a desk of mahogany. The sight of him sets Sherlock back ages and he swings on the balls of his feet when he passes this room. He doesn't speak and soon moves on. He finds his mother through a set of French doors at the end of a brightly lit hall in the walled-in garden. She sits in a white gown on a bench swing. She smiles, invitingly, but shame pushes him away and he trails off without speaking to her, either. Mycroft is nowhere to be found, but memories of him in childhood and anxious teenage years are found in several rooms. Sherlock watches them, fondly.
In one room, a young Mycroft is scolding an even younger Sherlock. He watches from the doorway. Mycroft is kneeling down and rubbing a damp cloth against the young Sherlock's scraped knee. He see's himself, no older than ten or eleven, dressed in ridiculous clothes and fighting back tears. "Look at you," Mycroft is telling him as he dabs away bits of blood. "You want to be a pirate but you can't handle a bit of a scraped knee?" But the way his lips come together shows he is fighting a smile.
In a bright, high-ceiling room he finds a record player. It is modern, not old- made to look pleasing in a young man's flat. He likes it, nonetheless, and locates a chest of drawers full of records. He plays them for what seems like hours. In his palace, time does not exist. The sound of the music carries throughout the rest of the enormous building. He can hear the sounds in the south wing and in the courtyard.
He finds John in there, too. It is a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. The room is a replica of their flat. Sherlock enters, uncertain, and watches as John settles in his favorite chair. All the things Sherlock needs to know about John are all settled in this room. The kitchen is full of his favorite foods and drinks and brews. In the bins are things he doesn't like. The television has his favorite show on and the movie shelf has all his favorite movies. In his closet are his clothes- every single one of them, categorized by which he wears the most. The shelves are full of medical texts. The windows are open, but it does not look out onto the street of 221B- it is nothing but white sunlight behind the curtains. On his laptop, his blog is open, entries categorized by how many affectionate insults on Sherlock there are hidden in the texts. Sherlock hovers in this part of his palace for an undetermined amount of time.
There is a room with white walls and a white floor and a white ceiling. There is no light and there are no windows, but it is so brilliant and bright all the same. On the floor are thin, red lines: it is his London. A map of the city, every street, every turn, every district. He lays on the floor like a child, on his belly, legs splayed out behind him. He finds Baker street and traces the line with his finger tips. He pulls a pen from his pocket and circles the spot where 221B would rest (it is perfect, he knows these streets!) and scribbles "home" in his fine, spiky script.
When the bell in the tower begins to chime, Sherlock knows it is time to go. Someone is trying reach him. He is tempted never to leave. To dismantle the bell and hide in the corridors and rooms. He imagines resting his head in his mother's lap and watching memories of his childhood, over and over and over and over. He imagines sitting in John's room and watching him with his stone-steel gaze. It would be so easy, Sherlock knows, to lock himself in his palace forever. Here, he cannot be reached. Here, he is safe. Here, he is alone. Alone is what he has.
Alone protects him.
The bells are chiming louder, now, and Sherlock unfolds himself from the floor of his London map room and traces his way back to the doors. He crosses the court yard and as soon as he steps through the gates of emerald, he is blinking into a dimly lit room with John bowing over him. His hand is warm on his shoulder and his voice is insistent and gentle: "Sherlock, wake up."
"I was in my palace," Sherlock replies. His voice is groggy and his eyes bleary. John smells of soap and tea.
The sound of his chuckle, deep and in his throat, is reassuring. "No, you were asleep." Sherlock moves to sit up; he is on the couch and there is one lamp on in the living quarters. It is a mess and nothing is categorized the way it is in his palace and this, too, is reassuring. He could get lost in his delusion and suddenly that frightens him very much. John is in his bed clothes and his feet are bare.
"Up you go," John insists quietly, pulling him up and to his feet with an annoying amount of ease. "You'll put your back out sleeping on the couch."
Sherlock allows himself to be put to bed and the door shut behind him. He stretches on the sheets and paws at the empty space beside him on his wide bed.
In his palace, he knows he will never go to bed alone.