Changes in the mind palace
FT: This is all Fanfictions' fault. I got an email about Johnlock, which lead to the stories, which fed into the Google search, which brought me the series. Now I'm here, writing about a couple that everybody seems obsessed with (For a good reason, Benedict is hot). But I love you guys anyways, and I hope you guys enjoy.
So no, I don't own Sherlock. Never have, never will.
This is Teen rated; sex is glossed over, rather than shown. Post Fall.
John.
John Watson.
John Hamish Watson.
John. English form of Iohannes, the Latin form of the Greek name Ioannes itself derived from the Hebrew name Yochanan, meaning 'Yahweh is gracious'. Name of John the Baptist, and of St. John author of the fourth Gospel and Revelations. Variation of Jon. Masculine diminutives are Johnie, Johnnie, and Johnny.
Hamish. Anglicized form of a Sheumais, the vocative case of Seumas, Scottish form of James, from the root name Jacob, meaning 'holder of the heel' or 'supplanter'.
Watson. Patronymic surname meaning "son of Watt", a pet form of the name Walter, meaning "ruler of the army." From the elements wald, meaning rule, and heri, meaning army.
John.
The blonde man sighed and turned in his sleep, his bare chest pressing against his side, one heavy arm creeping over narrow hips as Sherlock watched him, his head tilted forward, forehead resting in the palm of his hand.
Solider, doctor, friend, lover, blogger, partner, flatmate, sounding board, focus, strength, reliability, comrade, comfort, anchor, love, affection, hope, sanity, home.
Sherlock once said that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. How deliciously wrong he was. How absolutely amazing 'feeling' was.
John.
His heart, his rock, his warmth, his willing shackle.
All his.
The feeling of selfish possession was still very new to Sherlock, how it all clicked together, how it made him see things in a different light. Almost as if he were looking at the world through John's eyes.
Sometimes, in these dark nights, after a long period of just savoring the one person he did in fact love, Sherlock roamed his mind palace. Observed how much John had changed him, his life, and the very pattern of his thoughts.
John had been given a small room off in the Western wing of his mind palace, down the hall from Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Mummy, and Lestrade. Actually, John had the last room in the hallway, as something told Sherlock that John was well… different.
Something was odd about the silvering man (not greying, grey in general was too un-dignified a term for John Watson), something in those eyes, a steadiness that didn't quite register, a sense of finely tempered steel beneath the warmly frank face of the ex-solider. How he gave a short, yet complete, appraisal of the world in his immediate sight.
But John's room quickly expanded, starting most notably from the door, which started off as a simple birch panel, but changed into a strong oak door, engraved with the Scottish crest of his family, and the roots of his life depicted in the wonderfully complex fashion of the Scots. Inside, his room began to smell more like tea, biscuits, and warm jumpers. The scent of John spread throughout the west wing, changing things that Sherlock never really paid mind to. The steel-and-walnut that lead to Mycroft, willow rattan for Lestrade, pine for Mummy and cherry for Mrs. Hudson
Mycroft's door was the most imposing one, black walnut and blackened steel bars, looking more like the entrance to a dungeon than to the posh decadence that Mycroft indulged in. But after John entered Sherlock's life, the door became lighter, a rich reddish tobacco, with only a pair of black bars horizontally across the wood. Between the panels of dark wood however, Sherlock found thin panels of ash. It was curious until he looked at another door.
Lestrade had changed materials completely. From a flexible willow, it became (and solved a particular puzzle for Sherlock) ash- dark grey, and lined handsomely with tobacco- and carved in one corner was the mark of the New Scotland Yard. Sherlock nearly always giggled when he made the connection, but as a courtesy (to John) he never mentioned his findings to either his brother or the detective.
The door leading into Mummy's room mellowed, the pine becoming a soft, yet rich yellow, engraved with roses and other flowering foliage, visual representations of the rank of a country squire, and the cousin to an artist. Sherlock often ran a hand over the engravings, almost feeling tiny cuts chipping away the still-smooth portions, crafting another flower or leaf.
Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, changed in the structure of her door. From a simply engraved cherry that was a tad dull with a simple brass handle, the door became French doors, with a large glass mosaic representing her personality, a visual depiction of her maternal love for Sherlock and John, and the wood grew to hold a proper crimson-hued glow, and the brass holdings gleamed like gold.
But the changes didn't stop at the doors. No, it spread to the shale floor, covered by a slim navy runner, making it into a wooden floor that was made from panels of different woods, a dark gold and blue carpet that went racing towards the door that started it all. The walls, a darkly themed Victorian pattern, changed into a rich chocolate brown oak, the painting that hung there dusted, dim scones replaced by luminous orbs that hung from brass brackets. It became filled with warm and gentle sunlight, even though there weren't any windows in this part of his mind palace. Not when he built it anyways. John added them. Sherlock often found his feet leading to this hall, walking down the plush carpet, and into the room that represented John Watson; almost pulled in by the impression of soft laughter just below the range of hearing.
John's room was filled with a sense of wholeness that Sherlock rarely found in the other rooms, a sense of total acceptance that made his body feel like it was singing. The walls, Sherlock found, were as complex as the man they represented. They appeared white (purity, innocence, simplicity, truth), but closer inspection revealed that they were actually swaths of lightly colored paint. Red (passion, strength, courage, warmth, anger, fiery) lay next to purple (nobility), orange (hard-working, thoughtfulness) next to green (luck, balance, peace, healing), yellow (clarity, happiness, nerves) next to blue (intuition, intelligence, wisdom, serenity), all between panels that were painted brown (common-sense, stubborn, concentration, practicality) and gold (duty, understanding, loyalty, dedication). In here, the light poured in from the windows that hadn't existed before John's room was made, touching upon the almost compulsive neatness of the room, the military precision in the furniture's placement. But even though there was an abundance of light, shadows clung to deep corners, refusing to budge an inch, and never given room to grow beyond the narrow confines where Sherlock found them. There were numerous bookshelves, neatly organized by need. Medical, memory, quips, quirks, ideas… only one bookshelf was bare of books that contained pages of John Watson. Rather, it held pictures. Of Sherlock. Some were small, like the photo on a drivers' license, several were larger, mostly of Sherlock in various states of undress, or of his rarer smile. There were also snapshots of features, sharp clavicles, long neck; lips pursed tightly, a single lock of hair over a furrowed brow, a long pale hand with the slender fingers tangled in a smaller darker hand… numerous pictures. It was curious, that even though this was inside the mind palace of Sherlock, that John held such sway over the contents of a room he had never been in before.
Tucked in the corner of this same shelf, there were three things: a cup full of steaming fragrant tea, a deep purple button-down, and a thick dark blue scarf. Both the shirt and scarf were lovingly folded, placed with care, yet the cup was placed haphazardly, almost a perfect contradiction to the order surrounding it.
Sherlock smiled, he knew exactly what the shirt and scarf meant in this room. Love tokens that represented a small fraction of the man who reciprocated the feelings of Sherlock Holmes. He loved this small moment, but dreaded the next.
Sherlock would turn, and feel his heart give a painful twist. It never failed, for turning would mean to face the windows, and over the windows hung the representation of all the grief John bore for three years while Sherlock let the world believe he was dead and buried.
It was his scarf again, its' formally modest size blown out of proportion, and his billowing black coat hanging off one end of the curtain rod. Only when he got very close the first time did he smell the salt water and dried rusty/coppery smell. It was a scent that broke his heart, and made him resolve, a thousand plus times over, to never exposed John to this type of pain again. To hurt John in such a way again… Sherlock refused to contemplate it a second time.
Every time he explored his mind palace, he noted more changes. The flooring and walls in the east, north, and south wings changed to match the western one, but the Northern wing suddenly sprouted greenery, lush Queen Palms, ferns, and the same hanging orbs gave cheerful light to this wing. This is where Sherlock complied all the knowledge of any current cases he was working on, and it closely resembled the desk of an accountant, or perhaps a scribe would describe the only room in the Northern wing better.
The Eastern wing, his library, became less stuffy, the orbs vanishing, replaced with enormous windows, and the dust blown out the open spaces. Cold surfaces gave way to rich woods, dingy mirrors replaced with ancient maps of the seas and world, and it expanded upwards, two, three, four stories of shelf upon shelf of books, that held every tiny observation he'd ever made, experiments that were performed, books and games he had played, puzzles solved, deductions made, and in one floor (the very topmost) memories of his life.
The Southern wing, more of the catch-all for stray thoughts that never seemed to be linked with anything, became a series of rooms, joined by a long, well-lit hall. Among the rooms lay an armory, a small laboratory, a very small library (one bookshelf), a sitting room, a tea room, (hilariously) a kitchen, a gallery, and strangely, a vast indoor garden. Before, Sherlock rarely came this way, it was dank and dusty and the smell of mildew hung thickly in the air. now it smelled like jasmine and sage, and light reflected properly off a whimsical water fountain that gurgled merrily in the center of the garden.
The heart of the palace changed as well. Grand –if slightly grim- stair cases of black wood were sanded down to reveal a rich dark red glow, as if there had been years of taint that clung to every surface. Sherlock would run a palm over the banisters, reveling in the smooth surface, remembering how rough they had felt before. Black marble floors became grey, which became white, veined in various shades of blue. Majestic banners that had been left neglected over the years brightened and snapped in a light breeze that sprung out of nowhere. The green of forests, the browns of deserts, and the blue of the ocean, trimmed elegantly in metallic hues. His favorite, he discovered, was actually of a scene of a bluff at twilight, a silhouette of a lone man standing there, looking out to sea.
Sherlock recognized the built, short and stocky, and his face broke out into a smile when he realized that this was one moment that he had sworn that he'd never forget. John touched nearly every spot inside the palace.
Sherlock found this out the hard way, when taking a deep breath and opening a door that would never go away.
The dungeons. Dark, stifling, heavy with the scent of blood, sweat, and fear. Where his demons and monsters hid, the ghost of memory with a sharp needle, and the racking pain as his body tried to forcibly purge the seven percent solution. The bitter taste of disappointment and disgust also hung thickly here; reminding him that he had, at several points, royally fucked up.
But John had hung lanterns here, dispelling some of the darkness, and cleared out some of the clutter that refused to be deleted, despite his best efforts.
It was here that he stumbled upon a small wooden door, beaten and weathered as if it had faced the seas day after day. Sherlock laid a hand on it, and it sang under his palm, not the skin-curling shriek, but more like a child's laugh.
Inside, was a treasure trove. Worn and well-loved books crammed on the shelves, presents that he had adored to the point of breaking, and to his utter delight, a magnificent Scarlet Macaw that whistled jauntily. At first Sherlock was at a loss as to why this bright room was located in this area, but took a closer look around him.
Ah, yes. This was before the fall-out with his family as a whole. Before he gave up his ambitions to become a pirate, and settled on something that was more 'practical' in the eyes of society. Even as he watched, there was a shifting in the shadows in the room, a reminder that John hadn't reached here yet. Hadn't touched these memories, or changed the objects inside, or even chased away some of the ghosts like he did on the upper floors.
"Sherlock."
Just like that, with the half-mumbled groan of his lover, Sherlock was back at 221B, nestled in a warm bed, watching John.
"Yes?" he asked, shifting closer to John's warmth.
"Stop thinking love. You're keeping me up." John's fathomless blue eyes smiled sleepily at him, and the ex-solider slung a leg over Sherlock, hooking him behind the knee and pulling him closer.
"My apologies." Sherlock pressed a chaste kiss to John's forehead and curled around his lover, quickly becoming a tangled mess of limbs.
John sighed blissfully and nuzzled Sherlock's neck.
"It's alright. Go to sleep now. We're probably going to have clients tomorrow love." John mouthed against his skin. Sherlock smiled fondly and started to relax in the ambient heat.
He was going to have to tell John someday, about the changes John made in him, about the shoes that greeted him as soon as he stepped inside his mind palace (John's boots, on a ruby and gold carpet that appeared shortly after Sherlock confessed his feelings), about the rooms, even the dungeons.
He would let John explore at his leisure, to-
"Sherlock."
"Hm?"
"Go to sleep. Now." John reached up and pulled Sherlock down in a languid kiss, which effectively distracted Sherlock from taking another tour inside his head.
Oh yes, he'll tell John.
After he got some sleep.
FIN
FT: That was so much fun to write. I came up with it while I was working, and wrote the first seven pages in one sitting. The rest came to me during the course of the next day.
Sorry if it's a little confusing though. It's hard to keep track of where everything goes when it comes to this lovable bastard (Sherlock).
But I hoped you enjoyed this, and leave reviews, yeah?