"It is required of every man," the ghost returned, "that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and, if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death."

- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

When Sherlock finally realizes that John is asleep, his jaw closes with a snap, cutting off his stream-of-consciousness.

Do you continue talking to me when I'm not around?

For a little while, he truly has forgotten that he has an audience. Re-telling the story involves a certain amount of reliving it and transitioning back to the here-and-now can be difficult.

He carefully adjusts the clear plastic mask on John's face with one hand and only then does he notice that he is holding John's wrist with the other one. Experimentally, he squeezes his fingers, watching them tighten: pale and ghostly against the faint tan of John's skin. A soft sound escapes John beneath the oxygen mask. He does it one more time just to hear it again then because he knows that sleep is the best thing right now for his friend, as much as he would prefer it to be otherwise.

Fighting the urge to squeeze onto the narrow bed and mold himself to John's side, Sherlock folds back into the chair, closes his eyes and makes his way back into the mind palace. He stops in the foyer in order to shrug out of his coat and hangs it on the sturdy white washed wooden door at his back. Along the base of the wall to the right is a line of shoes and boots: everything from a ridiculously posh pair of black patent leather stiletto heels to an old, beat-up pair of grey Wellies. Sherlock takes quick stock of them and adjusts a pair of oxblood wingtips that have mysteriously fallen out of line. He takes a long look at the khaki military boots next to them and decides that right now he cannot spend too much time worrying about costumes. John is more important.

Now, instead of moving into the parlor and curling up in John's chair, he heads down a long hallway that is without wall fixtures of any type and opens a plain brown door. Inside this room he is instantly faced with another door, this one taller and not nearly as wide. It is made of steel and would look to the outsider like the door barring entry or exit to a medieval prison—complete with a big round iron knocker in the shape of a gargoyle's head set at Sherlock's eye level.

"The Marleys were dead to begin with..." Sherlock mutters.

He rests his left palm against the door above the knocker and takes a deep breath. Incongruously, the door slides to the right to allow him into the next chamber. Sherlock strides through it, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves as he does so. He pulls out a large chair that is part of a set: there are six of them at different points along the sides of an enormous ebony table, the top of which is polished to a high shine. Sherlock gazes down at it for a moment then recoils, the force if it making him take two steps backward.

The triple reflection is back.

"Not now," he tells them curtly. Cruel, Machine and Guilty remain where they are, staring up at him, all five eyes piercing him. He places both hands on the table and leans over the faces.

"Fine. I'll listen this time," he says as he rolls his eyes to the vaulted and windowed ceiling. There are no windows along the walls, as they are completely blank and made of alternating white boards, cork boards and even old-fashioned chalk boards.

Guilty inches forward so that he is standing in front of the others, his white hair a contrast to the dark wood of the table. He frowns up at the detective. A ghostly hand appears in the surface, pointer finger extended, thumb straight up and the other fingers curled as if wrapped around the handle of a gun.

Sherlock huffs loudly and sinks his hands into his hair. "I know," he tells the reflection, "I know I was wrong. It's done now, I can't go back and fix it. I was wrong."

Guilty vanishes in a puff of smoke. Cruel moves forward, his slate grey eyes accusing. Like the first doppelganger, he cannot speak but he opens his mouth as if to try. No sound comes out except a high-pitch whine that sounds like the death scream of a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. Sherlock flinches.

"No, this time, you are wrong," he states, the venom in his tone palpable. "I never meant to be cruel. Never. I had to protect them all, John most of all. The act was cruel, that I will admit; that was not to be the final outcome and you know it."

Sherlock points at his reflection. He is standing at his full height now, his expression thunderous yet full of terror besides, teeth clenched and jaw straining. Cruel gazes up at him in defiance, his mouth in a tight line. He narrows his eyes and turns his head to the side as if attempting to force Sherlock to say more. There's a scuffle and Machine pushes Cruel out of his way. All of Sherlock's attention is pulled to the silver eye patch. Machine smirks then allows his lips to fall open, showing off a platinum grill.

"You look deranged," Sherlock hisses at this odd representation of himself. Machine nods and crosses his well-defined arms over his chest. Perhaps he is the most patient of the trio. Surely he is the most unique.

"Maybe you were right, once." Sherlock pauses as an audio memory of John calling him a machine flits through his mind. The room around him grows hazy; when the strange transparent fog clears, a massive row of bookshelves appears against one wall. They stretch from carpet to ceiling; the book spines that can be seen are ordered by color: red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, and violet. Sherlock understands instantly.

"That's what I've done, haven't I? I let him believe the lie...that I am a machine. A sociopath...how could John believe that?" Sherlock begins to pace around the table. "He believed it because I wanted him to believe it..." he mutters then stops at the side and looks back down at the two remaining reflections.

Cruel shoves Machine until they are standing shoulder to shoulder. Both of them are nodding now. Machine holds up an incandescent light bulb and smirks. Cruel merely bows his head and fades away. Sherlock detests admitting that sometimes he needs this, but this time he is strangely appreciative for their weird collective presence in the Mind Palace.

"I should thank you," he says as he indicates the table and the bookshelf. Machine raises his eye patch to reveal a shining gemstone. Sherlock deftly lifts it from the empty socket. He holds it up towards the ceiling that is now punctuated with bright sunlight and takes note of the striations in the tumbled stone called a tiger's eye.

Sherlock is pulled out of his investigation of the stone by a small bing. He shakes his head and pats down his pockets for his phone, momentarily off-balance. Its screen almost seems too bright for the dim room and the fact that he's had his eyes closed for quite some time. The text message, once he is able to clear his head enough to read it, is simple enough.

We have him now. -MH

Sherlock knows this is for the best. He drops the phone on the little side table and stretches his legs out. John is still sleeping soundly. Sherlock slides his shoes off and pulls his shirt out of his trousers then removes his belt. Without thinking it through, he slides into the empty space next to John and pulls him close, thinking that even if he gets angry when he wakes, at least Sherlock will have good news for him. Just for a little while, he wants to feel like everything is going to be okay between them. Now that Moran will be disposed of by Mycroft's minions, he can concentrate on what is really important.