.

'Sherlock, you need to find Mycroft.'

.

'He didn't answer the door, John.'

'I said find him. Why won't you listen to what we are telling you?' Palace John was scrunching his face in discomfort and being downright testy. 'You've missed out on so many clues already, Sherlock, and I'm trying. I'm really trying, but I can't hold on forever.'

Sherlock was looking at him blankly. All he could wrap his mind around was the fact that John was unwell, and all the while he was insisting for Sherlock to ignore him and be more rational. It felt surreal. Scratch that. Everything since he had woken up in his Mind Palace instead of his... somewhere else... was off, to say the least. What did people without Mind Palaces do in these circumstances? Was this Sherlock's own curse?

Trying to regain focus – he was losing focus the longer he stood there, he realized all of a sudden – he needlessly told John. 'I tried summoning him, John. He didn't come either.'

'Told you already, half a dozen times, you need to leave me here and go find Mycroft.'

'What will he do for me?'

'I don't know.'

'Don't lie to me, John!' Sherlock lost his temper, yelling back at his friend. Redbeard was startled awake in John's lap, and looking over at Sherlock he actually made a low growling sound. Redbeard was defending the man sitting on the chair, in a protective mode. Sherlock's stomach gave a turn. Redbeard had never done that before. If anything his dog was supposed to be defending Sherlock, not John. What was going on? Was it a clue? Was there a reason why he had taken to liking John so fast? Why protecting John over Sherlock?

Oblivious to Sherlock's confusion, John was all rallied up now, defending his need for deflecting and lying: 'Then don't ask me what I cannot answer! These – are – your – rules!' John hissed back.

'Well, then, the rules are wrong!' he proclaimed, exasperated.

'You made them up, you undo them!' John defied him.

'Well, I can't now, can I?'

Finally John seemed to take a deep breath. He asked in a pleading exhausted voice: 'Isn't there an escape trap door or something?'

'I never needed one for the Palace, but there may be one for the rules. There is always a way to break a rule. Just keep yourself sitting down, John, and let me have a good look at you.'

John allowed it promptly. Sherlock gave him a long measured look.

Even if he couldn't talk, he was still a product of Sherlock's mind, a figment of his imagination, maybe he carried answers in himself, symbols or encrypted clues as to what Sherlock was missing. He was wearing the old oatmeal coloured jumper (hideously comfy), jeans, his best shoes. Nothing unusual in his outfit. So, no clues there. Sherlock kept scanning his friend attentively, but his haircut was the same, his pockets were empty, there were no mysterious stains in his outfit that could help pinpoint a geographical location. It was just like analyzing a corpse on a crime scene, only John seemed to be as plain and honest in his blue armchair as he was in real life, incapable of hiding things from Sherlock.

'Happy with what you see?'

Palace John was being cheeky, now, and Sherlock just glared at him. He should never had have that conversation about tailors and proper outfits, John was never letting that one go.

All the while, John was looking downright beat. Sherlock would let him rest. With a melodic whistle, he called Redbeard to his side. The strangely unfaithful dog hesitated a second before obeying. 'Rest here, John, I'm going to find Mycroft.' John nodded, with a relieved smile.