"Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends...But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change." - Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
Sherlock is standing in the center of a large, open room in the mind palace, stark naked. He leans forward and squints a little against the brightness of the room around him that is being reflected from the polished glass that he faces.
The room is one of the myriad of versions in the mind palace of the lounge at Baker Street except that there are no windows: they've all been replaced by shiny floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The carpet beneath his bare feet is much softer and more plush than in life.
Everything around him is bright, the rays of dawn's pale golden light like tongues of flame delicately touching every piece of furniture and their things—his and John's—allowing him to take in even the finest details: a minute scratch on the desk next to John's empty, but spotlessly clean, coffee mug; a bump in the spine of an old red book; even the tiniest change in the shades of the dust that lines the topmost shelf. He does not question the logic of such light filtering into the room even with the lack of windows.
Sherlock calmly regards these images in the mirror, allowing himself to take in everything. He does not shy away from looking at himself the way he so often studies other people, whether they're alive or dead. He recognizes that he is alone in the mirror for the first time since he was a child: this is a fascinating discovery.
Besides being alone, his singular reflection has indeed changed—as does everyone's as they pass through the rigors of life. Now he steps closer to the glass because something new has been added; nothing as simple as a silver hair, a mole or growing crow's feet beside his eyes; no, this is something that did not originate in his own genetic code.
Sherlock gently fingers the tiny silver beads that make up the chain around his neck. Silver disks rest against his breastbone. He touches them, carefully, using his fingertips to read the name printed there that is not his own, but is just as familiar.
Sherlock curls his hand around the disks and presses them tight against his palm. The thin metal is warm. He shifts in an effort to see how the dog tags look hanging on his pale, scarred chest.
A metallic clinking sound draws his attention downward and gracefully he steps out of a pair of rusted shackles that apparently had been around his ankles seconds ago. The meaning of this is immediately clear: he is no longer fettered against his emotion for one John Watson.
With this realization comes an epiphany that rocks him to his toes and he lays a hand flat against the cool surface of the glass to steady himself. Once more, Sherlock catches the intense expression on his own face in the mirror as he allows his eyes to slip closed on an exhale. It is time to go back.
On the inhale, Sherlock opens his eyes and is surprised to discover that he is flat on his back and someone—John—is leaning over him.
For once, Sherlock doesn't think before he wraps his arms around John's shoulders and pulls him down so that their faces are only millimeters apart. He knows he is crying again, sobbing shamelessly, his chest hitching horribly. For an instant, he fears the loss of the tags around his neck, but then remembers that they only exist in the mind palace; their cool warmth only a product of his subconsciousness.
"Sherlock, it's fine, it's all fine. Hush now, hush," John croons softly but the tight grip he's got on Sherlock's shoulders give him away.
For a few seconds, Sherlock is forced once again into the overwhelming heaviness of his sorrow in bringing to this wonderful man the pain that he has caused.
"I am..." he trails off, caught up in attempting to speak and sob at the same time, "I am so sorry, John. So sorry."
John murmurs kind words of reassurance as he pulls Sherlock upward against him. He is sitting up on the bed now, his legs stretched out in front of him, cradling Sherlock's shoulders in his arms. John rocks back and forth slightly, giving as much comfort as he is receiving from the simple act of holding another human being close to his chest.
The tension between them slowly begins to fade and change, until Sherlock's ear is pressed against John's heart and he is almost completely curled up in John's lap, knees drawn up and feet flat on the hard mattress between John's thighs.
Sherlock feels the kiss that John drops on the top of his head before he readjusts them so that they are both lying down again, this time with John on his back. Sherlock curves his spine so that he is able to touch John at as many points as possible.
They sleep this way until late afternoon when they are awoken by a nurse letting John know that he will be discharged the next morning. Neither of them mention that what they are doing is way beyond what is considered to be the boundaries of 'normal' friendship.
Both of them eat a bit of supper from John's tray, Sherlock enjoying poking as much sarcastic fun at the slightly-overcooked fish fingers on the plate as he is able, John enjoying the half-orgasmic expression on Sherlock's face when he plows through John's chocolate pudding.
After eating and taking turns in the shower, they settle back into the bed and John flips through several channels on the television before turning it off with a sigh. The better he begins to feel, the more restless he is becoming; the thought of going back to his lonely little place is only a little better than staying here. John blows a raspberry.
"I'm ready to go home," he tells Sherlock needlessly.
"I know," comes a rumbled mumble from somewhere near John's navel. If he were feeling better, the vibration of it would make him giggle.
Sherlock can feel the look he receives from John, then John's hand is in his hair and he can't stop the sigh that starts at his toes until it finally works its way past his lips. The air around them crackles and Sherlock sits up so that he can see John's face.
John says nothing, merely hooks his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and reels him in; when their lips finally touch, it is understood that he is the lightning and John is the grounding rod.
When John pulls back, Sherlock follows him on instinct. John's tongue gently swipes at Sherlock's mouth and he begins to drown in the sensation of not only being wanted but also of being loved.
