A/N: Always odd. Part three. More to come. Still not British, a writer, or a quantum physicist. -csf
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I decide to focus on the case for now. It's something tangible, it's the reason Sherlock called me over.
'Okay, I get it, Sherlock. Cold case, you suspect something more to it than "natural causes", which, by the way, is a very lazy cause of death.'
'Agreed', my friend's deep voice rumbles between us.
'And you jumped on the case at once. What did the Danish police think of your interference?'
He gestures on the air, aggravated. 'Does it matter? They recognised my name, they were polite – even you would think that, John! – but they assured me it was an open and shut case.'
'You didn't back down.' I just know.
'Of course not! My brother grudgingly mediated the diplomatic efforts and finally they sent over the transcripts of the interviews and the officers' reports.'
'I see. And, did you figure out how the man died? Who could have done it?'
Sherlock shakes his head, almost sorrowful. 'Hence my wander in my Mind Palace, and my summoning of my friend and blogger, to discuss the details of the case. Particularly pressing given that The Real You had gone to work.'
I nod, thoughtfully. Sounds legit, but it doesn't explain the sudden sentience of the said friend, or Sherlock's lack of worry in his crumbling Palace episode. As to my small panic attack, well, I guess I've got enough history to cover that.
Sherlock sighs, and takes a seat in his own armchair, facing me, making himself ws homely in his Mind Palace as in the real flat. He plucks a tensed string in his beloved violin with some gentleness.
'And what is that for?' I get suspicious. I'm feeling fine. Quickly I eye the walls but nothing is crumbling this time around. In fact, the flat is still and peaceful.
Sherlock shrugs. 'Just hoping you don't psych yourself out, John. Music usually sooths your mind.'
'Some of us don't have Mind Palaces', I point out sharply.
He smiles softly. 'You are always welcome in mine.'
Thanks, Sherlock. I have realised that despite all the weirdness of this situation I feel safe here, I feel at home. Any incarnation of Baker Street seems to have that effect on me. And judging by Sherlock's choice of decorating in his modest Palace, so does my friend.
If I had to be lost in some parallel universe delusion, I'm glad I'm here, with Sherlock.
'Mi casa es tu casa?' I use the Spanish expression. Literally, "my house is your house".
He nods. Then he corrects, because he's Sherlock and he needs to have the last word: 'Mi palacio es tu palacio.'
"My palace is your palace."
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'So, have you made up your mind, John, about what is going on?'
I frown, unsure.
'We are Schrödinger's cat, Sherlock. Both dead and alive till proven one thing or the other', I state, gloomily.
'Never been a cat before', he comments, absentmindedly.
'Well, actually–' I start. He interrupts me, rudely:
'You are not someone's cat, John. Stop panicking.'
I blink, confused. Looks to me like Sherlock is the one panicking under the surface, just a little bit. Out of friendship he's keeping it together to help me, further along in the panicking.
If I must be a theoretical zombie feline, I'm glad Sherlock could join me.
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'The autopsy showed no signs of foul play, John. I can retrieve it for you to have a look', Sherlock volunteers.
With a minor lingering headache from the whole Crumbling Mind Palace incident, I shake my head briefly. 'Later. I'll take your word for it.'
'So if it wasn't an illness or sudden catastrophic organ failure, it must have been a murder.'
'Or a suicide', I add, massaging my forehead.
'Which leads us to a search for the lethal weapon used.'
I nod, tiredly. 'What was there in the room?'
Sherlock smirks for no apparent reason, other than enjoying our case solving spree. 'Shall we have a look?' he entices.
'Do you have a list?' I don't follow.
'Better, I've got the whole crime scene in my head', he beams at me.
This is Sherlock, I shouldn't be surprised.
I get up to follow my friend out of this Baker Street's copy and back to the long, spacious and austere corridor with lots of closed doors. Just as we start the corridor, Sherlock takes a hand to my arm, grasping at it lightly, as if to keep my whereabouts under check. Maybe he thinks I'll get lost in my friend's big head. Maybe he wants to ensure I don't go wandering off and open doors he'd rather have shut.
'If we're both our true selves and we're both here, how did our perceptions get so entangled, Sherlock?'
He shakes his head, he has no answer to give me.
'And how come we didn't end up in my mind, instead? I mean, if it was all the same, your place or mine...'
Sherlock scowls. 'Your mind is too small. Your mind is an overhead compartment, mine is the entire airport. I'd say we are more comfortable here.'
'You can't know that for sure', I call his bluff.
He nods, giving in slightly. 'Maybe you just don't want me in your head, John. Whereas I already had a habit of summoning you in times of need.'
'Yeah, about that, can you magic pockets your way into a room upgrade? That dingy room is depressing.'
He lifts an amused eyebrow.
'In my defence, you have never complained before.'
'Yeah, well, you know. Just in case I'm stuck in here.'
'Why would you be a prisoner here, John?' he asks, a tinge of hurt in his voice.
Well, he read right through that one, so much for tact. John Watson has experience with being a POW, from his time in a foreign war. And right now, John Watson doesn't know how he got here, and how to escape from here. John Watson might be dead as he thinks this, though. Which would make the said escape pointless. And make this place some sort of limbo, not quite the afterlife yet, just its waiting room. And that would make John Watson desolate. He's got too much life inside him yet, and one consulting detective, much too prone to danger, to protect.
'John.'
Just as I assume Sherlock is going to have another go at me for my depressing thoughts, he's actually pointedly ignoring them. Instead he's holding one door handle, waiting for me to say I'm ready to go in.
I have one last look down the corridor. That's when the ground below my feet shakes as a cold shiver running through the beast's core. The mind palace is still not at ease with my presence, I take it.
Well, right back at you!
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Looking at Sherlock, holding the door to his Mind's crime scene room, I nod my readiness. Without knowing how I got here I won't know how to leave. Even though I can't remember my day just before this reset, I'm not the only one here. Sherlock's here too. Maybe if I follow his day I'll figure out how we both got trapped here.
Crime scene. In his head, from a cluttered flat in London, Sherlock has visited a crime scene in Copenhagen, where a sad, dying man met his end.
Let me see what Sherlock saw. Let me take advantage of Sherlock's incredible mind to help him solve the case. I may learn something about his amazing thought processes, or in the least I'll get a chance to glimpse them from a privileged point of view.
Inside, the room is bathed with a cold crisp morning light, from two tall windows with full length curtains. Between them is a classic heavy mahogany desk with a dead man crumpled over the top, leaning over from his classic leather chair. The chair is angled towards the table as if the man had been working undisturbed when he slumped forward. There are some papers under him, in what is mostly a very tidy desktop. A lamp, a computer, an empty whiskey glass (just one, again: no guests), some ornaments of scientific inspiration.
I lean towards the body and, by habit, I look for a pulse over the jugular. His skin is cold, the lips are blue, and the eyes have that glazed over appearance of dead fish. It really was a no-brainer, but I was compelled to check for a pulse anyway.
'I wish you'd pay attention, John', Sherlock drawls as he notices what I did. I turn to my friend, who has just materialised himself by my side, he again has that fond half smile of when I'm being clever. 'However, I applaud your eagerness to review every fact of this case', he adds, fiddling with a Newton's cradle on the desk, setting the aligned metal balls into action.
Well, I messed with the crime scene first, I suppose. I guess this is not a hands-off museum's exhibit.
Sherlock comes off from the desktop he was leaning on and grabs the dead man's hand to study his fingers. That's an old favourite of Sherlock, especially when their left thumbs define them as aircraft pilots, which is extremely rare.
I look around us. Classic looking library, from a well-off man, not overbearing though. A painting of the man himself behind the desk, he looks serious and gaunt, despite the painter's best efforts. Depicted alone, so I guess Sherlock was right. He was a lonely man with no close family ties.
I stop short by the bookshelves lined wall that broke my concentration at once. On one of the lower shelves is a set of children's books. My Danish language skills are non-existent, but I recognise some of the titles. Children's books, where a child can reach them, before sitting on the centrepiece rug and read away while the older man works at his desk.
Sherlock mentioned two adolescents? Wonder what their ages are. I can almost hear Sherlock telling me: it's never twins, John!
I'm smirking as I reach over to one of the books, Harry's favourite when we were kids. I try to drag the book off the shelf but it's stuck. What–?
'John, what are you doing?' Sherlock asks like he's about to tell me off, he was checking some scuff marks on the desk's surface.
'Checking out a book. How come this guy had fake book binds in the shelves?' I look around, it's a very amateurish stage production now I come to think of it. What else is pure fabrication in this play?
'They are only fake in my Mind Palace, John. It's there because it was evident in the crime scene photos, but I don't think I've ever read that book, so of course you cannot see inside the cover!'
I scowl. 'And the drawers will be empty', I gather.
'Yes, of course. Can't see inside in a picture, can I?'
I sigh. 'And why not fill in the details?' I ask, knowing it's hopeless.
He gets affronted. 'I need to keep my scientific decorum, John. I will not make things up in a crime scene, it would contaminate it!'
'Anderson is not around', I shrug, 'and you are the one with the magic pockets.' I stand tall, with my arms crossed on front of me.
Sherlock squints. 'You do understand they don't have to be pockets?'
'Yes, of course. Could be a book from a shelf, for instance.'
Sherlock glances at the books. 'I brought you here to study the crime scene, John.'
'That's what I'm doing', I edge him on. Come on, Sherlock...
'The body is way over here!' he points at it, like I could have missed it. I shrug. Sherlock classifies: 'You've got a very disorganised mind, John.'
'A certain genius git keeps telling me that, but he also keeps missing the point.'
Sherlock's expression releases into a young, curious one. 'What am I missing?'
'I'm not about to make this easy on you. Sherlock, I want to have a look at that book.'
Sherlock pretends to be put off, as he waves his hand in the air. 'Fine, it's a real book now, John.'
I thank him and lean over to pick it up at once. Sherlock comes closer, quietly, as I open the book randomly.
'What is it, John?' he asks me, genuinely curious.
'How come I'm stuck in your mind and I can read the book's story? You don't know this book, Sherlock. You probably grew up reading quantum physics!'
'Don't idolise me, John. I was a pre-teenager by that time.'
I smile. Always the incredible genius.
Pointing at the book in my hands I explain: 'Sherlock, this is your mind, your rules, your magical conjuring of objects. Everything around us is in your mind, right?'
'Been telling you that all along.'
'But your Mind Palace crumbled when I was unwell, and now is showing us something only I know, something that is in my mind's repository, get it?'
He leans over my shoulder and reads a few lines. 'The cat has magical boots and a sword? What sort of a children's story is this, promoting animal warfare?'
'A whimsical one, Sherlock, never mind that. I just want to know–'
My friend the detective rolls his eyes and walks away. 'There's only one dead person in the room, John, and he's slumped over his desk. I keep telling you that you are not dead.'
No matter how many times Sherlock repeats himself, I still feel like Schrödinger's expectant cat, waiting for the end of the experiment, where he'll find out if he's theoretically alive or not, outside the box.
.TBC
