Hello! Nearly all of the previous chapters have been updated with the beta'd versions. I've fixed up a couple of things as well, so you're welcome to go and take a peek at that if you'd like. Chapter beta'd by gbheart :)

Chapter 6 - Mind Palace

John was hyperaware of the way Sherlock continuously watched him, as he directed Mike around the place. It was uncomfortable, and he could feel Mike's future queries scratching away at his composure. There was no way that he could deny Sherlock's unwavering gaze, and it was certainly not helping his continuous protests that they weren't dating. He kept sending imploring looks to Sherlock, who only raised an eyebrow in a sarcastic innocent look, hardly even bothering to hide his staring or tone it down. He just ended up directing Mike into the kitchen and away from Sherlock's line of sight.

"Seems you've got yourself a little crush." Mike said with a little grin.

John sighed and shoved his empty cup of tea into the sink. "There's a difference between a crush and someone who just wants to be annoying."

Mike gave him an unconvinced look; there would be no talking him out of it now. Mike adored it when people got together – it was something their social circle often laughed about fondly. He knew Sherlock could probably hear everything that they were saying, if he focused hard enough, and wondered if the man was amused at the idea. It was a fairly big thing to call straight away, and he couldn't see or interpret things like Sherlock did. Lingering stares could be general platonic interest, not romantic in any way. If Sherlock wanted something, then he had to let John know.

Sherlock was at his wits end, by the time Mike left. He was itching to do something that John would consider ungracious in front of a guest, the idea that John might leave him for the rest of the day in complete boredom being the only thing restraining him. The small talk Mike had tried to engage him in had been terrible, and it had taken quite a bit of self control to not make a snide remark about the man's increasing waistline. John hovered over him, looking down on his sprawled out form on the sofa with an uncertain expression.

"You could've tried to find some common ground with him."

"We breathed the same air: fairly common, don't you think?"

John smiled weakly and sat down next to his feet. "You should be happy that he's fairly used to eccentric people by now."

Sherlock shook his head. "Why would I be happy? He treated me in a plebeian manner. I, personally, would have preferred some sort of verbal sparring or conflict to occur. He's no use to me if he's boring."

John considered his words, mulling them over in his head and poking him in the foot to show that he should make some room. He grudgingly placed his feet on John's lap, and the man stroked lazily over them, fingers following the curve of his foot. This sort of touching was welcome; he could view John's face clearly, this time. There was no imminent threat of him collapsing from sleeplessness – no ulterior motive for John to be forced to gently stroke over his skin. The action was mindless, and, when John realised what he was doing, his hand stilled, and he shot Sherlock a brief, questioning glance.

He wriggled his toes in acceptance of more petting.

"What am I going to do with you?" John murmured, his fingers dipping under his toes and running over his bare feet. The action would have been ticklish, if it weren't for the fact that he'd learnt how his mind could cut off the sensation and stop it from becoming a loss of his control. "We're both going to go stir crazy, at this rate."

Very, very true. His game/experiment concerning the nature of his and John's relationship could not possibly take up all his time, at this pace; everything was progressing frustratingly slow. If he simply sat up and pressed his lips against John's, then the distraction would begin, the friction of skin on skin and the inevitable groans of pleasure filling their senses. There was no doubt in his mind that sex with John would be incredibly satisfying, yet the idea of just taking him was lacking in so many ways. If he wanted a quick shag, then Mycroft could organise that for him: someone to take to his room and fuck. The simplicity of it was intolerable. He was desirable, and he got what he wanted because of it, but, in turn, it took away the challenge of bedding someone.

No, this was something that he would manipulate out of John. Whatever annoying morals that stopped John from taking the first move, he would have to conquer from the sidelines – no direct contact from him to change the results. Once the ball started rolling, it would become infinitely easier to direct John onto the right path, the tedium being replaced by actual thought, on his part. He would have to be careful, though. It would not do for John to find out that he was a mere pawn.

The pattern of John's hands was broken, an increase of pressure on the arch of his foot successfully pulling him out of his thoughts. Would John eventually earn a room in his mind palace? The man had earned himself a bedside table in his 'miscellaneous' room, so far. Most people were sheets of paper on the floor, some crumpled and others pristine. John had risen above the easy-to-dispose-of paper already; he owned a piece of furniture singularly on his own. That he actually considered giving John a room was an astonishing leap made very quickly, even kind Mrs Hudson hadn't been given that privilege.

"I don't understand how you think: why you need to delete." John said truthfully.

"I wouldn't expect you to."

John snorted, as though he had said something funny, before sobering up. "Could you explain it to me?"

He was slightly taken aback. The few that asked to see the logic behind his deductions often stopped there – no one had inquired as to how his mind actually worked. He felt like a cat, preening and gracefully showing off. Mycroft knew about how he thought, only from his own gathered information, and no one else felt the need to discover anything below the surface.

The pleasantness was washed away, a moment later. Could this be something Mycroft asked for John to investigate? That didn't make sense; his brother knew more about him than anyone else. This was something he would certainly understand on some level, so why would he require more information?

He regarded John suspiciously. There was nothing in his body language that suggested deceit, although reading such subtleties were more Mycroft's area. This was an issue that would constantly badger him: was John simply acting on his own inspiration, or with Mycroft's agenda and money in mind?

The soft touches on him made his mind up. This was something he would have to investigate, yes, but if John passed this information onto Mycroft, then it wouldn't matter. Repetition did nothing for his older brother.

Sherlock adjusted the pillow below his head, simultaneously stretching his body a little more and allowing his t-shirt to ride up over his skin innocently. "As you know, the general image that I see often provides me with far more information to gleam than it might for you. There are all manners of things that are concerned in crime: motives, how to gather viable evidence, an understanding of the general vicinity, etc. Normally, it can be incredibly hard to keep such information separated, yet still coherent and viable. There can be too much clutter, when there should be nothing."

"And that's where deletion comes in." John said softly, his fingers focusing on the bone of his ankle, as he followed Sherlock's explanation.

He nodded, "Yes. I use a memory-recalling technique where, rather than relying on one massive pool of memory, everything is already compartmentalised due to how I store the information." John leaned in a little closer, his interest in the topic clear and without Mycroft's interference. "You begin with an area you are familiar with, be it your room or your entire house. You take the image and put it in your mind. Upon learning something new, you can organise the room to suit your whims. You can put previous knowledge in a drawer, new knowledge on a desk, cupboards stacked with things of importance, suppressed memories hidden in dark closets."

It was interesting to watch John's face, as he slowly realised the implications of his words. John was very fond of bringing his brows together and pursing his lips a little, when thinking. Hiding basic emotion was not something John did, apparently. He was one of those disgustingly human creatures who were almost entirely see through: their wants and needs open for him to interpret. He should hate John – hate him for the mindless simplicity of his plain clothes, plain face and above average intellect. John was a surprise. If he had not opened his mouth and complimented Sherlock, then he doubted the doctor would still be here. Beneath the warm clothing, and under the layer of epidermis that covered his body, there must have been something novel written into John's DNA. An anomaly that allowed him to take Sherlock when hardly anyone else did – some sort of a mutation when the DNA copied, in which the information changed, or got lost or rearranged to create this significantly strange being.

"Essentially, if you look in the right place, then you'll find the information you've stored." John said with wonder. Such a pure expression – no lying there. Mycroft had picked both the best and worst man to spy on him. Moral, truthful and trustworthy could work in either Mycroft's, or his own, favour. John's allegiance could change from Mycroft to Sherlock. Sherlock would be a better master; he was better than Mycroft and more interesting.

"How big is your place?" John asked.

As ever, John asked the reasonable questions.

He'd started small to begin with: a house he'd created to suit the purpose. The rooms had filled to the brim with floods and floods of senseless things. Deleting had not always been an option for him, and, without it, the build-up of information was unsettling.

Eventually the house expanded, rooms were added, and a little fence was installed around the place. Inside the house was everything he required, and outside of the fence was the yelling, withdrawal, and the uncontrollable anger that he felt towards the simpletons who saw everything but observed nothing. The fence hadn't helped – everything bled into one anyway. It called for redecoration, expansion, and a new headspace.

And so, the palace was created. Huge rooms with everything he knew packed neatly and tightly, back rooms with 'pending to delete' knowledge, hidden doorways that led to things that he regretted or secrets he'd kept. He didn't mind that some of the rooms had blood splatters and organs out in the open; it was better than the room with an ever-tempting syringe, which he prayed to be real and fake. Quaint demons lurked within his mind, calls of murder and promises of fun that tempted his subconscious.

"Hey," John grasped his wrist, "don't leave me to go into that head of yours. I really can't follow."

His eyes snapped to John's face, to the sincerity etched into his skin like a tattoo and the murderously kind eyes.

"A palace." John didn't appear to understand. Above average intelligence, but he will never be you – he will never match you. "You asked for the size of my 'place'. It's a palace."

John's laugh was an unexpected burst of mirth. "Of course you would have a palace."

The tone was sarcastic but laced with affection. John liked him. Friendship was meant to constitute of a mutual like, did it not? It was a shame, because, beneath it all, Sherlock hated John in some ways. Hated him for seeing but not observing, for having seen him out of control in his own body, for the fact that John caused him to be out of his depth and to not truly know what to do in many situations. The conflicting feelings he felt for John – lust, anger, kinship, hate – created an anomaly. No true way for him to determine anything.

"During withdrawal, does anything become worse in your mind?"

John's concern was not appreciated. He was not weak; he had done this before and could do it again.

John's understanding was frustrating, too. He was asking the right questions: the ones that needed answers, because they were things he could not always deal with on his own. During withdrawal, his mind palace was not the haven of knowledge it usually was. Things became harder to grasp, bits of useless information wound up in a system where they did not belong and deep want blurted out coherency, as he desperately craved cocaine – desperately craved for the normalcy of his mind palace to return.

John was his doctor; he should not have to anticipate his brother's meddling. Later, he would text Mycroft again, tell him to stop prying and inform him that the hidden cameras in his home would be taken down shortly.

But, for now, he would stay here with John.

"I am less lucid, during withdrawal – things can get out of hand sometimes."

The doctor nodded. "Do you prefer to suffer in silence, or would you want me to help?"

He paused. Truthfully, he didn't know. He did not want to appear helpless – someone in need of supervision and a crutch. It wasn't his nature to share his private life with others. It wasn't his nature to share normally, either. There was him, and then there was them: an invisible line of constant separation. Sometimes, people overstepped the line or blurred the edges, but that didn't happen very often. The association between him and the rest of society was lacking in many ways. In society's eyes, he was the freak, and, in his eyes, society was unfathomably stupid. There had never been any reason to share his problems, and yet John was so kindly offering an olive branch.

To take it would mean accepting the need for help and accepting that, as well as he looked externally, he was not always 'okay'. Was it reasonable to overthink this? To him, any such offer would always warrant analysis and dissection. Could it just come back to the fact that John was his friend? If he cast away uncertainties in this, then there would be so much less tension, but how could he? He was Sherlock Holmes, there was nothing meaningless about an unexpected offer of help.

John squeezed his wrist again. John could not follow Sherlock's thoughts – could not trace them back to the various insecurities plaguing him. Sherlock didn't consider them insecurities, just blips in the system, like John was. This was John being reassuring again, confirming his presence with a firm physical touch to reach through Sherlock's thoughts and wrench him into the present.

"We'll just see how we go."

There was no denying that Sherlock was smarter than him - that the man saw more – however, even the blind could sense how agitated and unsure of himself Sherlock was. He didn't fidget or babble on about nonsense, rather he seeped back into his mind and lay peacefully, trying to figure it all out. For minutes at a time, Sherlock would just fall silent. He'd almost thought the man had fallen asleep, when he realised Sherlock was just thinking – just trying to puzzle his way through.

Sherlock's mind was the one place that no one could touch. The scars on his back proved he could be physically attacked, the words Sherlock told him meant he'd been verbally attacked, and the hesitation in emotion was probably there from the lack of experience in the area. But, no matter what they said or did, Sherlock's mind was his recluse. His mind palace held everything he had to know; it would be comforting and familiar. Sherlock was intelligent, and he could take pride in that. He could strut around bearing the mark of being different from the rest but was at least able to defend himself with his intelligence.

That was probably why Sherlock was so off right now: his mind palace couldn't tell him how to act in a situation he'd never experienced before.

He squeezed Sherlock's wrist again. Considering how little the man ate, John was bemused at how healthy Sherlock was. There wasn't even any bone peeking out under his skin. Sherlock might be a little underweight, but he didn't look ready to topple over. It was interesting to see the differences in their hands. John's were darker, a little rougher and shorter. Sherlock's hands were pale, elegant and long fingered. It was the same anatomy but just different. Things like the curve of muscle, the strength of bone, the intricate pattern of veins, are why he was becoming a doctor. The human body is an amazing machine, just like Sherlock's mind.

It's nice, the way Sherlock's eyes go from half-shut to completely focused on him, at the pressure on his wrist. Sherlock couldn't answer his question; he looked for the answer but was frozen in his lack of knowledge. Sherlock could make some sort of smart-arsed retort, look him in the eye and tell him he doesn't need help, but they both know it would be a lie.

John didn't think that Sherlock was the type of person to really appreciate touching, so he tried to do so sparingly and with Sherlock's permission. He couldn't force Sherlock down and blindfold him, speaking nonsense about how he was there to help. He could, however, sit down with the man and carefully offer help. He needed to make the barriers that he couldn't cross, because Sherlock was most certainly not going to tell him.

"We'll just see how we go."

A neutral response, and the right one too, judging by how Sherlock nodded imperceptibly.

He pulled his hand away from Sherlock's, for a moment, just letting his fingers trail down over Sherlock's hand longer than necessary. To anyone else, it would be meaningless, but he hoped that Sherlock understood his hidden meaning.

There's a strip of skin showing that's edging him on, telling him to make some sort of move. He's not blind – he can see taut skin, hipbones and a thin trail of dark hair. Sherlock is attractive; his entire body seems to be. John's fingers skimming Sherlock's own was a signal that he was interested. He would not make a move, if Sherlock did not show proper interest. He could have, of course – it would have been easy enough to clamber over Sherlock's long legs and kiss him – but he did not do that. He liked Sherlock. Sherlock was interesting and witty, in an acerbic way. If he had misunderstood it all, then everything else would become awkward. He didn't want to risk their current equilibrium over this.

Sherlock must have seen his eyes zoning in on the exposed skin; he was assuming he did, seeing the way Sherlock had just wriggled again, which pulled his shirt up just a tad higher. They were both adults, and they were mature enough to move past this, if John was just misreading signs. Sherlock could have just been testing his reactions, like Mycroft said he would. Sherlock could also have been telling him to take the first step. Maybe Sherlock could delete it? No, that would be wrong. He'd internally chastened Sherlock for deleting, accepting it as the reason Sherlock was not very understanding of general things.

He really didn't know what to do, so he returned to Sherlock's ankles and massaged them. Sherlock didn't appear as skittish, as he did when John used his sleep technique. Maybe it was the addition of sight that allowed touching to become more acceptable?

There wasn't much left to say, either. He thought back to Sherlock's 'mind palace'. The concept was astonishing. To think that Sherlock viewed his mind as a palace, filled with facts and knowledge, was amazing. The human brain is a complex thing, and he knew that, but this was a whole new way to consider it. He wanted to ask so many questions, things that Sherlock would probably find highly annoying. Does the palace have different wings? Would a bedroom mean information about sleep, sex, and all the other things that can be done inside one? There were general questions he wanted to ask, like ones about layout and complexity, and then questions about himself. Would John ever be deleted? Had anything of John been stored away already? He was not completely selfless; he wanted to know these sorts of things.

He wanted to ask, but he didn't. Instead, he just sat there in a silence that was fast leaving its companionable feel. He realised that he probably should've had a shower, before Mike had arrived, but the man was in the area and only had so much time to visit them.

"I'm going to take a shower, then." He pushed Sherlock's feet off his lap, before getting up and stretching. Sherlock was regarding him with an annoyed expression. He raised his hands in defeat. "I can't help it if I need a shower, Sherlock." Truth be told, it was a little endearing seeing Sherlock looking so miffed.

"Text Lestrade, see if he has anything to bring me." Sherlock demanded, a moment later.

Is Sherlock able to solve cases while at home? Surely they require a bit more legwork. John didn't bother to vocalise his thoughts; Lestrade would decide which cases to bring to Sherlock. He sent a text through to the man, and Sherlock gave him a very short look of thanks, before slipping back into one of his sleep-like states.

The bathroom was next to Sherlock's room. It was a nice bathroom, if you ignored the empty test tubes and the rack they were stored in. He was pleased to find two towels there already, the carefully folded one on the bath's edge clearly his. It was one of those baths that doubled as a shower, though the curtain looked as though it had seen better days. He rifled around the drawers, when he couldn't find anything to wash with, and was greeted with a bunch of fabric covering tufts of brown hair. A little shocked sound left him, and he closed that drawer.

He opened the next one a little more cautiously, ready to close it at the sight or smell of anything particularly unsettling. Three boxes of soap were inside, the same kind he, as a doctor, would advise a parent to use on a child with sensitive skin. As far as he was aware of, Sherlock had no problems with his skin. There were certainly no unsightly blemishes on his body that could suggest dry skin or itching. There was nothing in Mycroft's write up of Sherlock's health either, which meant that Sherlock preferred using children's sensitive skin soap. He grinned and decided to go ask Sherlock about it.

"Hey," he called out to Sherlock's still form. "Why do you only have this type of soap?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and gave the soap a once over. "I prefer it to other soaps – it has less of an odour."

Odour? Odour was a word often used to describe a bad smell, not soap. He told Sherlock, and the man expelled an irritated huff.

"It does not contain any added perfume. I try to keep my olfactory senses as clear from unnecessary additions as possible. It's arduous, when I've been desensitised to the smell of certain perfumes or colognes, because I wear them myself. Smell can be highly useful, during cases." He said and broke off with a casual wave of his hand that appeared to be dismissal.

John ignored the hand wave. "Your file says you smoked; that's a pretty hard smell to hide."

Sherlock scowled. "That was not a concern, at the time."

John shrugged. True enough, he didn't actually know Sherlock's circumstance at that time.

"And the hair in the drawer?"

"Hair dye experiment: inconclusive results. You can throw it out if you like – I have no need for it now."

He nodded with a sarcastic expression. Well, of course it's a hair dye experiment – what else could it be?

"Uh, is there anything else I should be worried about in there?"

"Unlikely."

The terse tone was an even clearer dismissal. He turned around and walked back awkwardly to the bathroom. He wondered what talking on the phone to Sherlock must be like. Actually, he could hardly picture talking to Sherlock on the phone, for any length of time. Sherlock didn't seem to appreciate face to face conversation – conversation where he could deduce and observe freely. Phones must just be irritating: little social conventions to uphold and no way to see the person on the opposite end.

He eyed the soap with a smile, as he waited for the shower's water to reach the temperature he preferred. It was a little bit sweet, actually. As serious as Sherlock seemed, he had his own set of innocent little quirks that John most certainly did not expect. If only the man loosened up a little more, like he had when they laughed over takeaway, then it'd be easier to associate with him.

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure when his head had started hurting, but that hardly mattered. What really mattered was that this was how it always began: a headache and then the slow unravelling of his mind. His brief stint with heroin had taught him the trauma of constant vomiting as a part of withdrawal, something cocaine, thankfully, did not have. Cocaine did, however, come with the most brutally destructive effects on his mind. The careful rooms of his mind palace warped and twisted, the walls bulging outwards in grotesque ways that disturbed the peace of his mind. He feared losing his senses, but that was something many people feared, but not many people actually thought of what it would be like to, in a way, lose their minds.

It was a chilling experience. His body was just transport, a disintegrating thing with petty and constant needs. His mind was what he needed. Who was Sherlock Holmes, if not a great mind? The craving for cocaine had hardly begun; it would develop into a deep set need soon. Just a bit of the drug, just enough to stave of this process, for a few more days. Please.

It was not in his nature to share or ask for anything. He took because he could – because he didn't have time to waste on asking. This was something he could not take back. No amount of knowledge would reverse the process of withdrawal to a time without the drug. He didn't regret taking the drug; no, he had needed it, to the point where he felt he couldn't breathe without it. His need for it had lessened occasionally, during the months he was clean, but it never really left. Some idiot might call it karma for taking the drug in the first place; scientifically, it was his mind relearning to function without the drug. Sherlock didn't know what he thought about this. Even before drugs, he had wished for a state of mind where everything made sense – that it was drugs that secured him that pleasure was inconsequential.

Maybe it would not have happened, if the world around him wasn't so mind numbing, or if he was a little closer to what Mycroft was: better at controlling himself. Mycroft was of the same intellectual level as him, both of them with knowledge in some areas beating the others, yet Mycroft did not fall prey to drugs. Sometimes Mycroft indulged in alcohol as a way to relieve pressure, though that was so incredibly rare that it hardly counted. Next to his brother, he was sporadic and all too happy to separate himself from the others. University had been where he'd learned to put up his walls. Groups of people tended to leap at the chance of shaming him, the brighter student who embarrassed them by revealing their badly kept secrets. He hadn't taken up the title of Sociopath until he'd been labelled as a freakish Psychopath. If he wore his title like armour, then their insults would fall uselessly to the ground. Eventually, they accepted that his blank expression meant he didn't care and not that it hurt. Emotion was feeble; it had never helped him. It had painted a target on his back in bright red blood and screamed at the top of its lungs.

It was ironic that cocaine brought out his most primal emotions. The withdrawal on his mind made him so angry, that he wanted to fight an invisible foe, it gave birth to the fear of being seen as ineffectual and feeling that way, and it made him lust for more of the drug or anything that could take his mind off of it, anything at all.

In a way, it was kind that Mycroft had hired John. John was a distraction. John was a living person, which was a refreshing change of pace for him. It was probable that John would consider himself used, if they had sex and then John realised Sherlock would do almost anything to distract himself. It was in his best interest to keep John as a companion – someone who interested him socially.

He was pleased to find himself distracted by the idea that John was currently in the shower. Beneath the warm jumpers, Sherlock had no idea what he would find. John obviously used to play a sport of some kind, most likely rugby, judging by how confidently he'd spoken about the game with Mike. A sport like that would require athleticism. A trim body would suit John. Debauchery would also suit John. Pupils blown wide, lips open in sounds of pleasure, sweat trickling down his forehead. Sex would suit John, no doubt. It would be good to take apart John, make him shout his release until his throat was hoarse, and make him grip the sheets so hard that his knuckles would turn white. He didn't know enough about John and sex. John was bisexual, attracted to Sherlock, and willing to take that further, but he required mutual interest to start something. Definitely not enough.

The shower cutting off was the end of the steady drum of water; it made way for the silence of John redressing. He silently rejoiced, when John padded out of the bathroom, towel bunched at his waist, to collect some fresh clothes.

John's shoulders were a little broader than he'd hypothesized, though the rest of his build was just as imagined. The muscle had worn away from misuse, but some of it still remained. The look made John look younger: more like an unruly adult than a chunkily dressed man. He watched through mostly shut eyes, only fully opening them once John was on his return journey and already past him. John's back didn't have any scars, unlike his own. The skin was smooth, with a few odd freckles and flecks of water.

Taking John would be nice too. How loud was John willing to shout as he orgasmed, before covering his mouth? How hard did John like it? Did John enjoy kissing during sex, an extension of the romantic aspect, or just long thrusts pulling him closer to oblivion? This was a side of John he was curious to see.

He was unsurprised to find that, during his thoughts, he'd grown hard, and, although it was not to the extent that he would have to masturbate or risk John seeing, it was enough to allow the front of his pyjamas to bulge slightly. He retreated to his room and shut the door. A few minutes later, he heard John leave the bathroom, check the living room for him, and then come up to his door and knock.

"You okay?" He asked.

"Tell me if you hear anything from Lestrade. Otherwise, keep yourself occupied."

There was something muttered darkly against his door, but John did leave. He flopped out onto the bed. Nothing killed his libido like a good strong withdrawal-induced pounding sensation from his head.

AN: Oh wow, thank you for answering the poll or telling me your opinion about John and Sherlock's roles in a sexual relationship. I'm going to keep the poll up, just in case, so you're free to tell me what you think :) Thank you for all the support for this story I've been getting so far. You're all amazing *offers you all hugs*