John looked up from where he was kneeling and saw the detective seated in his favourite dark chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin.
"Your tea's getting cold," Sherlock said.
John cocked his head.
"Me?" he asked, confused as to how a memory could possibly be addressing him directly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Of course you, John. Who else is there?"
John blinked a bit.
"But aren't you...?"
"A memory? No. I thought you'd have figured that out by now."
John furrowed his brow.
"Then what-"
"Mind palace."
"What?"
"As ridiculous as it seems, John, you do have a mind palace. However, it is a bit disorganised," Sherlock said, distaste evident in his tone.
"Is that what I've been walking through this whole time?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Yes. And, as I said before, your Mind Palace is quite disorganised. A downright mess."
John took a deep breath and stood up.
"That would explain the weird memory hopping that was going on."
Sherlock shrugged.
"At least your memories were in chronological order." He rested his hands on his chair. "Do sit down. You seem rather fatigued."
John, without even considering debating the offer, stumbled over to his chair and sat down with a sigh.
"Jesus, that was insane," he mumbled.
"You just needed a bit of guidance," Sherlock said as he took a sip of his own tea. "You haven't had the opportunity to explore your own mind, much less organise it, so losing your way was rather inevitable. You're welcome."
"Thanks."
"I'm not the Sherlock you ought to be thanking."
"What?"
"I'm simply a mental construct of the mind, my function primarily being to create a false sense of security."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I suppose it means that, to you, I am the very definition of "home"."
John smiled slightly.
"Oh... right. Of course."
"Now, as I said before: your tea is getting cold."
John's smile widened and he picked up his mug, inhaling the bitter tea and taking a long sip.
"This is nice," he said as he swallowed the comforting beverage.
"That is the intended purpose," Sherlock said.
John took another deep breath and another sip of tea.
"I do hope you realise, John, that you can't stay here," Sherlock told him.
John gulped down his tea.
"What?"
"As long as you're here, you're separated from the waking world; a prisoner of your own mind."
"And?"
Sherlock sighed.
"Remember when I pointedly hinted to you that there is another Sherlock?"
John slowly nodded.
"Right. Yeah. Is he-"
"The Sherlock who is readily awaiting your return to consciousness in the outside world? Yes."
John looked taken aback.
"'Readily awaiting'? That doesn't sound like him."
Sherlock (or the image of him, at least) chuckled softly.
"You would like to think that, wouldn't you? After all, your mind is the one responsible for the particularly cold incarnation of Sherlock sitting before you, isn't it?"
"Are you suggesting that Sherlock... actually cares?"
"I wouldn't be unless you knew it somewhere in the back of your mind."
John set down his tea.
"John, are you really so afraid of allowing yourself to fall for a person, platonically or not, that you have forced yourself to believe that everyone is incapable of loving you so that you don't want to love them back?"
John stared in silence at his knee.
"Why are you afraid, John?"
John closed his eyes.
"I know the answer to that question. But so do you. I want to hear you say it. Why are you so afraid?"
John felt tears welling up as he opened his eyes again.
"Because I'm tired of losing everyone."
Sherlock nodded.
"Harry, Rose, Murray... You loved them all."
John nodded.
"I still do."
"And it hurts."
John felt a tear roll down his cheek.
"Every minute of every day."
"But that's a part of being human, John. You know that."
John swallowed hard.
"I know."
"If you know, then why do you continue to dwell on the past?"
"I just can't let it go," John said with a small sob.
"You can. You just won't. And while you're sitting here refusing to accept the past and move on, there is a supposed sociopath seated by your bedside, who cares deeply about you and wants you to wake up."
John nodded solemnly.
"And I care about him too."
Sherlock's eyes twinkled like a fire, the way they always did when he was passionate about something.
"Then if you care about him, John, you will let go. You will let go, and you will wake up and you will let him love you."
John looked at Sherlock with a pleading expression.
"But how do I do that?"
"Accept that what's past is past," a young Harry said, suddenly appearing beside him.
"That you can't change what's past," Murray said.
"And that you can only change the future," Rose said.
"Because remember, darling;" his mother told him as she kneeled in front of him, putting a gentle hand on his cheek, "You won't get your happily ever after if you can't get past the beginning of the story."
John looked at his mother, then Rose, then Murray, then Harry, and finally at Sherlock.
And he nodded.
And he smiled.
"I think I can do that."
"Then make it happen."
The white light returned, this time flooding gently through the window and slowly filling up the flat. The memories of Rose, Murray, and Harry all faded away, and John's mother kissed him on the cheek before fading away as well.
Before John lost sight of Sherlock, he smiled at him.
"Thank you," he said.
Sherlock winked.
"We're in your mind. You have no one to thank but yourself."
And then Sherlock and the flat disappeared, engulfed by the light.