Sherlock walked down the corridor slowly, eyeing each and every door he passed carefully. He was looking for a very specific room; somewhere he would be able to calm down and clear his mind after everything that had just happened. Unfortunately, there weren't many places where he could do that.
He searched every door he passed, looking for the name of someone who had always been there for him and someone who, to this day, it still hurt to think about.
It only took a few seconds before he finally found it. He ran his fingers lightly over the name carefully etched on the door.
Redbeard.
This wasn't the room he would usually go to in order to calm down, but lately he found that that particular room was filled with too much regret and longing. John's room had become a reminder of everything he had put his best friend through, as opposed to a reminder of all the wonderful times they had spent together.
Shaking his head to rid himself of the very thoughts he was trying to avoid, Sherlock turned the knob and cautiously walked in. He was worried that, in his altered state, the room may have changed to include other memories he did not want to deal with right now. He was relieved to find only his companion bounding towards him excitedly. He dropped down to the same level as Redbeard, feeling a genuine smile spread across his face, and stroked the soft fur of his, first, best friend.
He felt the tension leaving his body with every excited tail wag he witnessed. His mind started slowing down, the unwanted thoughts pushed to the back with every lick pressed to his cheek.
What felt like hours passed before Sherlock heard a distant knocking. He pressed his ear to the door of Redbeard's room, and hearing no change in volume deduced that the knocking must be coming from the real world.
He elected to ignore it.
But the guilt he had been fastidiously ignoring since going into his mind palace was gnawing at him again. With every knock on the door he felt his anxiety level rising. He couldn't exactly hide out in his mind palace forever. He was fairly confident that John would figure out a way to pull him back if he felt so inclined.
He gave himself five minutes to say goodbye to Redbeard before sadly closing the door behind him. he walked down the corridor once more, delaying his exit as much as he could by looking closely at every door he passed.
Eventually though, there was no more delaying him, and he let himself return to the real world.
He opened his eyes and noticed, with some surprise, that his bedroom door was still locked. He half expected John to break it down if he took too long to respond. Heaving a deep sigh, he finally spoke. "What do you want, John?"
"Can you come out, please?" came the reply from the other side.
Sherlock's brow furrowed. John didn't sound angry, which was unexpected. Normally when they had an argument and Sherlock stalked off to his room to 'sulk like a child' as John so eloquently put it, the doctor would either pound on the door until Sherlock opened it and they finished talking or he would leave until he had calmed down. He was not expecting a polite request to come out of his room.
He gulped and took a deep breath before speaking, lest his voice betray his nervousness. "What for?"
His question was met with silence.
He decided that the best course of action would be to come out of his room and see exactly what John wanted from him. He stood up and warily walked up to the door and turned the knob.
John was standing just outside, a calm look on his face. Sherlock felt more and more wary. This wasn't like John at all. This wasn't the anger and indignation that came out during so many of their arguments, nor the quiet anger masking concern that Sherlock so often brought out of him.
"What's that for?" he asked, pointing at the various items scattered across the kitchen table. John motioned for Sherlock to take a seat at the table and the detective did so, slowly shuffling along until he sat down.
John followed close behind and hovered next to Sherlock. "I thought I'd clean up some of those wounds on your back. They look like they haven't been properly looked at.
He waited until Sherlock nodded to put on some gloves. "Would you mind taking off your dressing gown and t-shirt, please?"
Sherlock did as he was told and heard a sharp intake of breath as his back was once again exposed. He hadn't had a look in a long time but he was certain there were more than a few scars left by some of the deeper cuts and the ones he had let get infected.
It took only a couple of seconds for John to regain his composure. He lightly ran his fingers over each and every single one of them, and there were many. With each line he traced he imagined the amount of force required to leave such a mark. He imagined the tools that had to have been used to go so deep. He imagined the matching psychological scars Sherlock must have.
After examining them he cleaned them, though he doubted it would make much difference now. Nevertheless, it calmed him down to go through the motions. He lightly bandaged them and quickly went into Sherlock's room to retrieve a fresh and comfortable t-shirt for the detective to wear.
He handed the t-shirt over. "You can put this on now. You already know this but try not to put too much strain on your back, some of those cuts look like they still have some healing to do."
Sherlock carefully put the t-shirt on, covering the evidence of the two years he spent away, and uttered a quiet "Thank you, John."
John cleared his throat, "It's the least I could do. Literally." After putting everything away he walked around the table and put the kettle on. "Tea?"
When the detective gave no reply John looked over to find him with his head bowed and his shoulders shaking slightly. He quickly ran over to his best friend and dropped down in front of him, trying to get a look at his face. "What's the matter, Sherlock?" he asked urgently, his voice laced with concern.
Another sniffle overtook the detective, this time loud and harsh. It was clear he was trying to control himself, but it was just as clear that he was failing. "I can still remember it." His voice was croaky, his eyes full on unshed tears. "I can remember every single thing they did and said and-" he gulped and tried, unsuccessfully, to take a deep breath, "I can still remember," he finished with a near whisper.
Struggling through a shaky breath Sherlock continued. "You were there sometimes, in my head. When I couldn't go to my mind palace you would show up. It was almost like you were really there, even though you didn't say anything." Sherlock finally stopped hiding his face and looked John right in the eye. "You were the only thing that kept me going."
And with that admission Sherlock finally broke down. Tears fell down his face, his shoulders shook uncontrollably and his breathing hitched repeatedly.
Throughout the whole thing, John held him in his arms.