I've witnessed Sherlock do this on a number of occasions, and the fact is, I'm no stranger to the concept myself.
When I’m writing a blog post, when I’m in the kitchen making dinner, when I’m daydreaming about my mad flatmate in the shower, are some examples of me being stuck inside my head. Of course, I don’t have a Mind Palace like he has. I don’t walk down imagined corridors, into libraries, labs, cellars, and what have you like he does when he leaves for his spacious second home.
Unlike him, I’m easily roused out of my torpor. Just a touch to my shoulder, my name softly spoken, or the scent of tea, is enough to pull me back to the present.
I’m not in the habit of losing myself in thoughts for longer periods like Sherlock does. Mostly, only a few minutes have passed before I’m back to full consciousness. Therefore, it’s utterly fascinating to me that my best friend can stay in his Mind Palace for endless hours.
“Have you ever got lost? Been unable to return?”
It’s a ridiculous question, of course, but I’ve always wondered. His answer both worries and astounds me.
“I have. Only once. It was unnerving.”
“Oh, wow. But… um… how – “
“Mycroft.”
Of course, his brother and mentor – the man who has taught him this memory technique in the first place – would come to his aid when he realised that Sherlock had lost himself in his head.
“How? When?”
“I don’t recall how. It was years before we met. I was… high.”
Despite that I’d suspected this, it hurts to hear him admit it. The stinging sensation in my heart - as if I’ve been stabbed with a stiletto - is as real as the toast on my plate.
“I’m glad he was there,” I say quietly.
“Indeed,” he agrees.
***
For each passing week, it happens more frequently. And it doesn’t only apply to when I’m in the flat. Even at grim crime scenes I lose myself in thoughts of Sherlock.
His agility – jumping over fences like an athlete. His large hands – gesturing elegantly. His voice – deep and resonant, speaking to my very core. His lips – lush and breath-taking. His hair – tousled or perfectly coiffed. His coat, his tight trousers, and shirts – making my knees weak.
“Out with it!”
I’m so startled, I nearly topple over. A large hand grabs my elbow gently, and Sherlock’s baritone scolds someone called George for being rude.
“Come on, John. We have a killer to catch!”
And without further ado, I’m running after my mad and gorgeous detective, while my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.
Later - the killer is behind bars, and Sherlock delights in my adoring praise of his flawless deductions – I get a chance to check my mobile.
Are you ok? You lost yourself in your head again today. Like Sherlock does. What’s going on, John? Out with it!
“What does Gavin want?” Sherlock drawls from his chair.
“Nothing,” I say.
My blush is competing with the flames in the hearth, and I’m one hundred percent sure Sherlock knows I’m lying. He always does.
***
One of the many perks of Sherlock retreating to his Mind Palace, is that I get to observe him undisturbed. I only let my gaze linger when his eyes are shut. Granted, I’ve tried to wave my hand in front of his face when they are open; he doesn’t even blink, so I know it’s safe. Nevertheless, I don’t want to push my luck.
What will he think if he saw me drinking him in like a man finally reaching an oasis in a dry desert? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
At the moment, Sherlock’s eyes are closed, so it’s safe to ogle his lithe frame, his steepled hands, his slightly parted lips. I let my eyes wander and linger wherever they desire. My tongue darts out to lick my chapped lips, and to my horror I realise that I’m drooling slightly. Christ.
When I have swiped the moist away, Sherlock’s eyes are open, meeting mine with an unexpected fondness. I find myself unable to look away. Maybe it’s time to stop this pretence and just dive into the unknown.
“So, this is what Gerald meant,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“His remark, and I quote: ‘Out with it.’”
Shit. He heard that. Obviously. His hearing is –
“John, don’t. Please.”
Please, what? I can’t comprehend what the familiar voice asks.
When something warm registers on my face, I open my eyes to find Sherlock kneeling in front of my chair, his delicate hands cupping my face.
“You need to stop doing that,” he whispers, “it feels like you’re leaving me.”
“I would never do that to you, Sherlock,” I say softly, and lift my own hands to caress his precious head.
“Good.”
We are both properly present when our lips meet for the first time. After all, this isn’t something any of us would want to miss.
You know, an interesting tumblr transformation that's happened gradually, and which I've seen no one talk about: ask-culture has essentially dropped off to nothing.
By which I mean, asks used to be WAY more of the tumblr economy. They used to be more common to send, and receive, and see. They were integral to the collaborative, forum-like behavior of old tumblr communities, not even to speak on the HUGE number of ask-blogs that used to exist to only be interacted with in ask-form.
I'm not saying this in a vying-for-attention way but instead in an observational way: I used to get way way more asks in like 2015, even with a fraction of my follower count. I wonder if it's due to the homogenization of social media sites? There's a lot more of this divide between "content creator" and "consumer" instead of just a bunch of peer blogs who would talk to each other. "Asks" aren't really a thing on twitter, are they? And as I understand it, the closest thing to an "ask" on instagram or tiktok would be a creator screenshotting some comment and responding to it in a new reel or video or whatever those content mediums are. Are asks just too tumblr-specific? Is that aspect of the site culture dying out as more and more people converge to using all their social media sites in the same way?
it's probably from assholes making asks a minefield of trolling/harassment for years with no real blocking ability, which turned people off from allowing asks on their blogs so as a whole the site moved away from it
but now that we do have better blocking, we should try to revive it.
Feels like a good time to remind certain people that this is coming from Judith Butler, who is not just a leading feminist philosopher, but also THE COFOUNDER OF QUEER THEORY
The literal cofounder of queer theory as an academic field says that abandoning trans people is fascist logic.
The voices in our community trying to exclude us may be loud, but they are not right, and they do not speak for the community as a whole or our history or anything at all.
Trans people belong here. We always have, and we always will.
It is extremely disturbing. He can’t recall the last time he lost himself in here. In his own Mind Palace, no less. How did this happen? And where is the exit sign? The one reading: 221B Baker Street.
He finds many signs on his walk through the corridors but they’re all wrong. They are pointing at the rooms, the nooks, the cabinets, the books, the floorboards; in short, everything. But not the exit to his physical home.
Sherlock is rarely frightened. Not anymore. Not since John moved into his flat. The feeling of fear courses through his body now, though. His claustrophobia – the mania he hasn’t felt in years – has made a dramatic appearance, making his skin crawl uncomfortably.
“I need to find the exit,” he mutters to himself over and over, like a mantra.
Sherlock almost weeps with relief when Mind Palace John magically appears in the hallway outside the library.
“John,” he whispers reverently.
“Fancy meeting you here,” John quips, mirth visible in all his features.
Sherlock wants to kiss him but that’s not allowed. John is his friend, nothing else. He is as heterosexual as Sherlock is homosexual. Not a great match, that.
When Sherlock decides to ask John for the way out, John has vanished. The space he recently occupied still radiates a warm glow.
***
Sherlock wonders how long he’s been trapped. He can’t even recall why he entered in the first place. Was it to search for something, or was it to escape his own living room? He never leaves - at least unnecessarily - to his Mind Palace if John is present, but perhaps he went out on a date again. If Sherlock isn't playing the violin or performing an experiment to stave off the tedium of John's absence, he tends to walk through this place for a while. The fact that he can’t remember the reason for coming here, is unsettling.
Mycroft has of course taught him everything about the comings and goings, but Sherlock can’t remember if he ever mentioned how to escape his own head if he got stuck. Most likely, it didn’t occur to his brother that it was an option. Mycroft has always had better control of his emotions than Sherlock. He will obviously deny this to his dying day, but inside his mind he can afford to be gracious.
“Are you still here? I’m waiting for you, you know. There’s tea and biscuits.”
John has returned, but he disappears faster than Sherlock can respond.
***
At the end of the corridor is a green sign, which Sherlock supposes is the one he’s been searching for, but when he walks toward it, the sign transforms into a painting.
The Reichenbach Falls.
It had been a gift from… a client? Or was it some politician? An insignificant detail at this point, obviously.
The painting gives him the shills; an expression John would use. It is ominous and if he concentrates, he can hear the sound of the grand waterfall.
“John? Where are you?”
Why hasn’t he thought of calling out for the man earlier?
Sherlock contemplates that he might be drugged. Perhaps he isn’t –
“You called,” John says calmly, suddenly standing beside him.
“I did. Thank you for coming. I… I can’t…”
Sherlock is slightly embarrassed to admit that he’s adrift in his own head.
“Lost, are you?”
“Yes,” Sherlock whispers.
To his horror, he feels a burning sensation in his eyes.
A warm hand slides into his, and the words “come on” are uttered.
Is John holding his hand?
Sherlock looks down and sees that they are indeed holding hands. However, this is Mind Palace John, a fictional version of his friend, not the real one.
“Here we are,” John says softly.
They stand before a door which opens a crack. Scents of tea, gingernuts, leather, books, and dust invade Sherlock’s nostrils. There’s also the unmistakable and unique smell that belongs to the man who’s sitting in his chair sipping tea from his RAMC mug – John. The real John. His John.
***
“You’re back,” John says with evident relief and warmth.
Sherlock blinks and nods; his voice seems to be out of order at the moment.
“Come sit. There’s tea and your favourite biscuits,” John coaxes.
Sherlock stands from the sofa and walks over to his chair.
“Did you finish cataloguing?” John asks.
The look on his face is different somehow. More open, fond, and… something else Sherlock is unable to deduce.
Tea first, then –
“You don’t remember, do you?”
John’s voice is sad all of a sudden.
“What?”
“Why you retreated to your Mind Palace,” John explains.
His voice is still –
“Oh!”
Images of John cupping his face, kissing him softly on the lips, telling Sherlock that he… loves him.
“Oh,” he repeats.
“Right,” John sighs, “that didn’t go according to plan, I see.”
“John.”
His words elude him, and John seems unable to decipher what Sherlock is trying to convey.
Action, Holmes.
He steps closer to John’s chair, pries the mug out of his hands, and curls up in John’s lap, mirroring the army doctor’s ministrations from earlier.
“I love you too,” Sherlock whispers after glorious minutes of kissing.
“Thank God! I thought I’d scared you away,” John exclaims, so relieved it nearly breaks Sherlock’s heart.
“Never!” Sherlock says emphatically.
“What took you so long, then?”
“I couldn’t find the correct sign, but then I called out for you. The other you, and he led me back.”
“Clever guy that one.”
“Most definitely no idiot.”
“High praise, love.”
Sherlock hides his blushing face in the crook of John’s neck and wonders if he will ever get used to being called ‘love’.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but apparently John knows him too well.
“I will repeat it until you believe it, but I will never stop,” John assures him, and that is the best answer Sherlock has ever got in his life.
Inspired by the fabulous @dragonnan's Blood and Romance (included by permission)
*
Too old for this: my first half-thought as I flail and thrash my way back to consciousness. I’m underwater, aching to breathe, but I’ll die if I do; but it isn’t cold enough, I’m not wet, where the hell I hurt all over and something’s wrong, it’s dark where is Sherlock
If I’m not under water, I can breathe; I open my lips a hair and no water floods in, so I take a careful breath and it’s air. Not sweet, God no, tastes like mould and sewage, but definitely air, and shakily I suck it in.
I blink and try to focus but can’t see anything. Where the hell am I, and where is Sherlock? There—a second complete thought, even if it’s just the ragged scraps from before stringing together into sense, that’s got to be a good sign.
Okay. Okay. Stop, where am I. Listen.
In a silence so loud, a darkness so complete, I can hear my racing heartbeat even over my ragged panting—but nothing else, not close by. I can’t breathe through my nose at all. I try to shift to generate some sound, get some idea at least of what kind of surface I’m near or on. Take stock: everything hurts but I can’t tell from what, I can’t gather any sensory data to extrapolate anything from. (Sherlock would say, deduce. I’m not Sherlock. He’d know what to do to get some clarity here; I’m just starting to panic.)
finish reading on AO3
*
A Thousand Words: A picture's proverbially worth a thousand words and often inspires them, though the words may be many more or many fewer, as the Muse decides. Each chapter is a one-shot, inspired (so far) by @kettykika78, @justanobsessedpan, @stephdrawsjohnlock, @bluebellofbakerstreet, @petite-madame, and now dragonnan: more to come.
Thank you to all the artists who do fanworks: you are a constant inspiration. And to the betas (@copperplatebeech for this ficlet) you are a godsend. And to the readers: we wouldn't be posting our stories without you.
Thanks for reblogging! Let me know whether to tag or untag you.
A candle (💗romance💗); an offer (YES); a party (is it my birthday?) The future begins (with a dance).
It's been such a pleasure to revisit John and Sherlock in this universe, and to have you along for the journey. Thank you for reading, thank you for your comments 💕
Summary: The tension in the kitchen is almost palpable. It's caused by two Frenchmen Mycroft has seen snooping around the neighbourhood. Things are getting serious and Sherlock is about to panic.
Summary: Martha Hudson's favourite place to dine is (obviously) Chez 1895. The staff treats her like royalty and one of them reminds of her of bygone times.
Rosie’s tantrum is about to reach epic proportions, and John needs to intervene. Immediately.
“It’s impossible! I will never be able to make it before he gets back!!!”
“Rosamund Watson, you can, and you will.”
“I only have one more chance, Dad! He’ll be here in less than fourteen minutes.”
God, do you even know how like him you are?
John looks fondly at his daughter, but she’s too distracted by her distress to observe it.
“Alright, sweetheart. Put that away for a second and come here.”
“There’s no time, Dad!”
“Yes, there is. Trust me.”
Rosie sighs dramatically, puts down the instrument, and approaches John tentatively.
“Take my hands.”
Another sigh, but the girl surrenders.
John squeezes the small hands in his own and smiles down at the tense and slightly anxious girl in front of him.
“Inhale as deep as you can. Hold until I say so, then exhale.”
“Is this a doctor procedure?”
Her smile causes her body to visibly relax, and the tension in the room eases.
“Go on, now.”
After a few minutes, John is satisfied, and releases his grip.
“Try again,” he says softly and places a kiss on her forehead.
***
Sherlock is dead tired and just longs to get home to his two Watsons. He’s been in Paris for nearly a fortnight; hired by one of Mycroft’s associates to solve the theft of the crown jewels in the Louvre. The case had been excellent, apart from one significant thing: John didn’t have the opportunity to come with him.
Another thing that had irked him, was the timing regarding Rosie. A week before his departure, he had started to teach her La Vie en Rose. Tomorrow, she was supposed to perform it at school, which he knew she wasn’t capable of now, due to his long absence. Instead, she had to play one of the easier pieces she already knew by heart.
He feels like he’s failing her, even though John has assured him he’s doing nothing of the sort.
“It’s the Work, Sherlock. And you’re not the first parent who must travel and be away from – “
“But I’m not her parent, am I?”
“Perhaps not officially. Yet. But to her you are. And to me.”
***
His timing could not have been better, John thinks. Rosie has played through the piece nearly flawlessly two times already, and when she’s stretched and had a swig of water, it’s time for the last rehearsal of the day.
“Ready?” he whispers conspiratorially.
“Three is a charm, Nana says,” she replies.
“That’s my girl.”
Rosie lifts her bow and starts playing La Vie en Rose the second the front door closes behind Sherlock. John strains to hear if he’s ascending, but he also needs to pay attention to his daughter’s playing, so he nearly misses Sherlock’s appearance.
“Oh,” Sherlock breathes almost inaudibly as tears stream down his cheeks.
Rosie prefers to face the window just as Sherlock does when he plays, and John isn’t sure she can see her Papa in the reflection of the glass surface.
John moves over to Sherlock who seemingly can’t avert his eyes from the playing girl. His hand covers his mouth, which probably is agape, and John decides to slide an arm around the man’s waist in case his knees give way.
***
Rosie, his beloved girl, is playing La Vie en Rose far better than Sherlock thought she would be able to do if he had stayed home instead of running off to France. How she’s accomplished that is a topic for another day or hour. For now, he revels in the beautiful music and how Rosie moves with it instead of standing ramrod straight like a pillar.
He feels John’s arm around him, but Sherlock is too absorbed in the music and the miracle that is Rosie Watson. Next month, his surname will be added, which he still can’t get his head around.
When the last tone has faded away, Rosie sets her violin and bow on the table and runs toward Sherlock. He falls to his knees and opens his arms to her. John mitigates the impact to prevent Sherlock from falling onto his back, by placing steady hands on his shoulders.
“I’ve missed you so much, Papa!”
“And I you, my heart. Your playing was extraordinary.”
“Yeah? Uncle Mycroft helped me a bit, and Dad found a tutorial video online who was really helpful too.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t be angry with him, alright?”
“I promise. For once, his aid was… noble.”
John chuckles behind him, and one of his hands – the left – ruffles his curls affectionately.
***
Later, when Rosie is tucked up in bed, John tells Sherlock about their daughter’s dramatic outburst.
“One more chance? Really, John?”
“Cross my heart. She takes after you, in my opinion.”
“Rude!”
“Truthful!”
“You are insufferable!”
“If you say so. And yet…”
“Yet what?”
“Aren’t you a genius?”
“Of course, I am.”
“Well, then?”
Sherlock sighs mock exasperated, buries his nose in John’s neck and whispers: “And yet, I am marrying you in sixteen days.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 3/6
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC TV 2010)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Rosamund Mary “Rosie” Watson, Sherlock Holmes’ Mother, Sherlock Holmes’ Father, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper
Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Parenthood, Idiots in Love, Old Married Couple, First Kiss, First Time, Realization, Christmas, Cats
Summary:
John and Sherlock are just friends. Just friends who share a daughter, a flat and a life.
(Or 5 times John and Sherlock don’t realise they’re married, 1 time they do.)
Summary: Molly thrives as Chez 1895's master mixologist. Her creativity is never questioned, and she no longer feels like the freak everyone thinks she is. Having Sherlock's support helps immensely; she will never say a bad word about him to anyone, something that tonight's unpleasant guest gets to experience to the fullest.
Tea, and a confession; lunch, with moral quandaries; a bottle of perfume.
If he were Baz Culpeper, Sherlock would let the tension draw out, watch for signs that the suspect was cracking, and time his revelation for maximum effect.
He’s not Baz. He doesn’t have a plan.
“So,” he says, just to break the unsettling silence. “You killed Joffrey Norton.”
The final chapter will post Sunday! Thank you for reblogging! 💗
Chapter 3 - Apprentice or no Apprentice, that is the Question
Summary: Most respectable restaurants (and many not so respectable ones) take on apprentices. Sherlock's eccentric behaviour has ensured that no insecure and immature adolescent will ever be subjected to his wrath and the trauma it will ultimately cause. But perhaps an older - a more confident person - could stomach it?
Summary: To avoid embarrassing himself in front of the staff, Sherlock spends the afternoon and evening in the patisserie, doing the most dreaded job there is. Of course, the Consulting Executive Chef doesn't stoop so low as to call it that; he loves all task even if they are time-consuming and laborious.
