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.
Happy Occasion of Your First Sunrise, @orangepanic!
Pema looked up when Asami stumbled into the kitchen, nearly dropping her too-tall stack of dishes.
“Careful! I don’t want you to fall face first into that pile!”
The mix of consternation and worry on Asami’s face still didn’t overshadow the, well, shadows in her eyes.
They all knew about the new product launch she was overseeing, and all of the drivers among the extended family had already submitted their own orders. (Korra had declined, much to everyone else’s relief.)
But when Pema herself had gotten phone calls from four different staff members begging someone to make the CEO take a break, she had fired up the support network.
Tenzin had been dispatched to issue an emergency recall for Iroh’s return from what was admittedly little more than an informal war game off the northern edge of the Fire Nation.
Bolin and Opal had been sent to surprise her for lunch because ‘the baby hasn’t seen you in too long.’
Korra had shown up with tickets to a ribald show at the Golden Fringe that Kya had passed along, with the promise of a girls’ night over the weekend.
But it had taken Lin showing up in full uniform at Future Industries to forcibly extract the overworked woman. While Lin was escorting Asami out through the private exit behind the building, the executive suite staff collapsed in relief that someone would be taking care of their leader.
And yet, here she was, still working like she either was being paid or lived in this house.
“Sweetheart, you’re driving yourself into an early grave, the way you’re working. You really need to take a day or two off.”
Asami steadied herself against the counter, and began settling the stack down beside the sink.
“Pema, you know I can’t do that. This launch is so important to everyone in this company. Over ten thousand people’s jobs rely on me…”
Pema reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder, waiting for the younger woman to stop talking long enough to look up.
“Let us take care of you for a day, Asami. You’re no good to anyone, including all of those people, if you send yourself to the hospital with exhaustion.”
“‘A man needs his rest,’ someone once told me,” came a new voice in the kitchen.
Asami lit up. “Iroh!”
She extracted her hands from the dishes, and heedless of her state, ran across the room to greet the one person she wanted.
He held out his arms to welcome her, folding them around her back. Pema watched as he pressed one hand gently to the back of her head to snuggle her face against his neck, concern written all over his face.
With a soft half-smile, she turned to the sink and turned on the water. Over its noise, she could still hear Asami’s weary voice.
“I’m so stuck in my head over this. The paint selection isn’t making people happy. The leather supplier is behind their production quotas, my engineers are concerned about the brakes. I’m so worried!”
With a calm shushing sound, Iroh just stood there and held her close for another minute. Pema saw him bend closer to her ear, leading Asami to nod and finally give him a kiss. She wiped her face and tugged at her jacket before stepping out into the hallway and turning in the direction of the washroom.
Iroh watched her go, and did not move from his spot.
Pema shook water from her hands, picked up a towel, and walked to the back door. Over her shoulder, she called, “Iroh, step outside with me for a moment. She’ll see us outside. It will be fine.”
He tilted his head, but followed her out into the small herb garden behind the house.
Pema stood facing the stream, looking out across the courtyard, very pointedly not looking at Iroh directly.
“Since you do a good job of listening to your grandfather, listen to your aunt for a little bit.”
Iroh chuckled. “I have listened to you most of my life.”
She turned to him and smiled before facing over the water again.
“You have. And I promise, what I’m about to say won’t do anything worse that give you a little embarrassment.”
She raised an eyebrow as she gave him a sidelong look. The tiniest new concern crossed his face.
A wink was all she gave him before squaring her shoulders, turning her face away, and hiding her hands in her sleeves.
“When Lin is having a particularly rough time with the politicians or the recruits or the press, sometimes, it’s up to me to,” she paused for emphasis, “take care of her.”
She heard him catch his breath, and waited for him exhale before continuing.
“When she comes home and cannot form a coherent sentence, I tell Tenzin to take care of dinner and the children while I take care of Lin.” Even thinking about those nights was sending a wave across her own back.
“Take Asami home. Undress her, and make sure she has no responsibility except to tell you if it hurts. Three or four orgasms tonight, followed by breakfast tomorrow, then another two or three should do the trick.”
She turned her back to him, hoping he would remember to breathe before he passed out.
When the young couple left without saying goodbye, Lin gave her a searching look.
Pema merely lifted her chin and said, “Merely sharing some important wisdom that I’ve found to be helpful.”
For @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt #FFF 360 "Stuck Inside My Head"
Words: 992
Fandom: Zelda (Breath of the Wild)
Link has decided that he needs to actually talk to the princess. If only doing so was as easy as deciding it was necessary.
[Ao3 link]
It was just two words. It should have been easy. It should have been natural. They should have been words he’d said hundreds of times already. But even with the words beating their wings against the inside of his skull, his throat felt tight, his lungs refused to fill, his tongue laid in his mouth like a creature wallowing in mud on a hot day. He pushed the traitorous muscle up against his hard palette, behind his teeth. He could do this. He just needed to open his lips and let the words escape.
The princess had turned to look at him. Now was the moment.
He nodded.
No! No, ugh! That wasn't—
But she had already turned to watch the trail, and the moment was lost.
Link had been trying to say "Yes, Princess." since they left the castle three days ago. It shouldn't be hard; he nodded at her all the time, like just now when she'd suggested they stop for a slightly early lunch at the stables before continuing. He'd chosen those words to focus on entirely because there would be so many opportunities for him to use them. But then he just didn’t.
He'd told himself it was mission critical that he talk to her. What if there was an emergency? If he choked up like this when the only pressure was inside his head, building and building as the words rattled around in there… well, what if it happened when he absolutely needed to communicate? It was just like combat drills, blocking over and over until it was second nature when it mattered. He just needed to practice low-stakes words now so he’d be ready when he needed them. He wasn’t mute, not really. He could do this.
He couldn’t do this.
His sister had told him to talk about horses because he’d had a phase where he talked about nothing else so it should be easy. He had watched the princess in the saddle and thought maybe he could help her be a better rider. But that was too many words and he couldn’t prepare them all in advance because she would have questions. He wasn’t ready.
So he’d chosen two words. Two words that were tumbling around his brain, waiting for their final escape. Waiting to cascade from lips too long closed. He licked his lips, maybe that would help. Opened his mouth a little, closed it, like a warm up. He’d loosen his jaw a little with lunch. He could to this.
Really, “Yes, Princess” wasn’t that different than “Yes, sir” and he’d said that many a time. It wasn’t like it was hard to agree with her. Given his taciturn nature, she’d switched to questions that could be answered without words. He hadn’t missed that she knew him well enough to make sure the answer would usually be yes.
In the stable yard, she handed him her reins and asked if he wanted the lunch special as she turned to talk to the stable master. The words, the words. They thudded behind his eyes, making an ache. He parted his lips--
Then nodded.
She smiled and turned, missing the way he bit his lips, trying to punish himself as recriminations swirled around in the empty cavern of his mind with two lonely words, lying in the dirt, gasping and trapped forever with no hope of escape. He watched her smile at the stable master.
He berated himself. It may have made sense to stay silent around others, let them see the sword and draw their own conclusions. Let them trust the silent hero. But when had this mask become a crutch? He shouldn’t need it. Not with her. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. How hard could it possibly be to say two words to her? They meant the same things as his nods. He was being embarrassingly childish, and he was starting to notice that letting the princess draw her own conclusions had been a mistake. She needed data. What kind of hero was he, letting her be hurt by his silence? Why couldn’t he just say the words?
He was starting to notice a lot of things about the princess. The way her face lit up when she talked about plants and animals and technology. The way her hair gleamed in the sunlight. The way her green eyes shone with curiosity. He wondered, sometimes, if the reason her prayers didn’t work was that they kept making her do it on stone, when she clearly needed a connection to green and growing and moving. Wasn’t it an act of prayer to care about habitats and the gifts of this land and the mysteries ancestors had left behind? Was the moss on the stone simply too thin to transmit her words to the world and to the goddesses ears? Surely the trees would echo to the skies how worthy she is if only she’d been allowed to speak to them instead of to unfeeling stone.
He was afraid if he didn’t let out the two words he’d chosen, maybe other words might escape instead. Words that might contradict what the priestesses taught.
Words that might tell her how beautiful she had looked yesterday in the late afternoon light with a notebook in her hand, sketching a plant that had caught her eye. Words that told her how much he’d been jealous of a guardian leg as she’d carefully manipulated the joints until they moved smoothly. He’d watched her gentle hands and felt an ache.
He ruminated through lunch, pretending each bite was a warm up. The words fluttered to life, clustering near his throat. He didn’t need other words, these two were enough. He would let them free and like uncorking a bottle the rest could flow. It was so simple. He was ready.
She looked down at his empty plate and asked if he was ready to move on.
