In bed, Sherlock opened the door of his mind-palace, entertained as usual when it flicked between his own home door, his brother’s very dignified door, and the door of the last case he’d taken, complete with crime-scene tape. He didn’t always spend too much effort stabilising his own visualisations, partly because free-associating had led him in a few useful directions, and partly because spending time fixing the images took up a certain amount of mental effort and it wasn’t worth it if he was merely resting.
This time he was at home. He wasn’t in the mood for thinking about John, which meant thinking about Mary, which meant thinking about the immense cumulative balls-up which was no doubt going to follow from anybody picking him to be Best Man. He turned around sharply, and was in a different part of London.
Bart’s? No. For once he wasn’t in the mood for dismembered things, a fact which would no doubt have surprised John, except he wasn’t thinking about John. He’d had a rough time of it Outside. Outside London, outside the country, outside everything his mind was likely to hit at a gallop and take to a successful conclusion.
“It really is remarkable how much your mental capacities, which were never that impressive to begin with, have diminished outside your normal locale.”
“Shut up, Mycroft.”
“Your lip’s wobbling, little brother.” Faint distaste.
There wasn’t much he could say to that. He’d lived through the lot of it. Then he’d found that home no longer meant John and all that promised future, all that talking-to-John-in-his-head now meant nothing. And he’d ended up having to save John for somebody else. It all added up to wanting comfort, which he never did. He didn’t need his mental image of his brother to tell him his brain was malfunctioning (which it never did).
He looked around. They were in Mycroft’s flat in Knightsbridge, which was in no way, shape or form anything that added up to Sherlock’s comfort.
“Of course it is,” said Mycroft. “My home is perfectly comfortable, and it may readily be at your disposal any time you wish to ask.”
Sherlock sighed, because of course he’d been used to the comforts of the world, good sheets, an excellent coat, his scarf -- and he’d been used to these things because Mycroft made them available. And he’d never ask for the use of any of Mycroft’s things.
“I really think I must insist,” said his version of Mycroft. “You’re not taking care of yourself, and that makes it my responsibility. John and Mary have each other now. And we have each other.”
“I find that disturbing.” Sherlock shuddered, in a way he would certainly have been able to suppress outside his own mind.
“But I must insist you take care of some of your bodily needs.” Infinitesimal pause. “Your ‘transport’, as you would have it.”
“I refuse to be lectured on eating disorders by a man struggling with his own relationship with food!”
“Your knowledge of my eating-habits is less than current,” said Mycroft, “while my knowledge of your personal care is in all ways up-to-date.” Damn. I can sometimes get to the real one that way, but the one in my mind is better-defended.
Sherlock looked down sooner than agree with his brother, even mentally.
“Otherwise,” said Mycroft, “you are lacking in sleep, comfort and sexual release. Dealing with any of that will both soothe you and clarify your thoughts.
“Every time I think I have reached the depths you are capable of...!” Sherlock began hotly.
“Except, I am you.” Mycroft bowed his head slightly. “And you know very well my original would never lay a finger on you, nor you on him. That’s not what this is about. Now remove your clothes, please, and open the bed.”
Sherlock was slightly amused to realise his mental self was now fully-dressed, right up to the Belstaff and the scarf, and they were in the bedroom. He took everything off, folding it, and did as he was told, awaiting the next order.
FILL: Following Instruction (1/2)
In bed, Sherlock opened the door of his mind-palace, entertained as usual when it flicked between his own home door, his brother’s very dignified door, and the door of the last case he’d taken, complete with crime-scene tape. He didn’t always spend too much effort stabilising his own visualisations, partly because free-associating had led him in a few useful directions, and partly because spending time fixing the images took up a certain amount of mental effort and it wasn’t worth it if he was merely resting.
This time he was at home. He wasn’t in the mood for thinking about John, which meant thinking about Mary, which meant thinking about the immense cumulative balls-up which was no doubt going to follow from anybody picking him to be Best Man. He turned around sharply, and was in a different part of London.
Bart’s? No. For once he wasn’t in the mood for dismembered things, a fact which would no doubt have surprised John, except he wasn’t thinking about John. He’d had a rough time of it Outside. Outside London, outside the country, outside everything his mind was likely to hit at a gallop and take to a successful conclusion.
“It really is remarkable how much your mental capacities, which were never that impressive to begin with, have diminished outside your normal locale.”
“Shut up, Mycroft.”
“Your lip’s wobbling, little brother.” Faint distaste.
There wasn’t much he could say to that. He’d lived through the lot of it. Then he’d found that home no longer meant John and all that promised future, all that talking-to-John-in-his-head now meant nothing. And he’d ended up having to save John for somebody else. It all added up to wanting comfort, which he never did. He didn’t need his mental image of his brother to tell him his brain was malfunctioning (which it never did).
He looked around. They were in Mycroft’s flat in Knightsbridge, which was in no way, shape or form anything that added up to Sherlock’s comfort.
“Of course it is,” said Mycroft. “My home is perfectly comfortable, and it may readily be at your disposal any time you wish to ask.”
Sherlock sighed, because of course he’d been used to the comforts of the world, good sheets, an excellent coat, his scarf -- and he’d been used to these things because Mycroft made them available. And he’d never ask for the use of any of Mycroft’s things.
“I really think I must insist,” said his version of Mycroft. “You’re not taking care of yourself, and that makes it my responsibility. John and Mary have each other now. And we have each other.”
“I find that disturbing.” Sherlock shuddered, in a way he would certainly have been able to suppress outside his own mind.
“But I must insist you take care of some of your bodily needs.” Infinitesimal pause. “Your ‘transport’, as you would have it.”
“I refuse to be lectured on eating disorders by a man struggling with his own relationship with food!”
“Your knowledge of my eating-habits is less than current,” said Mycroft, “while my knowledge of your personal care is in all ways up-to-date.” Damn. I can sometimes get to the real one that way, but the one in my mind is better-defended.
Sherlock looked down sooner than agree with his brother, even mentally.
“Otherwise,” said Mycroft, “you are lacking in sleep, comfort and sexual release. Dealing with any of that will both soothe you and clarify your thoughts.
“Every time I think I have reached the depths you are capable of...!” Sherlock began hotly.
“Except, I am you.” Mycroft bowed his head slightly. “And you know very well my original would never lay a finger on you, nor you on him. That’s not what this is about. Now remove your clothes, please, and open the bed.”
Sherlock was slightly amused to realise his mental self was now fully-dressed, right up to the Belstaff and the scarf, and they were in the bedroom. He took everything off, folding it, and did as he was told, awaiting the next order.