Sherlock hadn't been to this part of his Mind Palace in ages. Technically, it wasn't within the Mind Palace at all, but a platform, high in a tree--a more fanciful person might call it a treehouse--that Sherlock and his father ( capable hands ) built when he was seven. It proved particularly useful when one wanted to get away from people. Not for its inaccessibility, which had regularly deterred Mycroft (his larger frame always a bit ungainly on the rickety ladder), but for the simple fact that the tree was taller than the house and made for a superb vantage point. You could see anyone approach from what seemed like miles away. From this crow's nest, you could just make out the sea, with the aid of a trusty wooden spyglass, of course.
Standing on the weathered, yet sturdy, planks, Sherlock heard a clicking noise in the distance and spotted an enemy ship sailing off toward the horizon.
Redbeard sat at the foot of the tree, keeping vigil for any other pirate foes who would dare approach.
Sherlock knew, with the certainty found in dreams, that he had finished his lunch just before climbing up here, but the scent of spoiled food lingered in the air, making him feel nauseated. A breeze out of the east brought fresher, cleaner air with it. The nausea dissipated.
Gradually, Sherlock became aware that he was still very hungry. An enticing aroma wafted up from below. Tea. Honey. Toast. Simple comfort food for his vaguely unsettled stomach. He climbed down the ladder and greeted his Setter with a full embrace, running his fingers through soft fur, as they reassured each other that all was well. Sherlock headed into the house.
Once through the door, the rooms transformed, an external representation of whatever was stored within. He followed the scent, past walls with peeling paint and deep cracks he had attempted to repair with plaster, past police tape, to the perfectly-preserved sitting room of 221B, where two chairs sat in front of the fireplace: tea, sugar, honey and toast on a tray beside his chair and a full breakfast and a cuppa with cream, no sugar, alongside the chair opposite. John's chair.
FILL 11/? "Three" (Threesome fail)
Standing on the weathered, yet sturdy, planks, Sherlock heard a clicking noise in the distance and spotted an enemy ship sailing off toward the horizon.
Redbeard sat at the foot of the tree, keeping vigil for any other pirate foes who would dare approach.
Sherlock knew, with the certainty found in dreams, that he had finished his lunch just before climbing up here, but the scent of spoiled food lingered in the air, making him feel nauseated. A breeze out of the east brought fresher, cleaner air with it. The nausea dissipated.
Gradually, Sherlock became aware that he was still very hungry. An enticing aroma wafted up from below. Tea. Honey. Toast. Simple comfort food for his vaguely unsettled stomach. He climbed down the ladder and greeted his Setter with a full embrace, running his fingers through soft fur, as they reassured each other that all was well. Sherlock headed into the house.
Once through the door, the rooms transformed, an external representation of whatever was stored within. He followed the scent, past walls with peeling paint and deep cracks he had attempted to repair with plaster, past police tape, to the perfectly-preserved sitting room of 221B, where two chairs sat in front of the fireplace: tea, sugar, honey and toast on a tray beside his chair and a full breakfast and a cuppa with cream, no sugar, alongside the chair opposite. John's chair.