I am not eager to rehearse my thoughts and theory which you have forgotten [closed]

[could_be_dangerous]

WHO: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
WHERE: Sherlock's apartment
WHEN: Mid-November?
WHAT: Somebody's buttblasted.
WARNINGS: Possible mention of violence, otherwise maybe not much? Who really knows. I'll edit as needed.

There are, even under these circumstances, certain expectations to satisfy, even d they're only Sherlock's. The bolt on the door is drawn. Shirt and jacket adjusted. Just as importantly, he busies himself with an electric kettle, recently-acquired and one of the few things adorning a surprisingly Spartan kitchen, marked by virtually none of the chaos and clutter which tends to follow Sherlock wherever he goes. It wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that he hasn't changed his ways in the slightest, that the clutter in fact lies elsewhere, and it does. Occasionally, Sherlock goes back to Baker Street.

Whether or not John will catch on, of course, remains to be seen.

It doesn't escape him, given how much time he's spent in his memory of late, that this mirrors the expectation of another arrival of a less desirable sort, and maybe that's appropriate. John is, no doubt, determined to make himself the stranger at the door, the creak of the floorboards, the intruder rather than the friend because that's what he does when Sherlock has done something to displease him. It's to be expected — he has been displeasing. All for the best, but not the easiest option for anyone involved. What John perhaps forgets is that Sherlock is very thoroughly involved. He will be reminded.

In the mean time, the stillness of ritual. One which generally requires more patience than he can muster with any skill when the world is too full of other distractions, but this one is relatively obscure and so for now Sherlock becomes a machine for chemistry, energy and reagents, which is of course all that's involved, one very simple reaction carefully controlled so as to create the optimal solution, flavour molecules in a density low in tannins, by degrees. It's child's play, and therefore generally not worth doing. But here they are, Sherlock mustering as much quiet solemnity as he can, some of it genuine, waiting.

And John... expected, not present. Their circles of space don't overlap much anymore.

Comments

[acclimatized]

Up until thirty minutes ago, John was feeling incredibly cross with Sherlock. All he wanted was to invite his best friend over for their sodding Thanksgiving meal next week, but he was being so obtuse about the whole thing that John couldn't help but react with anger. Being difficult is nothing unusual for Sherlock, but John has been nursing a grudge ever since Mary alluded to him telling her about the incident with Magnussen before he could approach her about it himself.

As a result, John was prepared to go over and have it out until Mary stepped in, shedding some insight on how he might be feeling based on her interactions with him. It made John think more rationally and, as a result, he has put his anger on the back burner for now. Unintentionally or not, John has made himself unavailable lately. One of the cons of planning a second wedding and months of domestication that should have him chomping at the bit.

So, after a quick detour to another government housing building nearby, John raps his knuckles against the door and waits.

[could_be_dangerous]

There come from within the apartment the sounds of movement, of ceramic against countertop and then footsteps, unhesitant. There is equally little hesitancy in the opening of the door, accompanied though it is by a look of disapproval.

"You never used to knock," Sherlock offers, which in his opinion says quite enough to be starting off with. Never used to knock, because there was never any doubt as to where they fit with regards to one another. Things here are different now, but things home are different too. As he'd told Mary, he's expendable, and the proof in favour of his being correct on that front mounts every day. So yes: never used to knock, and with that he turns away and retreats into the surprisingly sparse depths of his apartment.

"You may as well get on with it." A vague gesture over the shoulder, flippant, as though he doesn't care though John must know him well enough by now to know that that's rarely true when he bothers to make a show of it in the first place. Still, they'll both be better off if it's dispensed with, regardless of the insights Mary may or may not have had into his mental state.

Not, of course, that he looks well, and he knows it, though he looks sleep-deprived more than the particular brand of tepid which comes with an overindulgence in any of his other favourite vices. He's lucid and unruffled as he returns to the counter and the tea, meting out portions and glancing up expectantly.

[acclimatized]

It's true, John never used to knock on the door and it takes him by surprise. Usually, walking into the same room as Sherlock and asking him what he is doing was more than enough to announce his arrival. Even during the time John wasn't technically speaking to Sherlock, he didn't knock on the door and wait around to be let inside. He knows the social necessities but he never has to adhere to them with Sherlock, the man who treats household furniture like his own special obstacle course. Things are different here, but it certainly sets the tone of the conversation they are about to have.

"Love what you've done with the place." He remarks with his usual dry wit, walking into the apartment before coming to a stop outside the kitchen. Turning his head, he looks around the apartment. There is a litter of furniture and a few papers strewn about, but nothing about this apartment looks truly lived in and the sparseness makes John feel overwhelmingly sad. It felt like half of John's association with his friend was picking up the pieces with Mrs. Hudson after the hurricane known as the idleness of Sherlock Holmes. Here, there is nothing pinned into the wall and certainly no skull to keep him company and the worn state of his friend has not escaped his attention either.

"I've come with a peace offering." He drums his fingers against the biscuit tin he carries in his hands, though Sherlock has probably already deduced what the contents are: the sweet aroma of baking still clings to John and he places it down with care on top of the counter.

"Mate, you look awful. Have you been sleeping properly?"

[could_be_dangerous]

Sherlock's brow falls, the expectant expression turning instead to one which implies that John has done something incredibly gauche. Like, for instance, not rising to the occasion. Not being as angry as Sherlock had anticipated. He pushes a mug across the counter.

"Peace offering, interesting phrasing; you, plying me with sweets because... what? I spoke with Mary? What do you think, because I was angry with you? Because I was bored? Enlighten me, John; why would you bring a peace offering to me?" The reasons are, of course, probably mundane, probably to do with a conscience, internal or external, but also probably more than slightly misguided. Is Sherlock angry? Yes. Yes, naturally he is, but only because John is, or was, or whatever it is that made him hole up at home and send that sharply-worded text as though it's supposed to surprise him that things came to a head, as though it's anything to be angry about that the air is cleared. Sherlock deals in truths; obfuscation is a means to an end and he's not scheming. Point one, and not an insignificant part of his motivation in speaking to her.

"Enlighten me, I want to know. Then I'll tell you how I've been sleeping." Tell him, perhaps, about the experiment, the grand experiment to plumb the depths of his own psyche, now that he has the time and ability to do so. It's awful, it's going horribly, he hates it, but it allows him to brush up against things he doesn't, which is more than he can say of the day-to-day in this place. Just as importantly, the world in his head is vast and beautiful and fits him like a glove: if it weren't for this, this exchange of words here, this ongoing responsibility (chosen as much as imposed), who would ever want to leave?

[acclimatized]

An uncomfortable silence follows Sherlock's rant. John ducks away from eye contact with him, keeping his head bowed while he pries open the biscuit tin with a metallic pop. He takes out the cupcakes adorned with green icing first, methodically placing them in a line on top of the counter and then takes out four slices of cake with bright icing. They clearly aren't the product of his hard work: the most complicated dish John can prepare is toast and Haruka was eager to get rid of them. He was going to save a few of the cakes for Mary, but this sounds like a two slice problem. Leaving baked products in the kitchen might have been a massive risk in the past, but it looks like Sherlock hasn't been conducting any experiments in this kitchen.

Be gentle, those are the words emblazoned in his mind. John does not reply to his questions for a good few minutes, picking up the mug Sherlock pushed across and taking a sip of tea. It reminds him of the one he claimed as his back in Baker Street. Did he go into town and search for a duplicate version here? Or is it just coincidence this place supplied him with one like his? Either way, he can't dodge his questions forever.

"Because I've been a massive dick and I've been neglecting you lately." He doubts this will appease the detective, but it's an honest attempt at making things right between them. It's easy for John to fall into the trap of being angry. It's an integral part of how he operates, how he can cope with all the lies and manipulation he suffers from the people who are supposed to love him unconditionally. Yes, he is pissed off at Sherlock for interfering with the timeline discrepancies with Mary, but that is something he can add to the pile of crap Sherlock Holmes has done to him and move along.

"Sorry, that's the best I can come up with right now."

[could_be_dangerous]

A few moments' pause passes before Sherlock gives an incredulous snort, eyes dropping back to his mug of tea, around which he curls his fingers, sucking up its warmth. Now, here, he could amplify that sensation, feel it so acutely that it would become exquisite, agonizing. He could burn without burning at all. It might even be interesting.

"I showed Mary what happened because I am tired of dying for the sake of your relative comfort, John, not because you've been busy. I've been busy, it's..." He waves a dismissive hand. "It happened before; you didn't apologise then."

He'd been quite angry, in fact, though that had more to do with where he found Sherlock than the fact he'd found him again in the first place. How angry would he be if Sherlock went off someplace he couldn't follow? Quite, evidence of that is plenty too though maybe it had more to do with the lie than the fact he'd gone. Maybe as long as there were advance warning, he wouldn't care much at all. Sherlock isn't certain how he feels about that potentiality, and decides to ignore it.

"I'm not a child, John; I don't much care for being shot — rather not if I don't have to — and I thought she might deserve to see it, besides." Really see it. All of it. That's as much vengeance as generosity. And all of that said, he takes a near-scalding mouthful of tea and considers the window with some interest.

"I don't sleep much when I'm working; you know that." It's not the sort of work on which John can really take part, but then he hasn't really taken part in a while now anyhow. Not the way it used to be, not with other obligations, other people monopolizing on his favour. Sherlock can't be angry about that. He shouldn't be angry, anyhow: he'd encouraged it. Even after, because it was better than the alternatives, better that John should, if their life as it stood was insufficient (and it was, once one of them wasn't showing particularly many signs of life at all), at very least choose someone who might understand him. Better than being lost to any of the others, the string of exes, who it was demonstrated with great clarity ultimately couldn't.

[acclimatized]

Tired of dying for the sake of his relative comfort. Exhaling softly, John shakes his head at the brass of that statement and gulps down another mouthful of hot tea. Sherlock knows which words can cut deep and it hit the mark. Not apologizing back then can mean any number of things, but it makes John think about the time he discovered Sherlock in that drug den after not hearing anything from him for a month. Considering the steps he took with Mycroft to prevent him falling back into that nasty habit, John's temper had been running particularly high. In this place, John can occasionally tap into reserves of unknown strength and trash an apartment if he wanted to, but he didn't need any genetic adjustment to throw Sherlock through the backdoor. He never did have the chance to apologize because, in the same day, they started pursuing Magnussen.

Since that day, everything became so complicated. His wife turned out to be a completely different person who shot his best friend and killed him. Only for a few short minutes, until his stubbornness prevailed and he pulled through, surprising everyone in the operating theatre. John has had months to cope and come to terms with what happened to them but, for Sherlock, it's still recent. It's easy to forget and he deserves this treatment. He can silence that little voice buried deep inside that doesn't agree with his decision; he's had years of practice and the power to fortify his emotions.

"Well, I'm apologizing now. For all of it. It's behind us now, so... yeah. Have a cake, then we can move on from it all." He declares with a sniff, hoping to keep this promise. But there is something about what Sherlock said that doesn't make sense to him and he follows the declaration up with a question.

"But there's something I don't understand. You keep saying you showed her what happened when she sho—" His voice catches. It still gets to him, referencing that horrible evening and he waves his hand, vocals navigating past the restriction that has formed in his throat during this conversation.

"You know what I mean. You're usually such a grammar nazi, so... I don't get it."

[could_be_dangerous]

Ah. Now there a topic of potential interest. One corner of Sherlock's mouth creeps upwards, a crooked and half-genuine smile, though there's not much humour in it. "You saw my file; I showed you."

Skimmed it; saw is true but the implication is, perhaps, generous, and so that statement stands as rhetorical. He takes another mouthful of tea.

"I kept it." Two quick taps of fore- and middle fingers to the temple. "I've told you before, I trained my memory with the use of particular mnemonic devices, visualisation techniques, structure. I built a palace to keep it all in. Architecture."

Which, as it happens, turned out to be quite useful. Always had been, but now it's given that other place shape, the place to which he is the sole conduit, his own private universe. It has structure, comprehensible, more or less rigorous; it isn't the tangled, overgrown garden that it could be, were he not already accustomed to fitting thoughts to framework.

"I took her to where I kept it and I opened the door." It wasn't the first or last time he revisited that particular room of memory, searching for something he'd lost, something he missed, something that would have told him not to press, to expect her, but if there ever was he doesn't remember it. The mind palace is fallible; he is fallible. That's the point of rigor, the point of the mnemonics: this of all things proves he has to remember, has to be careful, selective, cut through the noise to what matters.

"It isn't comfortable, but I can. I could show you, too." 'Isn't comfortable' is a vast understatement, but nobody has bothered to invent words, so far as Sherlock can tell, for the process of allowing someone else to walk about inside one's head.

[acclimatized]

John purses his lips, his expression decidedly sheepish and telegraphing his inability to remember the details he read in Sherlock's file. He was focused on the ridiculous job they wanted him to do instead and besides... this was Sherlock Holmes. He was incredible enough without added enhancements, so John didn't think about it that much. He often joked about creating and maintaining a memory bungalow to rival his palace, but that never came to fruition.

"That can't be healthy." He remarks dryly, but the offer to show John disarms him all the same. How many times was he forced to sit outside Baker Street when Sherlock wanted to go into his mind palace? More than he can care to count. He definitely isn't interested in seeing Mary shoot Sherlock and shakes his head.

"I don't want to see that. You can show me anything else you've got in there if you want, just not that. Please."

[could_be_dangerous]

"Keeping it or showing her?" Healthier, surely, than not to have kept it. Certainly safer in the long run, which in this case is roughly equivalent to making an investment in his own well-being. That he wouldn't put it past her to do it again, and this time for good, necessitates that he not just keep the memory, but cultivate it. Plenty has grown from it already. Look where they *are*.

"I keep everything of importance, John, you know that, and I'll admit to a certain lack of concern for her health, under the circumstances. Nothing serious. No great harm done," he offers almost flippantly, with a sly glance. Don't you feel better now that you're not building on lies? Fragile foundation, necessitates the fabrication of too much information, like grains of sand — prone ultimately to liquefaction, all the more so for a man like John, unaccustomed to the sort of mistruths that mean anything. He's never been an accomplished liar, not in the way his wife is, or even Sherlock, who lies constantly if largely by omission.

There's plenty John doesn't say either, but he's straightforward about not saying it. Sherlock does his best, on the other hand, not to reveal that there's anything more to him at all — a matter of safety, naturally, and he's doing it now in refraining from admitting that letting anyone into that place is unhealthy too, that it leaves him remarkably vulnerable to damage and that he wouldn't have permitted Mary that much power over him if he hadn't felt that he had to. So the small, sly smile, the little jab at John's home life and mental state, the better to distract from his own.

[acclimatized]

"Both." John reciprocates with blunt honesty, a small smile tugging on his tense lips and tension ebbing away from his shoulders. Everyone knows that lying has never been John's particular forte. When Mycroft told him about what happened to Irene Adler, he blundered his way through the story they fabricated downstairs with little conviction. She would be very happy establishing a new life in America in a witness protection program... unless she bartered the wrong people again. John sincerely hoped she wouldn't: Sherlock's relationship with 'The Woman' was a mystery to him, but the desolate period between Christmas and New Year is not something John wants to re-experience ever again.

"Think I'll leave it for today, then. Whatever you've got in there, it's nothing compared to what I imagine it to be: the Taj Mahal meets Alice and Wonderland." He hastily pops a cupcake into his mouth as an old memory resurfaces, sending shivers up and down his spine while he chews in trepidation. Of course, he is curious about what else Sherlock has committed to his memory, but it isn't the sort of thing you ask when you come over to make peace.