Written for the letswritesherlock challenge on tumblr. The prompt was:

After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…

None of the characters are mine. Unfortunately.

Johnlock. Don't like, don't read.

Error 221: Mind Palace Overload

The cab ride home was tense. Sherlock was sulking and his mood was accordingly bad. His fingertips tapped a nervous rhythm on his left knee, his forehead rested against the cool window of his cab. Sherlock's usually plush lips were a thin line, his eyes darting back and forth with an almost aggressive glance that made John shudder. He muttered something that the doctor didn't quite grasp but it definitely didn't sound friendly.

Usually, Sherlock would be glowing with the rush of adrenaline that always washed over him after a case, but today was different. Sherlock hadn't been his usual self, not at all. He had taken the case with flaming interest, seeing as it was a murder that had been committed by a serial killer – at least that was Sherlock's theory.

They had arrived at the crime scene to be greeted by a tired Lestrade who downed ten cups of coffee during the time they were there. Everything had been like always, what with Sherlock gloating about, coat billowing behind him, shouting insults at Anderson and rattling of his deductions at light speed.

But then, something had suddenly changed.

John still didn't know what was wrong but Sherlock had stopped dead in his tracks, staring blankly ahead, not doing anything anymore, just breathing. His chest heaved with the ragged breaths he took and all of a sudden, he turned white. It almost was like he had seen a ghost.

"Sherlock?" John had asked quietly, already in his doctor mode. But he had received no answer. Instead, Sherlock had started to shake quite violently, knees giving way. John had only caught his head in the nick of time so he wouldn't hit it on the hard ground.

For three seconds, Sherlock had continued to stare ahead, then he had slowly turned his head and faced John with clouded eyes. "Home," was everything he whispered, his voice raw and uncertain as if he hadn't spoken for days.

It had been obvious to John that Sherlock couldn't go on in this condition. He had flagged down a cab and rushed Sherlock inside, apologising to Lestrade for leaving him hanging like that. The DI understood however, and he had said they'd be free to come over when Sherlock felt better.

The nasty comments by Donovan and Anderson had come, of course.

"Oh look, the freak was too stupid to solve the case. Too hard for him, I bet."
"He's not the super brain everyone thought he was."

Sherlock heard them, of course – and John chose to ignore them.

As soon as the cabbie started the engine, Sherlock slumped into his seat, pressing his forehead against the glass, thinking frantically, obviously still trying to solve the case.

And now here they were, in the cab on their way home, and Sherlock had gone from quiet and obedient to angry and moody.

"Sherlock," John tried quietly, wanting to calm his friend down. "It's alright. You don't have to work yourself up about that."

Sherlock's head shot around to face John, his glare anything but nice. A sneer tugged at the detective's lips. "What do you know about that?"

John sighed. There it was again, Sherlock's childish attitude that John was so familiar with and that always unnerved him. "I'm just saying that … Sherlock, you didn't solve a case, what's wrong with that?"

"Everything!" Sherlock's answer was a roar, his brow furrowed by an angry frown. "I have never failed to solve a case in my whole career, and I'm certainly not going to do so now!"

John ran a hand over his face, thinking about what he could say to make Sherlock calm down.
"But it wouldn't be such a horrible thing," he tried again. "Everyone makes mistakes, everyone fails at something eventually. It shouldn't matter to you that much."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You really have no idea what this is like for me, do you? You with your tiny little brain, you just don't understand!"

"Because you give me no bloody possibility to!" John was shouting now as well, thus earning an angry glance from the cabbie. He lowered his voice immediately but his frustration could still be heard in the way he spoke. "I want to understand, and I want to help you, Sherlock, but I can't if you shut me out!"

Sherlock huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Do stop trying to assure me I matter to you." He turned his head again, staring John into the eye. "Because I know I don't."

The doctor wanted to protest because Sherlock was wrong, so utterly, utterly wrong, and he didn't even have a clue how Sherlock came to that conclusion, but he couldn't say something. He didn't know what. Anything he could have said would have made the detective even angrier and John didn't want to risk that. So he just mumbled a "You're a git" and turned to face the window and the busy London streets while unconsciously pressing closer to the wall of the cab, farther away from Sherlock.

They arrived at Baker Street soon enough. While John busied himself with paying the cab driver, Sherlock stormed out of the cab, unlocked the door to 221B and stomped up the stairs. He still looked as white as a sheet but at least he wasn't threatening to lose his balance again.

John followed him after a bit, unsure of what was awaiting him upstairs.

The atmosphere was still tense, aggressive even. Sherlock paced about, fingers tented underneath his chin, muttering something under his breath. John chose to not talk to him and went upstairs. Better to leave the consulting detective alone with his thinking. He updated his blog and didn't go down into the living room until he heard a loud bang, followed by a shout.

"FUCK!"

That was Sherlock's voice, definitely. But Sherlock never swore.

Something about that made John shut the lid of his laptop and rush downstairs, only to find a heavily panting consulting detective standing over the couch table that had been thrown over.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Sherlock straightened up and ruffled his hair without taking notice of John. "This bloody case. Why the hell can't I solve it?" He kicked the table hard and let out a scream of agony.

John had to admit he was afraid. He didn't know Sherlock like that. Yes, he was used to him getting frustrated over a case but not with swearing or destroying furniture. Something was wrong here, very wrong.

Sherlock let himself himself onto the sofa, running his hands over his face and up into his hair again. He tugged at his curls in despair like he often did when he couldn't process something properly. He usually didn't tug hard and it never really hurt him. This time, however, pain was clearly visible on his face and John knew he had to intervene.

"Sherlock." His voice was steady and loud, but not too much so. He neither wanted to scare Sherlock nor appear too weak. Sherlock let go of his curls, blinking at John before his face turned into a cold mask again.

"What do you want?"

"I heard you."

"Congratulations, you have ears." Sherlock stared at him, obviously trying to make him go away but John didn't budge. He was used to this kind of behaviour.

"You can't just go about and destroy our furniture because you're angry," he growled, crossing his arms.

"I bloody well can," Sherlock retorted, tearing his eyes away from John and staring at the wall next to him.

"But I don't want you to," John said angrily, "and you need to stop acting like that. What's gotten into you, for God's sake?"

Sherlock said nothing for a while, just staring. Then he made a sound.

It was something like a sob, something that made John's chest clench painfully and he rushed over to his friend. "What's wrong?" he asked in a soothing voice but Sherlock didn't answer.

John sat down next to him, unsure of what to do next but Sherlock suddenly started talking quietly. John had to perk up his ears to understand everything he said. It wasn't much, though, but it was a start.

"Mind Palace," was everything Sherlock said and he started tugging at his curls again.

"Your Mind Palace?" John asked confused.

"Yes. It rarely happens but when it does, it..." Sherlock interrupted himself and sighed. "Overload. I haven't deleted anything lately. Too much information on my hard drive. Mind Palace Overload. Causes headache. Simple as that."

John said nothing, only licked his lips nervously.

"This hasn't happened for years, John," Sherlock said, looking up. He looked like a lost puppy, John noticed. His grey eyes wide, one errant curl sticking to his forehead. "But today at the crime scene, it just happened. I got a strong headache, it was simply too much. It's just so frustrating, really. I'm useless without my Mind Palace, to everyone."

That would explain why Sherlock thought he didn't matter to John. It was a stupid reason, and wrong at that, but sometimes, even Sherlock's logic was flawed.

"I'm a failure when I don't function properly," he continued. "You heard what Donovan and Anderson said, you saw how disappointed Lestrade was. And you can't deny that you were disgusted by me, too."

"Disgusted?" John echoed. "Jesus, what makes you think that? I was worried about you, but that's everything!"

Sherlock huffed a laugh.

"You admire my brilliance, my intellect, my skills of observation. What am I without those? What is there to admire when I can't deduce? Nothing."

John was silent for a moment. Did Sherlock really think that?

"Do you really think that I reduce you to your intelligence?" He stared at Sherlock. "Because if you do, I don't think you are as clever as I thought."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked with a frown.

"You are a great man to me, Sherlock, no matter what. You might be mad, you might be a bloody brilliant idiot, and above all, you're my best friend. I would never, ever think you're useless. You give me everything I need, everything I want."

When Sherlock didn't answer, John spoke again. "We can still look into the case when your Mind Palace works again. Lestrade said so himself. And I'm sure you'll solve it then."

Sherlock looked at him, then shook his head and tugged at his curls again. "That won't work," he complained. "Everything in my head is so loud, and I can't control it. It makes me mad, it really does!" Sherlock let out something akin to a pained sob again, burying his head in his hands. John gently reached for Sherlock's wrists and pulled them away so they looked at each other.

Sherlock blinked once, twice, then swallowed. He looked so utterly lost and John desperately wanted to do something. If he couldn't stop the noise in Sherlock's head, maybe he could at least try and ease the pain he was experiencing.

John didn't think twice about what he was supposed to do but followed and instinct. He leaned forward and brushed his lips to Sherlock's.

The kiss was chaste and didn't last long, it was a mere brush of lips, but it was everything John needed. It simply felt right. When John pulled away, Sherlock looked dazed and smiled even a bit.

"Silence," he whispered, and John knew what that meant.

Sherlock looked at him with something akin to awe. "You chased the noise away," he whispered, tugging at John's sleeve. "You're brilliant, John."

John simply smiled back and touched Sherlock's cheek gently before leaning in again and kissing his best friend/flatmate/personal lunatic/partner, this time with all his emotions put into it.

If that was all it took to silence Sherlock's brain, then he would happily continue to kiss him – and do something that would keep the noises away for days.

~ Fin