"I was within and without. Simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life."

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Tonight the mind palace is not the comforting presence wrapped around his consciousness that it usually is. Instead, it is dark and mysterious, the winding corridors lit with platinum wall sconces that flicker in warning as he passes them. He can feel the bottom hem of his long black coat pulling back against the breeze made by his legs as he strides purposely down the self-made halls.

Now the walls are lined with mirrors that Sherlock pays scant attention to. He is searching through millions of pieces of data, desperately seeking the key that will unlock the truth of the scenes he witnessed only a few short hours earlier. Scenes that almost broke him; they may still very well do, depending on the outcome of what is happening around him. Tonight the facts he needs appear to be willfully escaping his mental grasp.

He is brought up short at some random point and goes completely still. Sherlock peers into the impenetrable darkness ahead then moves his attention to the right where his reflection stares back at him. It is as flinty-eyed and dour as ever he can be. His mouth twitches at the amusing sight of the stray curl over his eye that his reflection shows, otherwise this is useless time wasting so he waves his hand in the air to banish his doppelganger. It disappears quickly, but not before he realizes that written on its forehead in dripping black ink is the word "Cruel." He grimaces and so does the reflection, then it is gone.

Another one takes its place. Identical to the first except it has bleached-blond hair and "Guilty" written on its forehead. Sherlock makes the same gesture as before, only this time it doesn't work. He finds himself with three of them as apparently his subconscious has decided that he is not only cruel and guilty, but also a "Machine." The auburn hair on the third reflection has been closely cropped to his skull and there is a silver patch over one of its eyes. Its expression holds the same dry anger as its brethren.

This is preposterous! How can he even begin to sift through vital information when this useless crap insists on getting in the way?

A low beeping sound pierces the walls and intrudes on his thoughts.

At once the mind palace becomes nothing more than smoke as he brings reality back to the forefront of his mind. What he sees when he opens his eyes will never cease to be a jolt to his system.

John is prone on a hospital bed with tubes and IV's almost obscuring him from view. A shock of dirty blond hair can be seen against the stark white pillow and his hands are still, frozen in time on either side of his body, palms facing the ceiling, fingers relaxed into a mockery of fists. Sherlock notes the hitch in his own breathing as he looks over his best friend.

John's skin is ashen; pale eyelids are pulled tightly over eyes that have yet to cease their movement. Deep purple bruises mar the skin beneath his eyes. A bright red line runs down the side of his jaw, the deep color broken only by neat black stitches. The sight of it angers Sherlock in ways he has never known. John's light-blue clad chest—his too thin chest, if Sherlock is honest with himself—rises and falls in time with the machine breathing for him.

As much as it physically hurts, Sherlock is forced to admit that nothing about John's condition has changed in the past few hours, or however long he's been wandering the mind palace. He glances at the readouts on several of the machines and sighs before settling back into the uncomfortable plastic chair that feels like it is made only for people half his height. Sherlock brings his steepled fingers back to his mouth and instantly returns to the corridors of the mind palace.

This time the sconces burn brightly and a healthy golden glow illuminates his way as he delves deeper into his subconscious. Every step is muffled by the plush carpet beneath his feet as he strolls, taking in his surroundings with the familiarity of touching a long-time lover. Door after door appears as he passes through the mirrored hallways, each one unique and unlabeled. This time he is able to ignore his triple reflection, choosing to only grudgingly acknowledge their collective presence with a flick of his fingers.

There are more important things to be done at this moment, such as track down the impertinent bastard who brought John to this point.

In the hospital room, Sherlock's eyes are closed but the rapid movement beneath the lids mimics that of the man in the bed. His spine is straight, feet flat on the floor. Anyone looking in on them would think that the detective is simply meditating on his friend's condition.

In Sherlock's mind, however, there are many things happening at the same time. Random bits of data, such as words and mathematical algorithms fly past. Behind them are what appear to be several stacks of three-dimensional, crystal clear window panes. Beyond the walls of the palace wild animals go about their lives, some wearing see-through collars adorned with labels giving out their scientific names. Beyond even that is plant life galore, growing in order from the smallest to the largest: a tiny new Venus flytrap stands in front of a cherry tree which stands in front of an apple tree and so on and so forth until a giant sequoia stretches up as far as the inner eye can see.

Sherlock circles the front parlor, ignoring the red velvet drapes decorated with heavy gold brocade and concentrates instead on the old red chair sitting alone in the center of the floor. He moves up close to it and leans down to pluck a perfect golden hair from the back. Holding it up to the light, it appears to be more crystalline than fibrous, beautiful in its perfection.

In the hospital room as well as in the mind palace, Sherlock sighs deeply. In his subconscious, Sherlock hears the word "John" escape his lips on the exhale.

A tall, dark-haired nurse with a stethoscope around her neck has just opened the door to peek in at her charge and the man that the hospital staff is calling his 'guard dog.' Since the guard dog appears to be dozing, she quickly and efficiently checks John's vitals and straightens his blankets. His breathing is deep and if it weren't for the machine, she could believe he is sleeping soundly. Out of habit, her eyes scan the man in the chair as well and she has to fight the motherly urge to wrap a blanket around his shoulders. Something in the way he holds himself, however, pulls her up short. She nods to herself and slips out of the room on her soft-soled shoes.