A Mindful Meeting of Truth

Eurus is safely secure back in Sherrinford, Mycroft is home most likely retching from his part in the deaths, John is home safe with little Rosie, Molly is happy again after hearing from Sherlock's own mouth his explanation, his parents are still in shock, but happy to be united with their daughter, even if not in the ways they wanted, and all is well and right again in the world.

Sherlock's exhausted and gaunt form trudges through the front door of 221B and up the stairs. It's past midnight now and as tired as he is, he can't bring himself to sleep. Vivid memories of all that had happened in Sherrinford rush through his mind on replay; all of the emotion welled up inside him from the evil endeavors of his sister, as much as John and his brother thought they had seen, had not been, and they tumble out of his body in wracking sobs as he sinks into his familiar leather chair. Covering his face with his hands, he eventually gains control again and wipes his face.

This is why he hates emotion. Look what he had done to them; he was so scared and so concerned that he didn't even see that the endgame was a metaphor, a fraud, a non-existent threat. There was no little girl to save, only his own adult sister from her psychotic mind. All those deaths were almost for naught. Thinking back to the Musgrave ritual, he realizes that as bright as he was, six-year-old him never could have figured that out. It doesn't relieve is guilt, but he knows that even he was susceptible to the innocence of childhood at one point. That was the difference between him and Eurus

Relaxing back against his cozy seat, Sherlock lets himself drift off into his mind palace. His initial intention was to go through the memories of the day and store them in the proper rooms, however, that is not where his mind, or rather, his heart, led him.

~ ~ ~

Sherlock enters his mind palace and looks down the long hallway, where, at the end, his room of comfort, and of security stands. He has been to this room many times before, especially the times he was dying, but this time it was different. This time it wasn't a false memory, but a truth. He was both nervous and willing to see what lay behind the doors of his favorite room now.

Unlike the frantic rush of the previous time, Sherlock takes slow strides toward the large, double cherry wood doors, the sound of his shoes gently clacking on the marbled floor with each step. Upon reaching it, Sherlock reaches his hands out to pull at the heavy doors metal handles, grunting slightly as he flings them open with force.

Time seems to stop, even in his mind as Sherlock steps inside the large room and takes in the sight before him. The heavy doors slam and click shut behind his back. His eyes widen and his jaw drops just slightly, suddenly more nervous and shoving his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff.

Stood before him was a man of about six foot two. He wore a blue and red open flannel shirt with a black t-shirt beneath, and jeans. New white sneakers upon his feet glisten in the bright lights of the tall room. The man wears a broad, endearing, yet boyish smile, and looks across the empty room with clear blue eyes. His flaming red-orange hair and trimmed facial hair seems to attract the light that reflects off of it. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans almost shyly and speaks before Sherlock does, in a deep but not gruff voice.