Sherlock was usually a very visual thinker, but he didn’t remember Baker Street in pictures. He remembered it in movements; climbing the seventeen steps that took him to their door. He remembered the way he fit into its dimensions. He could navigate their flat in the dark without a stumble, could even make a cup of tea without turning the lights on. He remembered in his bones and his muscles the precise geometry of his arm stretching to open a cupboard, or the inward push-pull motion required to open his stiff bedroom window. If he stood now in his poky bedsit, closed his eyes and reached his hand out, Baker Street fell into place around him.
He remembered other things, of course- sights and smells and sounds. Mrs Hudson humming Shirley Bassey when she was cleaning, or John burning his toast in the morning. But there was a subtle persistence in the memory of a familiar movement, often and thoughtlessly repeated- reaching, opening, closing, lifting- the mechanics of home.
He remembered John like he remembered Baker Street- a presence that had been built around him, always within reaching distance. John was constant and solid and easy, like sitting down at the breakfast table, or climbing into bed in the dark. John was muscle memory.
He remembered his home with his body.