Chapter Text
Sherlock jerked out of a light slumber when someone unlocked the heavy door of the padded cell. Two attendants he didn't know entered. Sherlock took care to appear docile and did not beg to be freed; it would only highlight his vulnerability. The brightness of their white jackets hurt his eyes, and the high pitched clinking of the key-chain was difficult to tolerate.
He blinked up at the men.
"I think he needs more medicine, he is starting to freak out again," a rough voice yelled out the door.
"I am not freaking out," Sherlock explained calmly while trying to fight off the stupor their last medication left him with.
"You should've behaved. We need to keep you safe. This is suicide prevention. You showed severe signs of self-harm," the carer spat.
The irony of this didn't escape Sherlock. He had done no such thing, they were using it as an excuse, but in his mind his self-destructive ideas had in fact festered. They accused him of something that was only present in his head.
Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, the man reached for Sherlock's throat and with one violent movement, pinned him down.
Sherlock didn't struggle, not even when the pressure on his windpipe intensified. It was terrifying to be cut off from air once more.
"You deserve being punished for what you did. If you hurt me, I will punch you into next week," the man threatened. "Any more misbehaviour and you'll spend the next month in here."
It seemed to be a common threat, used to make people comply in this institution.
Running out of air, a small part of Sherlock's mind started to seriously panic, but overall, he was just numb.
At least in here he didn't have to endure pseudo-treatments and their ridiculous routine. His thoughts trailed off when he remembered in how much danger he was - in comparison to out in the ward. There he was safe, here, he was not.
"We'll give you more medication and you will not fight us," the man announced and loosened his grip. He waved the other carer over, then was handed something.
Sherlock only hummed, tried to block them out, focussed on taking slow deep breaths.
With unnecessary force, he was turned onto his front, literally pinned to the ground by the carer's knee on his back, then his limbs were stretched out. If they wanted him to swallow something, this position was counterproductive. They made sure their manhandling was painful, though avoided causing real damage.
"Will you stay calm and take your medicine?" someone asked.
Sherlock nodded wearily and was then turned onto his side. The dim light was starting to give him a headache.
Someone gripped his hair, tilted his head back.
Liquid in his mouth.
When he didn't swallow immediately, they put pressure on his Adam's apple to force him to gulp.
It didn't matter. If it killed him by overdose, then maybe he could escape this place.
Then the taste registered.
Laudanum.
They kept his head in an iron grip so he couldn't even turn his head.
Some unconscious aspect of his mind started to rebel and although he tried to nip it in the bud, his body attempted to spit the liquid out.
The consequence was his mouth was held shut - so forcefully that his lips split and bled.
After some seconds someone pinched his nose closed. They waited until Sherlock was starting to struggle for air, then removed the grip from his mouth. They were clearly hoping he would swallow to open his mouth and breathe. Sherlock's awareness suddenly was kicked back into Culverton's kill zone.
He remembered the modern day hospital bed under him, how the side rails restricted his movements; he felt Smith's aftershave and his gloved hands on his face.
The same familiar panic he had felt back then - when his still hazy mind finally realised he was actually about to die and no one would save him - kicked in. Aggravated by the trauma, it felt even worse than the first time. Even worse than feeling the life drain out of him was the realisation that John had not come. Mary had been wrong. He was not worth saving. The realisation caused Sherlock to stop struggling against Culverton's hands. Something had broken in that moment and Sherlock was still all too aware of it. He had survived, but he had lost something that could never be rebuilt.
This time no one would come. Watson was not even here. He finally realised he couldn't do this without help but no one was there.
Maybe the horror of that memory was what kicked his body into full fight for survival mode. It did him little good; the men easily overpowered him and he lost himself in the panic.
The medication forced into him turned out to be a horror trip. The laudanum peaked an hour after it was administered and as soon as Sherlock regained some sort of half-awareness, he found himself at the mercy of his depressive thoughts.
He wished the laudanum would have kept him unaware, but his high tolerance prevented relief.
When he was given medication by John or under John's supervision it was different. In his youth, he had suffered a lot when given unpredictable substances which frightened and assaulted him.
With John, it was trust. He hated the unforeseen side effects, but knew his friend would never do anything to hurt him...
'I did hurt you!' John's sarcastic voice echoed through his mind.
Sherlock wondered if he would see an imaginary version of John if he opened his eyes. He didn't bother to do so. Dwelling on the hallucination was not going to help.
But he trusted John - except for that short episode, he did. He wanted to.
In the past, there was nothing but trust. John even considered his peculiar sensory issues when choosing medication. And he had an open ear when Sherlock refused certain things, asked why and valued the information Sherlock gave. John believed him when he reported odd side effects no neurotypical had ever heard of and took them seriously.
But this was different. His friend was no longer there.
This era's pharmaceuticals were unpredictable and forced on him.
The drugs he had taken on his own to enhance or numb his mind were different, too. He was meticulous at calculating doses for the effect he aimed at.
Although his homemade remedies damaged him, he was in control and did it on purpose. Well, except for when he lost control…
'… and you did,' John's voice reminded him.
Having the drugs forced on him felt like violation.
Like when he was a child and the doctors did things without his consent.
Full stop.
Suddenly, his breathing seemed off. It took a lot of effort to focus on the memory that had just sped by his hazed inner eye.
Fear accompanied the vague fragment of memory. He couldn't remember having spent time in a hospital as a child, but there it was, an obscure memory of being in a hospital room in a child sized bed.
He had been to the paediatrician, yes, and even to A&E due to small injuries, but he and his mother had left immediately after treatment. As far as he knew, he had never stayed over night.
For what had he been hospitalised?
It alarmed him to no end that he couldn't regain the memory.
Maybe the crude medication had caused another hallucination, produced false memories? Was his mind going haywire?
The memory contained little detail, just the fact that he felt very bad and that doctors were forcefully medicating him. They were hurting him with needles and being rough, telling him it was for his own good. He was small but his parents weren't there.
He was quite sure his mother wouldn't have left him in a hospital... or would she?
Why couldn't he remember?
This couldn't be a real memory.
Although he tried, he couldn't remember any more. At some point his headache became so bad he welcomed sleep.
Sherlock drifted in and out of consciousness for what might have been hours or even days, only disrupted by more asylum carers coming in and administering more drugs.
He had lost all sense of time and couldn't even tell how often the process was repeated.
His delirious mind was deteriorating and he became more and more afraid of being slowly poisoned. Because it really was the easiest way to get rid of him.
At some point, Sherlock felt his mind cave in.
After weeks of trying to figure out a way to escape, his goal just vanished from his mind. He had no energy left. He didn't fight the scenario any longer, just allowed himself to fall into it. It felt dangerous, giving his subconscious control, it had so often run wild when on the wheel.
Some time later the hallucinations became more vivid.
He saw John standing in the corner and staring at him.
'You're so fucking high, it's disgusting,' John spat. 'Can't you even once do the right thing?'
From then on, he ignored any voices he heard.
He didn't bother to open his eyes when he felt someone nearby. They would just give him more medication that would render him an imbecile.
There were more touches now and then but he couldn't care about what was done to his transport.
It didn't matter. No matter what he did, he would only lose.
His energy was spent and his will to fight had drained away.
'You made a fucking oath to protect my family!' mental John yelled from a corner.
He hoped John would shut up.
"I wish someone would protect me at the moment…" he whispered into the empty room. It felt pathetic and selfish to utter the little spark of self-pity John's comment had invoked because he was the one who was in dire need for help. Admitting it left him feel even more vulnerable and bare.
Sherlock couldn't help but wonder if his oath meant anything any longer.
Did anything mean anything any longer?
He felt separated from everything, numb and detached.
Only fragments of what was happening diffused into his awareness.
This kind of high certainly didn't feel good but it allowed him to drift in space and ignore his mental and physical ailments - and he did. He assumed it was mainly opium and cannabis that they gave him. If they continued at the same rate it wouldn't take long until he was beyond saving. He had retreated to the Victorian era to stay sane while getting clean; instead, it was worse than reality.
He was so done with it all.
Some time later, a commotion brought him back to half awareness. By then the constant drugging and the lack of food had rendered him almost completely unable to move. They had force fed him water now and then, he remembered vaguely.
Hands touched him, tried to make him react, but he couldn't care any more.
Once more he hallucinated John's voice but didn't dwell on it. Although, for a change, this time John didn't attempt to inform him how disgusting he was. He denied himself the - probably - last chance to see his mind's creation and ignored the hallucination.
Something changed when suddenly his body was manipulated more than usual. They didn't just turn him onto his back to check if he was still alive, neither did they bring him in position for another dose of medication.
The room rocked around him when several hands lifted him and pulled him upwards.
He was overwhelmed by the kind of nausea that preceded imminent fainting. Much to his annoyance, his mind changed course and provided him with the information that if he passed out now, the only chance to free himself would be squandered. The only chance for escape was while in transfer.
They pulled him down the endless corridors but he could barely see them due to the assault of large dark fields in his vision that constantly threatened a black out. His transport had reached its limits.
At some point, Sherlock thought he saw daylight through his half open lids. Without conscious thought, his transport gathered all its strength and jostled free.
It was stupid, really, he had no clue where he was or which way he was going, he realised a moment too late. He should have waited, should have observed more before taking action. He only made two steps towards the light before they stopped him. He had expected a blow to the head but it seemed they had a chain on him, bound to the strait jacket.
Sherlock lost time but the world was too hazy to clearly process what he missed. It was all a blur. He was manhandled into the light and the smell and noises of horses reached his downgraded understanding.
The light was so bright it brought tears to his eyes, even though they were closed.
More movement.
He was yelled at and dragged into the dark again. The room swayed under him and he was deposited in a seat.
Was he in a carriage?
Whatever was going on, it was probably not a good thing that they were moving him. He understood that maybe he should try to fight them, but that realization came slowly in his stupefied state.
The carriage started to move.
Hopelessness took over and it was so vicious and his fatigue was so crippling, that all he could do was try to hold on to consciousness and wait for another chance to escape. Portmann's minions were probably bringing him somewhere to get rid of his body. It would be so much easier to kill him in the asylum but maybe Portmann didn't want to have blood on his hands and relied on others to do the dirty work. Maybe in this situation his high tolerance for drugs would actually help him survive this.
He felt the Hansom sway under him and heard the voices of the goons in the vehicle with him, but he couldn't understand their words.
He slipped into darkness once more.
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