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The Chemist

Summary:

Sherlock returns to Baker Street and faces detox. But he is too exhausted and ill to go through it fully conscious, so he - once more - uses his mind palace to distract himself with an old case.
Due to his drug issues and the tension between him and John things don't work as smoothly as everyone hoped they would, confronting Sherlock and all his friends with more of their demons than they would have liked to.

Notes:

I started writing this story the week after TAB aired, but the amount of research I needed to do on withdrawal and case background was so large that when S4 aired the story was only half finished and I hadn't published any of it. I planned a ridiculously complex case that needed so much knowledge!
After TLD I found this fitted way better into a withdrawal setting there than after TAB and I changed the setting, which didn't take that much work in comparison to the other stuff I read into.
This summer I spent my entire vacation working this over and working out the plot.
So, here it finally is.
Hope you enjoy it.
Many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip for her beta work, medical knowledge and feedback in moments when I was lost. :)

 

Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

This takes place during TLD, after the hospital rescue and most of it before the hug scene.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Day 1 (2016) - Back home

Chapter Text

 

 

2016 - Day  1

 

Sherlock tried to roll to his other side, but the pain in his joints – especially his shoulder and hips - made it an agonising endeavour. The last moment he remembered people where listening and stifled a moan. John, Mrs Hudson, Molly and Mycroft were in the living room. They had brought him home from hospital a few hours ago, but he was far from recovered.

He had refused to go through withdrawal at the hospital and since his kidneys were responding well to treatment and had resumed their work, he had been released. Against medical advice of course, at least against the hospital doctor's one. John had agreed with him that he needed to get out of there.

Also, he wanted to recover at home.

In his own bed.

During the long nights at the hospital he had so much yearned to be at home.

But now that he was here, the world was still rubbish. Hard edges and odd lights wherever he turned, physically and mentally.

Something about home felt foreign and not home at all.

Also, going through this alone would be preferable, let no one witness his misery.

But it seemed right now he didn't have a choice.

It was either doing it with them present of at a rehab centre.

Another thing was, that after the recent events Sherlock was desperate to have John around, no matter what cost.

He had felt bad for too long, now. His patience was wearing thin.

Withdrawal was always a very ugly endeavour, he had known that.

The past weeks - in which Mary had died and then John had refused to talk to him - had been the most miserable ones in recent history.

Sherlock had no doubts Mycroft would knock him out and cart him to a rehab centre if he refused to have them present. His sibling was well aware that going through withdrawal in a hospital would worsen his mental state. Mycroft was aware he was everything else than fine, but not willing or able to put one of the main reasons he was in this state into words.

During the past two days withdrawal symptoms had started to become more severe, though he was still in the 'crash phase' mostly. At the hospital he had been given reduced doses of some of the stuff he had taken to soften the whole ordeal as well as other meds to help him with the process. Now John was the one administering everything and deciding what would be given when.

To his surprise Mycroft and John agreed that 221b was preferable to a clinic because such a place usually caused the detective more stress than it was worth. They acknowleged that - most of the time - it was counterproductive; due to the personnel, the noises, the scents, and - to Sherlock's annoyance his brother had argued with - loneliness.

The reverberations of his solitary confinement after Magnussen left Mycroft with a sour understanding what it did to his little brother and that it should be avoided at all cost.

In hospital, John and Mycroft had discussed this as if he hadn't been there. It had irked him, but he was much too tired to bother really.

He knew his ailments would get worse soon and he was desperate to find a way to escape all this, for a bit at least. In his current state visiting the mind palace was difficult, but he was sure he could manage.

Keeping up the concentration when his body was plaguing him with the side effects of his abstinence was sometimes a problem, but he had no choice, he needed a healthy break from this to get through the night.

During his hospital stay, he had tried to escape to his mind palace once already. The result was some seriously freaked out nurses, who then had tried to convince a doctor to delay his release and do more test. It was sheer luck (and Mycroft maybe?) that he had managed to avoid the impending psychiatric assessment.

If he was honest with himself, he was aware that he felt quite depressed.

Luckily, he had been able to sleep a lot, which was just another issue during the crash phase.

Massive exhaustion and tiredness had hit him like a brick wall.

But at least being aware of the symptoms and conscious enough to handle them was improvement.

Although he was in quite some pain he felt more present than during his medical treatments.

More present, more himself.

He could hear John and Mycroft in 221b's kitchen, now, talking softly, before steps came down the hall and John entered his bedroom.

The doctor stepped close to his bed.

"Hey?… Can I touch you?"

John had learned before that touching Sherlock was what could tip him over the edge, cause a meltdown.

That hadn't been pretty. For the past few days Sherlock had been hypersensitive when it came to all kinds of sensory input.

And he had woken half the ward yelling at John and the nurses who had touched him when he couldn't stand it.

"No," he breathed.

His whole body seemed to itch and that was one more argument for escaping to the palace as soon as possible. His transport was just too difficult and annoying to endure.

"It's time for your meds."

Of course.

Mycroft had supplied them with the best drugs there were to soften withdrawal and help with the symptoms, but it was all a drop in the ocean.

"I can't keep them down," Sherlock mumbled, wishing they would in fact do work as they should, which at least half of them didn't do.

"I know. Dehydration will become a problem if we don't stop this soon. I have an antiemetic here for starters."

John held up a small syringe.

Sherlock reached out for it, "I'll do it."

"No, you won't. Hands are shaking," John pointed at his friend's outstretched hand.

Sherlock growled when he saw the other man was right, but being touched seemed currently a much worse idea than hurting himself by using his own uncoordinated hands.

He groweled again.

"No, Sherlock. Just no!" John produced a piece of gauze and carefully rolled up his sleeve.

Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on ignoring the touch.

Within a few seconds John had injected the medication, overall he was good at it, Sherlock was aware, able to do it with little discomfort due to long years of practise.

"Let's wait a bit before we try a bit of tea. This should work fast. Need anything?"

"No," Sherlock closed his eyes and John left without another word.

For god's sake, he needed to escape this for a few hours. Rest while he could. Things would get worse soon.

During his solitary confinement after shooting Magnussen, he had been close to losing his mind due to boredom and the endless emptiness around and inside him. The sorrow and anguish were getting to him, back then he had tried using the mind palace.

Most of the time it hadn't worked.

But now, John was here.

Since he could hear his friend while inside the palace the risks of it being a negative experience were lower.

He knew it would be an escape - kind of.

Pathetic and cowardly.

But this - waiting for worse things that lay ahead to come - was amplifying his mental distress and the typical psychological side effects were starting to become hard to endure. It lowered his resistance profoundly when they had started, and he feared severe complications of the mental kind might be ahead because of it.

He had hoped to prevent that John witnessed the state he was in.

His former flatmate was unwell, one alarming sign was that John's eyes seemed smaller, swollen, somehow.

Sherlock had seen this on several occasions, when the doctor was sick or very exhausted. It hadn't happened often, though. But the last times had been when Sherlock had pulled him out of the bonfire and on the plane after he had come out of his case in the Victorian era mind palace.

John was still in deep grieving mode and also he was having enormous problems with the fact that he had beaten Sherlock in the morgue only a few days ago.

He himself had been too busy being in pain, being drugged, and trying to hide both to really pay attention to the emotional after effects this event had – on both of them.

Sherlock had given John a lot of his attention when his friend was visiting him.

It seemed John was in a very bad place, he had finally understood Sherlock had gone on a suicide mission to save him and was now even beyond anger.

Though Sherlock did not understand why he was. There was still a great amount of anger, yes, but at what exactly, Sherlock was not sure. The silence John's sorrow caused was far worse than any obvious anger.

There was so much regret in his gaze that Sherlock felt uneasy – maybe even guilty - for having caused it all, although a good part of it was in fact caused by Mary's past.

This version of regret was an intense feeling... one with an aftertaste and Sherlock didn't like it at all, it added to his distress.

He tried to hide from John how poorly he felt, he was ashamed, wanted to sleep it out, wait it out, ignore it all.

A year ago, his excursion into Victorian England had been more comfortable and enjoyable than he had thought.

And now he felt a need to dwell in that decade a bit more to distract himself, while tossing and turning on the bed and fighting his cravings.

Breathing deeply, he started to roam through his mental index of interesting cold cases from that period.

But his mind was muddled and dark, the palace's lighting was insufficient, he needed another source of outside input.

Slowly, he shoved his feet over the edge of his bed to get his laptop from the dining table.

It took some effort to reach his bedroom door and he had barely stepped into the kitchen on weak legs when John came his way.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

"Laptop."

"You want to sit in the living room or shall I bring it to your bedroom?"

Sherlock said nothing but shuffled past him, barely lifting his warm socks from the wooden floor.

Apparently, Mycroft was not in the flat any longer, probably glad to escape the situation.

"Right."

As soon as he had booted the device John placed a cup of steaming tea next to him and silently sat down opposite.

Within minutes Sherlock found some of the files he was looking for in the police database. Using Lestrade's login was always handy. The man was quite uncreative when it came to passwords.

Sherlock considered to print out a list of what might be interesting, one of those seventeen printers must have some toner left... or ink... but he was too tired to plug them in, so he just created pdfs and saved them.

He couldn't get the data itself on his own anyway, it was in paper form or in the MI5 archive, he needed someone to get it.

"There's a tablet computer, in case you need to lie down and want to go on with that," John pointed at a still packed touch screen device that must have been left by Mycroft, it looked quite expensive.

Sherlock looked at John again, silently asking where it came from and then the deductions started coming in.

The doctor looked awful, indeed. They had both lost weight and were both quite broken currently.

Sherlock had known his friend wouldn't take a relapse lightly but had never expected things to go bad to this amount. John seemed to suffer immensely from the fact that he hadn't gone to save Sherlock from Culverton Smith on his own - and the fact that Sherlock had turned this self-destructive.

Would this observation pop up in his mind every time he saw John from now on?

Make him see only that guilt when he looked at the person?

It was a bit annoying.

And counter productive.

His mind was returning to foul thoughts quite frequently these days. The spiral down into depressing thoughts had started right after Mary's death and he had been unable to slow it down. Struggling to stop the decent, he had realised it was a lost cause.

He was here now because now there was a chance that he could remain in John's company, stay alive near him.

He found it was all he wanted...

After Mary's death, Sherlock had assumed it would probably be more merciful to John if he just stayed out of his life, as John had demanded.

Leave him to be a father.

But recent events made him aware that his friend wasn't safe just because Sherlock wasn't there to cause trouble.

Mary had mutated into a source of trouble thoroughly on her own.

His absence wouldn't mean John was out of danger, therefore leaving him was not worth both their sacrifices, or grief, or the horror of loss.

There were lousy days ahead.

Also, whoever had broadcasted the Moriarty video was still out there.

John would be far safer with than without him, not just because of the external factors. Sherlock had deduced John had drunken himself into numbness on more than a few nights after Mary's death and this also needed to stop soon.

Sherlock was more relieved than he could ever express that they had been given another chance.

He was also well aware that Mycroft had worked hard on that solution, had been a proper big brother in fact, although Sherlock would never admit that in his presence.

John must have felt his gaze because he looked up.

Their tired eyes met and John gave him a small smile, which's sadness was more than the detective could handle.

Lost for words Sherlock lowered his eyes, his emotions unclear and surrounded by a heap of unknown needs.

Frustration.

He had been told it was not enough to name his emotions with this single term.

His lack to differenciate between negative feelings was hindering him a lot these days and the counsellor at the hospital had stated they were against letting him go because Sherlock was not cooperating with her and opening up, talking about his feelings.

Mycroft had finally interfered, understanding Sherlock's lack of cooperation was not only caused by the inability to sort through all the distress he experienced but also by the incompetence of the woman to see the finer issues that were really the ones that mattered.

Now, Sherlock carefully tried to collect whatever he might be feeling, trying to sort it out. Not to share it with anybody, though, just to have it clear.

Gratitude.

Pain.

Resentment.

Discomfort.

Loss.

Uneasiness.

Sorrow.

Shame.

Guilt.

Grief.

Affection.

He had not the slightest idea how to show gratitude for John's grumpy presence, or any other of those weakening struggles with himself.

Those things were surrounding him, causing disorientation and dismay and he couldn't really sort them out or process them just because he was able to name them.

How does one get over them, as long as working through them was not possible?

"Sherlock? You okay?" John frowned.

Lost for words, the detective shook his head and the doctor stood up.

Only when his friend stepped closer he realised his headshake might be interpreted as a 'no' to the question if he was okay, not - as he had meant it - as a sign that he would not grant that question an answer.

"Get these files from Lestrade. Make Mycroft get into the MI5 database again, find out what..." he rudely shoved a piece of paper towards John, who looked taken aback.

Sherlock closed his eyes, clenching his teeth.

He was not a good friend right now and not easy to be around, he was aware. John was the only one who had ever caused reflection on himself like this. But he felt like going mad and his body tried to kill him with feeling worse than he had in a long long time.

He simply didn't have the energy to behave in the way John deserved and needed.

Saving John had wrecked him.

He lowered his gaze, "Sorry," he whispered.

All he wanted was John to stay.

Correction... needed.

Now that he expected to live - the shock about that still hadn't worn off since he had been sure Smith would kill him... or that he had doubts anyone would come to save him - he wanted the other man close by.

The only thing that could ease the path that was ahead of him, the things he'd suffer through, was John.

Taking drugs again had woken demons that he had forgotten existed – no, he had never forgotten they were there, he had just buried the memories of them deep down where he couldn't stumble into them accidentally... and it had worked.

Until now.

The thing was those demons were easier to keep incarcerated while sober and also easily dismissed as bad dreams.

But now they had returned full force and he was too weak to fight them properly. Also, he wasn't twenty any longer. The side effects were much more vigorous than he remembered them, as was the hangover.

Lost for words and lost in his crippled emotions, he stood up and shuffled back towards his room, aware that John's gaze followed him.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

When John didn't speak Sherlock turned back around.

For a moment they were just looking at each other - the same desperate silence like on the tarmac - a thousand things needed to be said but they couldn't say them.

Lost for words.

Finally, John shook his head.

"Will you be able to say so if you need anything?"

Quite a dumb question.

John should know better than to ask this.

Sherlock did what he knew he shouldn't, he turned away, but he just couldn't stand the heavy auburn mist in their communication and he felt mentally nauseous once more.

Also, the anguish hovering in the room made it hard to breathe.

He returned to his room and fetched his violin.

An hour into playing whatever came to his mind, the doorbell rang.

Sherlock ignored it, not wanting to see anyone. A minute later John knocked at his doorframe, the door was not closed, one of their agreements, and he held a large bundle of manila folders.

The old files, obviously.

That was fast. How had he managed that?

John must have seen his eyes lit up at the sight, because he smiled at him.

After only an hour of reading in the living room, next to a warm flame in the fireplace, John sent him to bed, arguing he was looking too pale to sit up any longer.

Unnerved - about the fact that he felt weak and tired - Sherlock shuffled into his bedroom, ignoring the bathroom entirely.

Groaning in pain he rolled into the bed as he was, in his dressing gown and warm socks, and clumsily pulled his duvet over his legs.

 

 

Chapter 2: Setting the stage - Day 1 in the Victorian Era

Summary:

Sherlock's first try at escaping to his mind palace.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Sherlock opened his eyes in the same position and the same room he had closed them what felt to have only been moments before.

He was in his bedroom, which looked quite similar to the one in modern times. This was the room that was the least different form the modern version of his reality.

Case, there was a case, he needed to get up.

The moment he pushed back the extra heavy duvet that must have been made of some kind of animal hair due to its weight, he winced.

It was February, which meant it was cold.

Very cold in fact.

He must have let the fire die. His breath condensed and he sighed.

Right.

Mrs Hudson was not his housekeeper... and - he exhaled noisily – his Victorian self must have taken cocaine the night before, he felt the aftermath of it quite vividly as well as the leaden tiredness the drug left in its wake - or at least this was what fitted to his mental scenario.

Maybe it had been a bad idea to come here, he was as uncomfortable as he was in reality.

Distraction, right.

Take care of this era's problems to get his mind off his awkward real life.

He needed that.

All inconveniences would be less horrible than the real ones.

Also, he could vent his frustration at his mind palace version of Watson, but he would - under no circumstances - burden the real John with any more distress than he was already dealing with.

So this was the place to be for letting it go wild.

The warm beige dressing gown was draped over a chair nearby.

Right, he needed to set the stage, but was it really time to get up?

Obviously, it was early morning. He had slept then... or just skipped the night?

With the dressing gown on, he curled back into bed, surely he could use his own illusion of being able to rest to get some more sleep.

And he slept.

.

He woke some time later.

Someone was loudly hammering at his bedroom door.

"Holmes!"

It was John - or more precise - his alter ego.

"I'm awake, what is it?"

The man sounded as if his hemline had caught fire.

"I was just wondering when you'd finally get up. Lestrade is waiting."

Oh, someone else must have set the stage, then.

He opened the door, ruffling through his hair. He should have taken a long hot shower before coming here... and he also needed to stop thinking in his modern mindset! Believing there were those kind of contraptions easy available in every home would do him no good.

He should think of cleaning himself in terms of a bath in a gas heated bathtub that needed forever to heat up and was a serious fire hazard as well as a danger to any user's 'behind'.

"Good grace, what happened to you?" Watson said the moment he saw his flatmate.

"What?"

Right, his Victorian ego kept his hair neatly greased back and was always clean shaven.

When he rubbed his chin he realised that for some reason he still wore the itchy stubble he had grown in real life.

Why was it so hard to set the stage this time?

Probably because he was too exhausted to do it properly. His ailments were making him sloppy.

His mind was so very tired.

This time he'd keep anyone out who criticised the stage and the silliness of it all. He was well aware he was ridiculous, no need for Moriarty to remind him. But it was beyond the point, he was here as a relaxation exercise, not to solve an urgent case.

No pressure.

No, that wasn't true; there was a fair amount of pressure – to get back to his feet. People like Lady Smallwood and all the others who were involved in granting his pardon were still waiting for results.

Not to mention Mycroft's pressing expectations. He would surely get on his nerves quite frequently in the next days and weeks, and not only with the Moriarty thing. He'd show up to 'visit' him. Sherlock hoped he hadn't informed their parents on one hand, on the other, if he hadn't he would use that as blackmail material sooner or later.

"Holmes?"

Right, he needed to focus on the Victorian reality. Watson was there, he should make tea.

He shuffled past his friend to his laboratory table and turned on the Bunsen burner.

"Holmes, can you hear me?"

"Of course, I can. Be quiet."

"Demanding night?"

"You could say that."

"You took cocaine, didn't you?"

"Yes. I needed to think, apparently."

Watson huffed in annoyance. "About what?" The other man had followed him and turned the burner off again. "I asked Mrs Hudson to make proper tea."

He looked down at the newspaper, the date was Monday, February 11th, 1867.

'Aftermath of snowstorms still causing problems,' The headline stated.*

"So, we have a case," John pointed at a folded sheet of paper and fetched his pipe, then sat in his armchair.

"Oh," he picked the note up from the table and read the handwritten words, someone must have brought it by earlier. "As you said, Lestrade is waiting for us. But we have time for tea," Sherlock sat down with his own pipe and started to stuff it.

A moment later Mrs Hudson came in with a tray.

.

When they climbed into the cab Sherlock was glad Scotland Yard was on this side of the Thames, crossing it would have taken ages.

In 1867 it was just around the corner, Nr 4 Whitehall Place, even easier to reach than in modern times coming from Baker Street. They moved to 'New' Scotland Yard in 1890...

The historical facts washed over him. Knowing history was so very ensuring - in contrast to living through the present, or the future from his current view - which was unwritten and therefore an unsecure place.

History was so much more predictable, very relaxing.

He watched the houses on Regent Street pass by and tried to ignore the obnoxious smells of Victorian London at the end of winter.

They needed almost an hour to reach Scotland Yard, the weather was bad and temperatures had started to melt the mass of faeces, sewage, rotting food, and waste that had frozen to a solid cover on the ground in the past two months.

The winter had been cold and long*², but now it was getting warmer and that was creating the usual horrible mess of a town suffocating from overpopulation, industrialisation and clogged streets – and it was the late 1860s, the work on the new sewer system caused permanent traffic jams, but the intercepting sewers had been finished three years ago. Nevertheless, currently extensive works were done at Victoria Embankment that now caused traffic issues in addition.  

Sherlock felt nausea stir in his stomach and wondered if it was something that was slopping over from the real world or if it was related to the overwhelming smell.

He managed to gulp down the raising bile twice.

"Holmes?" Watson's voice was near his face.

He realised he had closed his eyes.

"Hmm?"

"Are you sick?"

"Of course not."

"You look unwell."

"Might be caused by the stench."

"Right, I forgot. Your overly sensitive senses," Watson said with a huff of disbelieve.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Real John had needed some time to understand how difficult it was handling his sensory input and how overwhelmingly intense it could be. But a doctor in the late 1860s must be sceptic that this was a real issue at all, back then the nervous system and how the five senses worked was overall quite unresearched. 

"Although I have to admit, they are getting worse. Before, the smells must have been immobilised by the low temperatures," Watson added.

"Obviously," Sherlock added, glad that in this decade the theory of the 'Four Humors' was not really an issue any longer. This was the era of invention and research, things like bloodletting and purging were no longer up to date, albeit a decade earlier they were standard treatments. People did no longer believe in things like that. Nevertheless, he needed to keep in mind that medicine and forensics were far from being as 'advanced' as they had been during his first stay in this era, in the 1890s. This was a decade where people only started to try to understand the mechanisms of the body.

.

Half an hour later they arrived at Scotland Yard and picked up Lestrade and headed for the crime scene, located in one of the less densely populated areas of suburb London.

The first thing Sherlock observed at the site was that it was probably not the where the victim had died.

A boy was lying face down in a rubbish dump. Some policemen were carefully removing the dirt from the body, obviously not happy they had to do this.

Even after inspecting the body closely with the good doctor's help they weren't able to find the cause of death.

"He's from a family who's wealth is sufficient to pay two maids and live in one of the better areas, though not from around here," Sherlock deduced.

Of course this statement had to be discussed, as usual Lestrade needed an explanation and all the constables stood there and watched in disbelieve. Sherlock was unnerved, his patience worn thin by being cold and low spirits.

Why didn't they just believe him?

Most of them were unable to understand even with proper explanations.

"The clothes are in a well kept state. They were washed and ironed at the house, not folded but hanged neatly, which means not elsewhere and then transported to the home, so more than one maid. Also, the dirt on his shoes is not from this area, it's from further southeast, but of course your training failed to teach you things as important as earth compositions in the town where you work, so...."

"Holmes..." Watson interrupted and Sherlock understood he was rude, although he had just wanted to point out this was needed and people responsible should be informed by students or Lestrade or whatever that this was necessary.

Right, he needed to live up to Watson's standard of professionalism and show he was well behaved, so he forced himself to be polite.

"Clearly not an accident. Boys his age have all kinds of things in their pockets, this boy has nothing in his pockets at all. So it must have been taken. Probably not a robbery, because at his age children usually don't carry an amount of money that is worth the crime; but none of the last can be sure, it is just a temporary working thesis."

He looked at his flatmate with a questioning look.

John shrugged, not understanding what he wanted.

"As soon as we find the family we can ask them from what sickness he recently recovered, since Dr Watson seems to be unable to diagnose it, which is not surprising, since he – by the time of his death – had mostly recovered from it," Sherlock finished.

"What?" John asked, irritated.

"His pallor makes it quite clear."

.

Watson's sulking on their way home was sign enough he had said something wrong.

Sherlock spent all the way back wondering what it might have been. The doctor was not forthcoming when he downright asked about the reason.

But the mental pouting disappeared suddenly when Sherlock felt his stomach twist once more due to the unbelievable disgusting smells on the streets - the dumpster hadn't smelled this bad - and he swayed when they exited the cab in front of 221b.

"Holmes? Do you feel faint?" Watson was steadying him before he even realised he had moved towards him. "May I advice not using any substances tonight due to the fact that you already suffer from a bit of ill health? Or is this problem caused by those substances?"

Sherlock winced and was happy that the spell was over.

"More by the lack thereof," he answered.

"What?"

"Nevermind."

They entered the house.

To their luck Mrs Hudson had kept the fires going and the house seemed well heated.

God, modern heating was such a luxury.

Sherlock wished everybody knew what a difficult thing heating was in the past and how lucky people should be the Victorian era was over. Then he scolded himself for wasting so much time on thinking about creature comforts.

But he was stressed and he knew it, withdrawal always worsened the sensory issues he struggled with on a daily basis. Everything felt much worse, the lights in his eyes, normal sounds in his ears - even wind or cold on his skin. And it was bound to get worse over the next days.

Which meant he'd need a lot of energy just to try to keep it out of the mind palace's reality.

The next moment he silently cursed, he wanted his 'modern' thoughts to be gone, they interrupted the illusion.

Why couldn't he manage to keep them out?

Right, he wasn't as high as he needed to be for that and also his body kept reminding him of the actual present, the very one he tried to leave behind for a bit.

Then he realised, that maybe trying to block out symptoms would be unwise, would suck away precious energy and by that weaken him further, maybe integrating them into the Victorian era would be the better choice.

This would be harder than his first visit to this era, which – in his personal timeline – also happened before and after the Ricoletti case.

Before in the sense that it was earlier in the century and that Watson was again living with him as a flatmate.

Later in the sense that they both had all the memories of his first stay in the past, including Mary and her death. They would both remember her as something from their past... a temporal paradox they'd ignore, for the sake of not needing to set the stage from scratch again. But this Mary had been dead for three years, he decided, for Watson's sake, made it less fresh.

He needed his companion to remember those things... and wanted to remember them himself. They had been so distant due to the dynamics of the decade... and so very close. He couldn't put it into proper words, but he needed this closeness to get through withdrawal. And maybe even a save room for his own grief he couldn't confront the real John with.

Damn the mechanics.

Right, he was a gentleman, he shouldn't curse... but he felt like shit and some part of him was beyond caring for that.

"Holmes? Can you hear me?"

He blinked and found he was staring his friend right in the face.

"Alright, let's get you upstairs."

Sherlock felt a hand under his armpit, helping him up the first step.

"Can you make it up the stairs?" Mrs Hudson was there, too.

"Of course," he straightened and started to slowly put one foot on the second step. He felt an astounding wave of tiredness and exhaustion hit him hard, his limps felt leaden and stiff. Although he had doubts he could do it at first he managed to then lift his other foot on the next step.

While he slowly moved up the stairs he heard them whisper behind his back for a moment before the doctor hurried to follow him in case he might slip.

It was ridiculous, he wasn't that bad.

So he mobilised some energy, born out of frustration and sped up. A few moments later he was in his room. He let his coat and hat fall, kicked off his shoes and then sank into the bed, which was quite not following proper etiquette, but he didn't care.

He turned away from the door but sleep eluded him.

The clothes were too restricting and tight. Modern shirts were so much more comfortable when it came to sleeping than starched collars and waistcoats.

He was still trying to decide if he'd manage to fall asleep when he felt Watson nearby.

Without speaking the doctor helped him out of the collar, removed the sock suspenders and unbuttoned the waistcoat.

Once it was all gone, sleep took him within a few minutes, although the original plan had been to just lie down for a few moments.

 


 

*In early January 1867 Britain was hit by a big snowstorm that caused enormous railway traffic problems (6m high snowdrifts). Some regions were completely cut off.

 *² Author made that up, due to a lack of information about 1867's entire winter. Writer's freedom.

 

 

 

Notes:

A/N:
I am not an historian but I did hours and hours of research. So the facts mentioned about traffic, locations, construction zones, technologies and all other things Victorian are as accurate as possible - for the year 1867.
If there is any historian out there who spots inaccuracies I am open to constructive criticism, would be happy to learn more in fact.
Of course I'd also like getting feedback from everyone else :)
Thank you for reading.

Chapter 3: Day 2 (2016) - At home after the hospital

Summary:

John is keeping vigil over his friend's health.

Notes:

Many thanks to Sparkypip for being there and giving feedback and everything :)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

It had been John's turn to do the first night shift after coming home from the hospital. He was relieved that Sherlock had slept through the night without much trouble.

The evening before, Sherlock had rudely demanded that Mycroft or Lestrade needed to get old files from the MI5 database. So John had called Mycroft half an hour after that conversation, determined to do whatever would make this easier for Sherlock.

Mycroft had the papers delivered within the hour, and the younger Holmes had read quite a bit of them immediately.

It was only a few days after the last drug use and Sherlock was still in the first stage of withdrawal, which in this case meant exhaustion, energy loss and a lot of sleeping.

This was the quiet before the storm, John was very aware of that.

He was also very aware that the flat was monitored by Mycroft 24/7, it was another condition Sherlock had to agree to before they had made the decision to allow him to go through detox at home.

From a medical point of view this was not a light decision for John and there had to be rules. There were a lot of those, one of course was that Sherlock was never alone in the flat, no matter what. Another was that he would surrender to any medical choice John or Molly made and that he wouldn't try to leave the flat or try to organise drugs.

There were a few more, all to make sure Sherlock would succeed in getting clean.

Up to now Sherlock had complied to the letter and not even complained, but John saw how bad he really felt, although his friend was obviously trying to hide it.

.

This was the morning of day two at home and John made a cup of tea before he went to wake his charge.

Sherlock's friends had all agreed that he needed monitoring around the clock and therefore they were doing shifts.

The last 24 hours at the hospital had been a catastrophy, not only for the patient but also for the staff. In the end two doctor's playing private nurses and the British government putting their efforts behind an early release left little resistance from the clinic doctors. That was at least the official version.

Medical equipment to monitor the patient had been brought to Baker Street, commandeered by Mycroft.

Molly would arrive soon, giving John the chance to get some sleep, not that he thought he would be able to manage to fall asleep at all, but he knew he should at least try. He was still not really down from all that had happened during the past week.

Smith had tried to kill Sherlock and it felt as if it had only been hours ago, but John was aware, it was more than two days.

He had lost count and something told him that he had only been allowed to do this shift to wear himself out so he would sleep. He had been at Sherlock's side most of the time at the hospital, the need to make sure his friend was treated properly and watching over him overwhelming and his first priority.

John was sure either Greg or someone else was on standby, ready to step in the moment he'd show any signs of falling asleep or of distress.

More of a farce to make him feel useful and responsible. John doubted Mycroft was this trusting right now.   

At the moment, Sherlock was deeply asleep and John decided to let him rest a bit longer. For what was ahead the detective needed all the rest he could get.

Deep in thoughts, John returned to the living room and flinched when he heard someone silently coming up the stairs.

"It's me, Dr Watson," Mycroft said in a low voice.

"What are you doing here?"

Mycroft entered and looked around for a moment, then found what he needed and slowly pushed his ever-present umbrella into the gap between a pile of books and a small table.

After scrutinising his makeshift umbrella stand for a moment he took off his jacket.

"I called Miss Hooper and told her I would undertake her shift. Rosie is with her at your flat, enjoying her familiar environment for a bit."

John sighed.

He was aware that Rosie should be there sometimes, but it was so devastating for him to be there he avoided it.

The lonely nights he had spent there, sitting in the dark with only booze for company had left a shadow on him, as had the worry that he might follow Harry's path soon, failing completely to be a proper father to Rosie, seeing it all go downhill and being unable and lacking the energy to stop it.

He was happy to escape experiencing those kinds of nights.

Holding vigil over his best friend was way better, though filled with an equal amount of distress and dark thoughts.

He frowned, looking up at the other man, who sported his usual as neat as a pin appearance. Suddenly, he wondered if Mycroft was in fact watching over them both.

Was this whole thing a completely different operation for him than it was for all their friends and family?

Was he the second 'patient' in this?

He thought this was about getting Sherlock clean, but now he wondered if this was – for everyone else than him – also a help-John-get-past-his-grief-and-survive-the-experience-mission.

Mycroft had cancelled most of John's meetings and provided a substitute doctor for his surgery.

"Why did you cancel Molly's shift?" the doctor asked suspiciously.

"I will be spending the morning with my brother. Mrs Hudson will provide lunch and take over in the early afternoon... I expect you to get some sleep and pick up your daughter in the late afternoon... and bring her here."

"That's not..." John started, but Mycroft interrupted him by raising a hand.

"I am aware, but my brother seems to profit from a certain dose of being exposed to the basic needs of childcare – or the child itself. Therefore, it seems a good option. After dinner Mrs Hudson will take over once she needs... bathing," there was something close to disgust in Mycroft's features when he spoke the word, "and you can do another night shift if you please. Greg Lestrade will be ready to jump in in case you don't feel up to it."

John grimaced, then took breath to argue, but...

"You are far too exhausted by the events of the past week, so just comply and do as suggested."

This comment made John actually growl, though he was well aware that decision-making being taken away from him was wonderful. He currently struggled with even the tiniest decision and was well aware it was part of the grief/depression thing.

So, as long as he agreed that this was good for Sherlock he probably shouldn't argue.

Mycroft meanwhile ignored his reaction and worked himself out of his suit jacket. Then he busied himself by opening a large bulky suitcase he had carried. He pulled out another thick manila folder, which he then placed on the coffee table.

"My brother can have this, as long as he gets out of bed to read it. I understood it was necessary he moves around regularly. Something I failed to make him do during past episodes of withdrawal."

John just nodded, tiredly. He actually felt his eyes were sore from being open this long.

"Go and sleep," Mycroft didn't look at him when he went towards the kitchen, "I assume there is water for tea?"

"Yeah," John scratched his stubble. He hadn't shaved since Sherlock had been admitted and it was starting to itch.

"I know where to find the good tea, go to bed."

Quite speechless, John checked on Sherlock and then headed towards the stairs, there was nothing else to say.

He wasn't sure he could manage to sleep but would try, for Rosie's sake.

.

"Sherlock, I brought another one of those files you requested," Mycroft entered his brother's bedroom and pulled away the curtains, it was way too warm and fuggy in there and he wondered how his brother was able to sleep any longer.

Slowly and obviously aching, the younger man turned around, blinking up at him. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot. The bruises were still very dark and fresh looking and although Mycroft thought his sibling deserved a punch for his obnoxious behaviour now and then he certainly hadn't deserved this.

Sherlock looked even worse than the day before. And although his eyes had been open for a few seconds, they drifted shut again immediately and Sherlock's breath evened out again, too.

Mycroft didn't stop him. It was actually quite odd seeing his brother sleeping out of his own accord.

Inevitably this brought back distressing memories from the last time Mycroft had seen Sherlock go through withdrawal, over eleven years ago. Once more a familiar heavy weight seemed to settle itself in Mycroft's stomach area. He was well aware what was ahead of them. And he still wondered why Sherlock thought that John was worth all this. But this was his decision and he would respect the choice his sibling had made.

Mycroft was well aware that the fact that Sherlock had survived the past eight years were to a great amount due to the fact that John cared.

The doctor shoved him in the right direction on a regular basis, and Mycroft was of course grateful for that.

He was very relieved that they had Sherlock home and surrounded by people who cared about him.

Sherlock had never had the luxury of having friends before.

The last day in hospital had been a bit of a disaster – Sherlock had a meltdown and the nurses had ignored him help-wise, had even made it worse by not providing things he direly needed because they thought he was clamouring and diverting them from important things - like texting their loved ones. His brother had had a hell of a night without pain meds and in a soiled bed because people were incompetent and lazy.

John had filed a complaint without Mycroft's encouragement.

It seemed some still didn't believe what Smith had done, were still convinced of the innocence of the self-proclaimed philanthropist, at least that was what Mycroft had read in between the lines when he had read into the files. Some nurse had noted Sherlock just wanted to annoy them and all his issues were psychosomatic and that he loved to be high-maintenance.

Sherlock hadn't spoken about it, but the aftermath of the night's meltdown was hard on him. John had brought earplugs and his own pyjamas to address his most urgent needs.

Those events had been one more reason why Mycroft had hurried to get his sibling out of there.

He did trust John with Sherlock's life in general, just not right now, not fully.

But overall that was probably only a matter of days. John's anger was already mostly replaced by guilt and remorse.

Grief made people do odd things.

Mycroft sat down in a kitchen chair that somehow had found its way into Sherlock's room, watching his little brother.

Once more holding vigil during withdrawal.

Above him, John's movements died down, too.

He hoped the doctor would find rest, he needed it.

Mycroft was glad the time span between this and the last episode of drug-taking had been longer than any time before. But he was also tremendously unsettled about what was ahead of them.

 

 

Notes:

Sorry for any grammar mistakes, not a native speaker and no chance to acutally speak English in RL.

Please leave some feedback. I am desperate to know if readers can relive this.

Chapter 4: February 12th, 1867, Tuesday – Victorian Day 2

Summary:

Sherlock enjoyes 1867 for a bit but then reality catches up with him.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

"Mr Holmes? Mr Holmes?"

Frantic knocking on his door, accompanied by Archie's tiny voice.

"Mrs Hudson sent me to wake you - for the fourth time!"

"I am up, thank you."

"Lunch will be ready in half an hour. I will bring warm water for washing."

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, it was probably around noon.

Still kind of drowsy he struggled to wake up fully, he also felt slightly nauseous.

The bedroom was unpleasantly cold and he was covered with three blankets.

Although Watson had removed the less comfortable clothing items he was still dressed in yesterday's clothes. He groaned silently, aching all over.

Carefully he rolled off the clammy bed.

.

Half an hour later he was in the living room when Mrs Hudson brought in tea and lunch.

She had barely put the tray down, when Sherlock frowned.

"Who bought this?"

"I sent Archie."

"He needs a lesson about food."

"Pardon me?"

"This food is not food."

"What?"

"It seems you buy 'proper' food due to what tastes you prefer... your own liking. He bought what was told was good quality by the seller. It is not. Didn't you check?"

"I am sorry, Mr Holmes, I didn't have time. It's washing day."

Sherlock opened the door to the flat and yelled for the young boy, who immediately ran up the stairs, looking afraid to have done something wrong.

"Sit down," Sherlock urged him while he sat opposite him.

"We will analyse what you bought today and try to figure out how to prevent such mishaps again in the future."

Obviously Mrs Hudson was afraid a thorough chiding would follow because she tried to stop Sherlock.

"You might want to listen to this, too, it appears this hadn't happened in the past by accident. Maybe you are just not often enough invited to fancy dinner parties, or otherwise exposed to what modern food should look like. Or maybe your rural upbringing is unknowingly good for all our health, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock smiled up at her.

Her eyes went wide and she blushed. Present society would deem that an insult, to mention a rural upbringing, but from Sherlock remarks like this were always hiding a deeper meaning.

"Try a piece of the bread."

He took a slice of the very white bread and parted it into several pieces, then handed one to the boy - who still looked afraid - and one to their not-housekeeper.

"Taste it," he put a small piece in his own mouth and carefully started to chew, then spit it out into a napkin.

"Eugh," Mrs Hudson made, but her good manners made her actually gulp it down. Spitting things out was not particularly lady-like.

Archie chewed and raised his eyebrows, obviously lost what he was meant to taste.

"It's sweet," Archie added.

"No, it's astringent," Sherlock explained.

"It's way too... the texture is odd. And the taste is vile," the landlady said.

"What you taste is potassium aluminium sulfate, Alum in short. This is an exemplary case of food adulteration. One that will harm your body if you eat it too often. Unfortunately, this society is working more by how things look fancy than if they are healthy. The needs for foods to have certain looks and colours has changed in the recent years. One also might say it has become a very silly fashion."

"They put things in there that are bad?" Archie wanted clarification.

"Yes, this chemical is bad."

"Why do they put it in there?"

"This decade and the last are marked by advancement and mass production in every part of life. Food is no different. We have been the victim of an unscrupulous merchant, Archie," Sherlock explained.

"As a consumer you were at his mercy since adulteration is very popular to increase profit. Alteration is a big business. When in rural areas people wouldn't add things to food they sell because they know their consumers and don't want to harm them. The anonymity of the big city and the lack of personal bonding make it easy to use harmful cheap things to make foods look attractive to buyers."

"Oh, Mr Holmes. I am so glad I still buy my bread from our neighbour's sister who brings it in all the way from her farm. Although, I have to admit I did it because people in the countryside suffer a great lot from all the industrial made food. They hardly earn any money at all and they work their hands of... More and more work these days and less and less money. It's a shame. I was kind of trying to help out by buying from them... besides this really tastes like the good old times when I was a child."

"You buy more from them, not only the bread, right?"

"Yes," the landlady agreed.

"The milk as well. Taste this milk," Sherlock encouraged Archie.

Mrs Hudson and the boy did, but this time, Sherlock only smelled it and had to stifle a gag.

"There is more than one chemical in there that doesn't belong. One is probably Boracic acid and Sodium borate, used to prolong shelf time and remove the sour taste once it turns bad. So they can sell it and people won't notice it is old. The problem is, it tastes fine for most people, but the bacteria are still there, making people sick."

Sherlock put a finger in it and watched the liquid hang on his digit in a drop.

"This one also seems thinned down and has a grainy white substance in it to mask the added water... to make it look right," he added.

"But that's horrible," Mrs Hudson said, "I was aware it was happening, but... you know it is in the paper now and then."

"That is why we are glad that Mrs Hudson buys from the countryside, Archie. Get the rest of that shopping and we will analyse that, too. After that, I want all of it thrown out."

The boy hurried down the stairs to get the bag of still packed goods.

When he came back, panting, he asked, "How do you know that all."

"Remember, I'm a chemist?"

"Oh, right," Archie stammered. Aware he had asked that before but since the word didn't really hold a meaning for him, he had apparently forgotten.

"There are efforts to establish food adulteration laws. But the problem is, this is difficult to prove, people don't know what adulterated food looks like. And even if they do, to find out where it really came from and who added things is also very difficult."

"Shouldn't that be a case for you?" Archie asked while he unpacked meat, tea, cheese and other items.

"I fear that will be a case for our government and the politicians," Sherlock evaded the topic.

He checked the cheese, meat, vegetables and all the items, most of it was all fine, for one exception.

"Ah, look at this tea. This looks wrong," he poured a bit out of the paper bag and onto a saucer.

"This looks like... tea."

"Correct... but if you touch it... take it into your hands, touch it... You'll feel it is way too heavy for dried leaves... I assume it is black lead. Some of those leaves also seem to have the wrong colour."

They continued to analyse the food until Watson arrived and found them in a mess of groceries, all laid out in samples while Sherlock was explaining how to how to spot those adulterations, distinguish good from bad quality.

The doctor joined in and listened with interest.

.

An hour later a telegram arrived that informed them a family had reported their son missing and therefore the dead boy he had been identified.

Sherlock decided to go and pick up Lestrade and then try to meet child's family.

Lestrade was not happy to interview a mourning family, but aware it should be done soon.

On the way to the mansion, Lestrade and Watson both took their time to remind Sherlock to be tactful.

It was a wealthy family with ties to politics and money and it would do no good to upset them any more than they already were about the fact that the police deemed it necessary to interview them so soon after they had found out about his death and while they were grieving.

The front door already made it clear the house was in mourning. The obligatory wreath was present, as well as the black draped doorknob.

The inside of the building was another show of superstition, wealth and other stupid rituals Sherlock's didn't point out loud but rolled his eyes about mentally. The clocks had been stopped and all mirrors and reflective surfaces had been covered, also family pictures had been turned face down.

After introductions and excuses about the disturbance they were assured the family wanted the murder solved and would therefore assist in any way they could.

They were seated and served tea, but Sherlock finally lost patience and interrupted the exchange of empty mourning phrases between John and the mother of the child by asking directly.

"What illness did he suffer from recently?"

"A very bad case of influenza," the mother answered without hesitation, though looking a bit taken aback about the tactless interruption.

"He was bed ridden for weeks and we feared for his life, the doctor wasn't sure he'd..." her voice broke and she turned away briefly to regain her composure.

"The sickness weakened him and he was only recovered enough two weeks ago to leave the bed. He returned to school only this week. He was just seven years old. Why would anyone do this to my child?"

Sherlock and Lestrade asked for problems at school, rivals of the father, or anyone who might have wished the family ill, but even the older children and grandparents who were soon also involved in the interview knew nothing.

Finally, Sherlock encouraged Watson to ask more about the sickness. It turned out the boy had taken medicine that was well received and was still taking pills to aid his recovery and strengthen him.

The only odd fact they discovered was that the box of expensive pills - the boy was supposed to take at least once a day - had vanished.

In the end the session was interrupted by the arrival of a photographer and his large boxes of equipment. He was there to take pictures of the dead child with his family.

John found it was a bit morbid, although it was completely normal in this era.

A family of this status probably could afford many pictures of their children, and had not to rely on only one after an untimely and unexpected demise, but they seemed to want to do it anyway.

.

The detective and the doctor returned to Baker Street in the early evening and were served dinner by Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock refused to even try to eat, the smell made him slightly nauseous and the ill feeling intensified and became harder the later the hour.

Later, he dozed off on the settee, which felt stiff and unused.

.

What must be hours later he was shaken awake. The obnoxious touch was almost as uncomfortable as the springs of the seating furniture.

No, it was his bed he was lying in, 2016.

"Hey? Come on, I need you to get up. Walk around for a bit. You've been in bed for almost twenty-four hours, and if you don't move enough I have to worry about thrombosis, again."

Really?

A whole day?

He couldn't have slept that much. He had spent most of the time in his mind palace, in 1867.

But it was the same problem, not moving around, not getting up.

John was probably right, he needed to go to the loo and drink some tea to maintain function of his body.

It took quite some effort and as he had managed to sit up, something very distressing hit him full force.

It took him a moment to realise it was an odd mixture of anger and aggression that made his skin crawl. The fact that he couldn't find a source for the negative emotion made it hard for him to determine which sentiment he was suffering.

Some seconds ticked by until understanding hit him and he gasped from the intensity.

He completely failed at figuring out how to channel this or get rid of it.

"Don't touch me!" he hissed.

Only then he opened his eyes.

John raised his hands in surrender, not too surprised about his outbreak.

He needed John out. The last thing he needed was letting off steam in John's direction.

"Get out!"

"I really need you to get up and walk around a bit, sorry, mate."

"I said get out!"

"Sorry, can't. I let you down more than once in the past four weeks, I will not do it again."

The sorrow in John's voice made Sherlock's blood freeze, and the anger unexpectedly and suddenly turned into desperation and fear.

He couldn't do this.

It was too much.

Too complex.

He had ruined it all.

John might say the opposite, but he'd never ever truly forgive him.

Because it was his fault!

He didn't deserve John's care.

He couldn't do this.

His thoughts were so sluggish and he was so very very tired.

He doubted he'd ever be able to think clearly again on his own.

Cocaine, he needed some cocaine to be able to focus again.

To think.

"No, Sherlock. No, you don't. We will get through this."

Had he spoken out loud?

Was John able to hear his thoughts?

"Sherlock, you're scaring me. Calm down."

There it was again, the anger, running wild in his reality.

He was off his bed before he knew what was happening – and had John pressed against the wall next to his wardrobe by his shoulders.

"I realise I do deserve your anger..." John stammered. "... but this doesn't change the facts, either we walk, or you need to get anticoagulants."

Sherlock let go of him as if burned.

He felt in fact burned – by the guilt the words caused, by the suggestion that John deserved his anger.

The insight that they were both so guilt ridden it paralysed them made him feel as if every chance of things returning to normal - or even the slightest bit of positive thinking - had been eradicated from the world.

He turned away from the other man, stumbling back to the bed and falling into it.

John was right behind him, trying to keep him from lying back down. But he didn't touch him again.

"Leave me alone," the detective groaned.

It was all too much.

"Your body needs fluids and DVT prevention," John disagreed.

"Give me a shot."

"Nope, can't do. You need the bathroom, too."

Baring his teeth in irritation, Sherlock forced his body up again.

It hurt.

His head hurt, his muscles hurt and he felt weak.

"I turned down the light and made you some sweet tea," John explained.

Grinding his teeth, Sherlock allowed him to carefully take his elbow and escort him to the bathroom.

He did not completely trust his body to remain upright so John being ready to catch him was probably necessary.

With pure force of will he held back the agitation the pain and the sensory input caused, and he managed to refresh himself a bit, use the loo, take the meds and walk around the living room three times.

When he tried to drink some tea, though, it all went downhill.

Within five minutes he was leaning over the toilet bowl vomiting it up again, John by his side.

And a short time later John had helped him to his bed again.

By then he was seriously trembling and panting.

Also, he felt the distress built in his mind.

He needed to get out of this reality again as soon as possible.

"Hold on, just hold on," John soothed.

It took him several tries to enter the mind palace and when he finally managed, the door to 1867 had vanished.

Desperate and with panic on his haunches he ran through the mental building.

"Sherlock, I need you to calm down, can you do that? You're getting a bit agitated."

He wished John would shut up.

In desperate need of some historical remains he leapt for the cellar, where he finally found the richly decorated door to historical Baker Street.

The moment he passed the door his transport's ailments were dulled enormously, as was his distress and deep anger.

.

He wasn't aware that his eyes rolled back and that it threw John into a frenzy.

The doctor thoroughly examined him, checked his limb form over, took his vitals and noted his temperature.

Sherlock also didn't feel John injecting him with an anticoagulant and a small dose of morphine, which was the only thing they weren't weaning him off currently. Though Sherlock had wanted it, get it all done at once, but John had disagreed. Withdrawal would be hard enough, and they could delay that for a bit, especially since Sherlock still needed pain relief. The downside were side effects like vomiting, sweating, headaches, and so on.

Sherlock was also not aware that his friend stayed with him through the entire night.

 

 

Notes:

Thank you for reading.
Feedback welcome.

Chapter 5: February 12th, 1867 and a late evening in 2016

Summary:

Sherlock is having a difficult night and John is trying to but can't really help.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Sherlock woke several times during the small hours of the morning, exhausted and with a profound headache.

Watson was there once, talking to him, asking if he was in pain. Sherlock ignored him.

A bit later the doctor came back and offered him medicine.

Victorian medicines wouldn't work, at least not the ones he would agree to take. Even modern drugs only succeeded in taking the edge of some aspects of withdrawal - a very small edge.

He drifted off again.

 

With a groan he blinked at the man who had just entered his room again and he realised it was modern John, wearing modern pyjamas and his awful plaid dressing gown.

"How is it working?" the doctor whispered.

"Not at all," he hissed through his teeth. "Go away, please."

"Hey," John rested his hand against Sherlock's shoulder, which increased his physical unease threefold.

He must have made some kind of noise because his friend jerked his hand away.

"Sorry," he murmured. "Need something else?"

Sherlock just closed his eyes, not able to deal with this reality and his transport's malaise for the time being.

 

A moment later the touch reappeared and he came close to yell out of sheer frustration when a careful voice asked, "Holmes?"

His eyes opened wide without a conscious effort.

He stared at Watson's face, who was now beside his bed with a ringed chamber candle holder in his hand. The light of the small candle stump was so poor he needed a moment to realise he was back in Victorian reality.

"Are you still feeling poor?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock answered, unnerved.

"Well, you always say that, it doesn't relieve me to hear this worn out phrase."

Without asking for permission Watson reached for his wrist and took his pulse. At this point Sherlock had to admit modern John was quite a bit more respectful of his wishes when it came to his needs as a patient.

Sherlock pulled his wrist free without waiting for him to finish counting.

"What is it?"

"I can't endure your fussing any longer!"

Watson raised his hands, "Surely you must have noticed you're not well, I heard you tossing and turning upstairs. You even made noises that are clearly the one's of a suffering being. Let me examine you."

"No! There is no need. You can do nothing for me," he yelled.

 

"Shit, Sherlock. Shut up, you'll wake the whole street! Come on, calm down!"

He blinked and was back with modern John, who obviously had just taken his blood pressure - an open cuff was next to him on the bed.

This unintended mixing of the two realities was getting annoying.

Also, he felt chilled and the muscle aches had worsened.

"I'll be finished in a minute. Stay with me and tell me how good you are able to handle the cravings."

He wanted to stay in the past, being diverted from this, or even better, wanted to not experience existence for a bit. When he was honest with himself, what he wanted was a few hours of drug filled oblivion just to get away from all this. Although, this weren't really cravings – those would start soon, probably within the next twelve hours – it was a constant urge to provide what his body missed.

"Hey, is there something I can do?"

"Remove my jacket and the shoes from this room, I can't stand the smell... I let the top hat fall, can you store it properly... I should have left it all downstairs," Sherlock mumbled.

"Are you starting to hallucinate, mate?"

"Of course not. That stage is at least two days away, if it happens at all."

"Sherlock, just look at me?"

The detective just grunted in annoyance.

"Hey?"

Finally, he raised his tired gaze to his friend who smiled when their eyes met and he understood Sherlock was coherent.

"Can I do something?" 

"Get a rubber mallet. Knock me out," Sherlock suggested, wanting nothing but oblivion.

"Sorry, can't do that," John chuckled.

"There's ginger tea in the kitchen if you want."

Too tired to think, Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes.

A few moments later he had drifted off into sleep again, he had not dared to hope he'd be able to do so.

But he was caught in REM sleep and his dreams were vicious.

 

Two hours later he woke again, soaked in sweat.

He wanted to shower but found he was in the Victorian era and there was no shower installed, although they had a water closet since last spring.

This time he tried to actively switch realities, it had happened so often in the past hours without him wanting it, he hadn't expected it might fail to work.

But no matter how much he tried, he was stuck in his 1867 self.

Panting, he shuffled out of his room and sat down at his working table in the room that would be their kitchen in modern times.

Why hadn't he chosen a cold case from the 1930s? At that point there would have been proper hot showers and better heating.

Watson once more appeared at his side, holding out a wet towel.

"My dear fellow, are you running a fever?" he asked.

Sherlock ignored the question, too tired to think about it.

There was a moment of silence and then he asked, "Does your practitioner's case contain something to help me sleep? Something herbal... non addictive?" Although herbal and traditional remedies where quite out of fashion in this decade, they were still available and used.

"Yes, there's some syrup, non-addictive and even advertised to be to be suitable for people suffering from addiction. Let me get it."**

Sherlock wasn't ready to talk about what his problem was, although he was sure Watson would welcome it if he took lesser drugs. He would realise sooner or later what was happening.

"But I must insist, you let me take a look at you before. See what is ailing you."

The detective resigned and the doctor left to get his bag.

"Alright, you seem to be quite exhausted, you have probably overdone it again," Watson said after he finished his examination.

Sherlock remained silent, letting him believe in his diagnosis would be easiest.

The detective didn't think about it, but as long as it wasn't laudanum or opium, he should be fine, and if John said it was non addictive he had to trust him. It was not as if medications had labels that listed the ingredients, yet. Also, his mind palace didn't list every receipt of every historical medication there was. He should do a chemical analysis, but he was way too exhausted and unnerved.

The doctor brought a small bottle and diluted the syrup with water. Sherlock gulped down the sweet liquid, the taste that assaulted him almost made him wretch, it was quite intense.

"This should start to work within 20 to 30 minutes, my friend. Go back to bed, relax."

"Er!" he made in disgust, "What's in it?"

"Don't start to analyse everything. Besides, I don't really know. Corporate secrets, you cursed that before, remember?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disbelieve, from the modern point of view this was still kind of hard to understand, but it had taken ages, too, to have nutrient information on every piece of foods. In his childhood those hadn't been on packages either.

Watson once more eyed him carefully.

He got up and returned to his bedroom to escape the scrutiny.

"I will stay close by in case you need assistance," Watson followed him down the hall and watched him cling back into bed.

God, it was warm and cozy, at least for almost a minute, until the joint aches returned.

"Why would I need assistance?" he grunted.

"Just in case," Watson left the room and Sherlock felt distantly reminded of the day Irene Adler drugged him.

They had had a similar conversation, hadn't they?

Soon, the medication made his appendages feel heavy and his thoughts uneven.

He realised he didn't associate the feeling the medication caused with being intoxicated, so the rest of his scepsis vanished, he just felt a strong urge to sleep.

He was out before he knew he was drifting off.

 

With a wildly beating heart, he jerked awake, dragged from a bad dream into reality.

Immediately, he sat up and placed his feet on the ground, the world was unsteady and he was aware he was swaying.

Horror was creeping up on him, his heart beating so intense it was highly uncomfortable, but he wasn't sure about what had caused this, yet.

He was no longer in Victorian England. Something had pulled him out of the past.

"Sherlock?" John was suddenly beside him.

"Huh?..."

"What is it?"

"I took something... It... it was working way too good to be harmless... also it tasted..." and then he grimaced when the realisation hit him hard and the memory of the vile taste came back.

"I should have recognised the flavour..." he gasped, "probably Chloral Hydrate..."

"What the hell?.... Where did you get this? Shit, Sherlock! Where the hell...?"

Sherlock raised his hands, realising John was about to throw a fit as a result of a misunderstanding.

"Really? While we are trying to get you clean?!" John griped.

"Shut up! It was a nightmare," easiest way of explaining that he didn't actually take it, "I dreamt that I took it... or to be more precise that you gave it to me."

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

"What about the word 'nightmare' is hard to understand? I didn't actually ingest it, I dreamt that it was given to me," Sherlock yelled back, irritated as hell.

The irritation was so intense, so sudden, it made his thoughts grind to a halt for a moment in astonishment.

"Shit... Don't do that!" John said in a low voice

"So glad you're such a soothing presence when it comes to haunted sleep - get out."

Sherlock was unnerved by John's reaction and by the fact that he had been given a medication that was in modern times actually known to be highly addictive if taken over a period of time. It was also known nowadays as a date-rape-drug.

Of course this wasn't real, but he should stay away from such things even in his private mental Victorian reality.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry... I guess I'm a bit strained by this whole detoxing thing, too. Let me get you some water."

With that John was out of the room and the detective assumed he was quite ashamed about his own distrust he had jumped on immediately.

The doctor was back a few moments later.

By then Sherlock had managed to calm his pulse. He sat on the edge of his bed with closed eyes, unnerved, trembling, and also slightly disgruntled by John's reaction.

The last days had left their marks on both of them.

It was a whole pool of guilt they were swimming in.

Sherlock felt not guilty for having taken drugs for weeks, he just still felt guilt that Mary was no longer with them and that he had failed her.

That sacrificing himself had almost failed because the drugs had affected his thinking in a bad way, he had also failed to see that coming. For the first time in his life he had actually catalogued minutely his decent into drug induced madness and how bad it was for his thinking.

In earlier years, while he had been under the influence, he had felt like a proper genius, unable to do anything wrong. This time, though, he had noticed the wrongness of that believe, it had been work to convince himself it was working. The effects hadn't been as positive and promising as he remembered them. The drugs hadn't 'helped' as much as he expected, they had compromised his thinking, too.

He was kind of able to – at some level of his consciousness – observe it all go wrong and downhill this time. But he had been unable to change course or improve what was happening. Maybe it was because he was so broken about John's refusal and his own grief.

He had tried to do what Mary wanted but since this was about reaching John on an emotional basis and he was rubbish at that, he had ignored things that were important and underestimated others.

"A few months ago, you accused me of leaving you at a graveside - which only happened only in your head - not helping the one time you actually asked for help... And now you dream that I give you addictive memory impairing drug? What is that supposed to mean?" 

John had sat down in front of him, on a chair.

"You felt abandoned, is that it? Well, I guess I deserve that your subconsciousness has to deal with the rubbish I've done. I was a lousy friend."

Had that chair been there before?

Sherlock remained silent.

John's reactions when he had tried to reach out to him after Mary's death... and the beating had indeed left him sensing something – but it had taken him a long time to conjecture what it must be what irked him, and he still wasn't sure if this really could be described as abandonment. Though he was sure the first 'stages' of this disharmony had appeared before the wedding and multiplied after it, and ten folded after the birth of Rosie.

But at least for now, he needed to try to shove it all away, deny the existence of those facts and sentiment, he couldn't handle it on top of it all.

The thing was they seemed to creep back in from his subconscious, as he had just experienced.

They had to go!

It was another reason why he had turned to drugs, to kill the hurt, he understood that now.

But no matter how he wanted them gone, the memories stayed with him.

He had tried to lock them away repeatedly but they didn't stay hidden.

"Sherlock?"

A hand landed on his shoulder and this time he managed to receive the touch as it was meant, a soothing warm comfort and a helpless plea for forgiveness.

"You didn't do it on purpose, you didn't know it was addictive," Sherlock elaborated.

"Oh, glad to hear that..." John sounded as tired as he felt, "Feeling better?"

"God, I'm so tired of this."

John's face fell, he bit his lip.

"Yeah, I know. Get some sleep, you need it and it will pass the time."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, the unspoken things between them were making the room seem to be filled with mental molasses.

They had discussed several medications that could smooth out the symptoms a bit, even had things like bupropion and selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors ready to use, to name just a few, but Sherlock had decided against it. His kidneys would be happier without all those and also he was not ready to experience another odd drug reaction to something he had never taken before. He had had a share of those in the past and had no desire to repeat things like that.

He was well aware though, that in case he'd suffer from severe paranoia, suicidal thoughts that turned into more than thoughts, aggressions, or dangerous hallucinations John would administer any drug that would keep him in check, they had discussed this, too. Although chances were small since Sherlock had only experienced hallucinations and medium severe paranoia in the past.

"Too tired to sleep," he huffed.

They had started him on antidepressants that were safe to use with his issues at the hospital, though, aware the detox would bring forth severe depression. When at home, John had refused to allow him to stop them. This type of medication needed weeks until it worked properly and was playing havoc on his system, too already. But he understood why John thought it was necessary and knew depression would hit sooner or later... and that he was already suffering from depression before. Molly had pointed it out repeatedly in the past weeks.  

"Want your Laptop? - Oh, and Anthea brought a box with comfort food."

"Give me the files, I need a bit more background reading about the cold case."

"You should rest."

"I need something to occupy my mind."

"Right."

John seemed to understand and after bringing in the folders and the Laptop, he left him to it.

Sherlock's sense of time was lost, he slept in between reading and missed the fact that what he thought was roughly 48 hours were in fact only 24.

John was glad he was able to rest, well aware the fatigue was one of the withdrawal symptoms for more than one of the drugs he had taken, and also well aware there would be times ahead were insomnia would probably turn into a real problem, but that was probably about a week until then, before that phase it would get a lot worse.

Severe cravings and problems to concentrate were about to hit and they would make it a seven day lasting nightmare.

 


 

* If you want to assume the 1976 film 'The Seven-Per-Cent Solution' is canon, then Victorian Holmes will undergo withdrawal in Vienna in 1891. I for myself am not sure if I accept this film as Victorian canon. It was well received but… I don't know, it feels kind of odd, but I nevertheless used some of the facts they built the film on for this story.

** Chloral Hydrate was advertised in the Victorian era to be non-addictive, which was not true.

Notes:

I wish Santa may gift me with loads of reviews and feedback.
Hope you enjoyed.

Chapter 6: Day 3 (2016) - Cravings

Summary:

Severe cravings setting in.

Notes:

Sorry for the long wait, I'm struggling. Not with the story but with RL.
Beta read by Sparkypip. Many thanks to her for doing so (and being there).

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Something touched his face and he immediately went into 'red alert' mode, tensed up.

A second later Sherlock recognised the smell and the hands.

Mrs Hudson.

Not a hospital, just his bedroom.

"It's me, Sherlock."

It took effort to relax again, the memories of being suffocated while lying down in a hospital bed still fresh and much more distressing that he dared to admit to even himself.

"Oh, dear! You seem so hot to touch."

"Mrs Hudson, please refrain from touching me unannounced, I feel quite unsettled by it," he informed her, fighting the adrenaline rush that was grinding on his nerves.

"Any telegrams?"

"What? Are you dreaming, dear?"

Sherlock blinked up at her, the confusion in her voice encouraging him to make an effort.

Oh.

2016.

"No... just...."

Explaining was way too much work.

He felt the urgent need to sit up, feeling too exposed and vulnerable lying down when another person was present, which had caused some trouble at the hospital.

"You really look awful, Sherlock. I'll make you some tea. Why don't you get up," she ordered while pulling open the curtains and opening the window.

Sherlock sat up and winced when he felt the cold winter air seep in immediately.

It was her 'shift' then this morning, the detective deduced.

Taking a few pieces of dirty clothing with her she vanished into the kitchen.

"You have five minutes then I'll come in with a cold washcloth," she threatened and Sherlock heard her fill the kettle. Her voice was warm though and revealed the lie.

She knew how sensitive he was to cold recently.

And to smells.

And to light.

And noise.

And any other kind of sensory input.

This state was disgusting.

He was disgusting.

Hating himself and therefore not opposed to torture himself for being an idiot and a failure he rolled out of bed - to make himself feel even more miserable.

It was colder than he had expected and his warm socks were gone.

With a growl he snatched his warm dressing gown from the back of the door and hastily wrapped himself as tightly in it as he could, hoping the pressure would be a soothing sensation. It used to be, but these days nothing that had felt good did any longer. His senses had gone haywired and even relying on former withdrawal episode's experiences had turned out to be dodgy.

When he slowly stumbled out of his room, he realised that something was off.

More off than yesterday.

There was a sudden urge, a need - familiar and devastating.

When he passed the bathroom, she came towards him again and then went for something else in his room.

He shuffled into the kitchen and the smell of the leftovers of Rosie's baby food made him work hard to prevent retching.

God, what had the poor child been given for breakfast this time?

Most of the time John fed her home cooked baby food Mrs Hudson had prepared, but some days, when there was little time or John was not up to it, he gave her the revolting stuff from supermarkets you could buy in little glass jars.

No matter which brand John bought, Sherlock found it all loathsome.  

"I expect you to eat something, too. What do you want?"

Now he actually gagged at the thought of chewing something.

Probably a side effect of the morphine he was still taking.

But he remembered that one morning, John had fed Rosie something that had in fact smelled good.

Something that seemed to be some kind of biscuit-flavoured puree or porridge.

Mrs Hudson was suddenly next to him, shoving him into a kitchen chair and holding out his pills.

Six of them.

Sighing, he reached for the half-full bottle of water on the table and washed them down one by one with tiny sips, careful not to make himself sick.

Up to this moment he had had his cravings in check without too much work, but now the need hit him full strength, like a force of gravity pulling him against his will.

He would not give in!

"There you go," she praised.

Not give in!

"Could you be so kind to shut up?" he demanded, trying not to be rude but feeling the cravings and the discomfort catch up with him.

For a long moment she froze and scrutinized him, he evaded her gaze, annoyed about being such a wimp.

She was the least person who deserved a rude tone. She had been so patient and had also probably saved his life by kicking John into the right conclusions.

"Sorry," he whispered.

Giving in was not an option!

"Cravings setting in then?" she concluded.

Was he really such an open book in this state?

Devastated, he closed his eyes.

The ugly, overpowering-all-thoughts-need would get even stronger soon.

He hated it, as well as being an open book.

The kettle started to boil and he was glad she switched it off and poured the water over some special blend of tea he liked.

Desperately trying to concentrate on the welcoming smell of one of his favourite brands he inhaled.

The upside of having over reactive senses.

It smelled wonderful.

"Did you just moan?"

"Hm?"

Had he?

"Smells good," he confirmed.

She raised her eyebrows and grinned.

.

 

Two hours later he was trying to read the newspaper, but it barely registered what he read. He had repeatedly gone through several paragraphs twice to get the information when he realised that it was getting worse.

Like he couldn't think about anything else his thoughts returned again and again to... the feeling of holding a syringe in between his fingers. The sensation of piercing the skin, pushing the plunger down, feeling the release when the substance hit the bloodstream.

He needed to fiddle with something, hold something else in his hands.

One of Rosie's sensory toys was on the table next to him, the obnoxious tawdriness annoying him, hurting his eyes.

But then he realised it was the perfect choice. Some kind of octopus, every stuffed blunt tentacle filled with a hidden form or noise.

He squeezed the first one.

Some kind of marble hidden in the stuffing.

The second had a small bell.

The third some kind of grains.

He kneaded the tentacles, feeling his body tense up and his blood pressure slowly rise, a side effect of his desire rising.

Desperately, he tried to read on.

Next tentacle: something that produced a clicking/snapping sound when pressed.

That felt good. Somehow satisfying.

But he couldn't concentrate, his thoughts returned to the glorious rush he would feel if he injected cocaine.

He found he wanted it.

No, he couldn't.

A rush of panic washed over him.

The fear of being unable to fight it.

Disappointing John by sneaking out and getting high.

He could if he wanted, he knew that. They wouldn't be able to stop him. No matter how much they assured him they would make sure to keep him in the flat.

If there was a will there was a way.

He fought the cravings, tried to block the thoughts out.

But reading was not working.

Violin.

He needed his violin. Do something that needed a higher level of concentration. She had always been a substitute in situations like this.

.

Playing helped for a bit longer than half an hour, in which Mrs Hudson dared to leave him alone, knowing both his hands were busy. She went downstairs to start the washing machine.

But finally, he had to put down the instrument, his shoulder and arm joints hurting from use.

It took a lot of effort to carefully store the fragile instrument in its case, because his frustration was building up and he felt the almost overwhelming urge to smash something.

Running up and down the room in desperation he found the toy again and picked it up, fidgeted with its appendages.

It only took a few moment until Mrs Hudson was dutifully coming up the stairs again.

But all he wanted at that very moment was to be left alone in his misery.

"Go away!" he hissed through gritted teeth when she entered the living room.

"Sorry, can't do," she bustled around the room, picking up things and bringing them into the kitchen.

"Stop making noises!" he exploded and threw the obnoxious toy against the window glass.

Without much haste or being affronted, she just calmly sat down in John's armchair, her colourful apron getting on Sherlock's nerves immediately.

"Get that off," he spat.

And she did, balled it up and hid it behind the chair.

"It's getting bad, isn't it? Do I need to handcuff you to something?" she asked calmly, it was not a joke.

His still working brain provided that the only object heavy and massive enough to keep him in the house (if she could weld the keyholes shut) was the metal crib in John's room.

"Rosie's bed is the only object with poles and bars you could use for that purpose," he provided, "and I doubt John would like to find me in there. Too much of a sexual undertone to being chained to a bed. The crib would be highly inappropriate."

"Sherlock!" she looked scandalised, "I'll find something else, be sure of that. I doubt he'd like to find you relapsed and therefore he'd approve of anything I might do to keep you off the drugs. So be careful what you suggest!"

Sherlock nodded, frustrated by his own weakness that made it necessary to even discuss this.

"That bed was made pre-war, you know," she wallowed in memories.

It had been quite some work to get it up there, he remembered, John had been very creative when cursing.

"Had it in the basement all these years, never bothered to throw it out. You know, one of the ridiculous things that was left behind by a former tenant. Probably left it behind because it was so heavy, solid metal and all."

For a moment he had the impulse to tell her to shut up because all those mundane stupid boring little things were so very unnerving and irrelevant.

But then he stopped himself, when another uncomfortable wave of 'need' crashed into him.

It was starting full force, starting to dominate his thoughts... and flooring the ability to think about anything else.

Like an obsession.

No thought free of the topic, the abnormal desire to 'get some'.

Every distraction was important!

Get his brain off the topic.

The thing was, he was capable of managing quite complex tasks and it wouldn't do a thing to keep him off the other thoughts.

Discomfort was building up.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Mrs Hudson?"

"Are you listening?"

He nodded, feeling numb.

"How about you read some more in those case files of yours?"

"It's not working!" he yelled, frustration gushing out. "I can't read! My eyes won't focus properly!"

"Is that normal?" she looked a bit shocked while he fought his impulse to throw something fragile against a wall.

"I don't care!" he burst out.

And then saw how she flinched. He knew she wasn't afraid of him, that was probably one reason why he trusted her so much and dared to rely on her to a certain degree.

He was hurting all over and well aware that a good dose of cocaine would help with all his ailments.

But he couldn't.

He was doomed to endure this to get John back.
And John was more important than anything.

More important than drugs.

He needed to dominate his transport.

Fight the urge.

Then, his shoulders sagged in defeat, "I am sorry. I'm going back to bed," he said, feeling spent and like he didn't deserve her affection.

"Oh, no, you don't! Get on that sofa," she ordered, no nonsense style.

He considered ignoring her and retreating to his room anyway, but he had started to feel mentally incarcerated in his room.

Heavily, he let himself fall into the cushions and raised his eyebrows when she fetched the folder of case files and held it out to him.

"Pick the ones you need to read, I will read them out to you," she said, once more her tone was more of a stern order than a suggestion.

"I don't think this is-"

"Shut up and pick one!" she finally shed all kid-gloves, using a voice louder than Sherlock had ever heard before and dumped the folder on his thighs, the only area that wasn't hurting too much.

He bit his lips for a moment, trying to adjust to how ridiculous he would feel allowing her to do something like that.

The urge was growing.

As was the discomfort.

He would control his need for drugs - as he controlled most of his bodily functions.

He was good at that, had learned it from an early age.

Use every distraction available.

The first priority right now was to stop himself from planning how to get his hands on some cocaine or evaluate how to get past Mycroft's men so they wouldn't stop him.

He didn't really want to leave to get something, but some aspect of his mind was thinking about it. And his transport was pushing the issue by screaming at him to ease the agony.

Despicable.

Right, a distraction was needed.

Exhaling slowly, he closed his eyes.

"Read the autopsy report on the frozen body, please," he suggested.

She started to browse the folder for said report and Sherlock tried to breathe.

Just breathe.

 

 

Notes:

Many thanks to all the wonderful people who follow, favourite and comment. You guys are great! :)

Chapter 7: February 13+14th, 1867 and still day 3 in 2016

Summary:

Sherlock once more escapes to the Victorian Era when the cravings are too bad to handle.

Notes:

Many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip for her beta work and feedback! She writes beautiful H/C stuff if that is your thing :).

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Chapter 7

February 13th, 1867 – Wednesday - Day V3

 

Sherlock woke early, from the first carriages going down Baker Street. He was miserably cold and fetched another blanket.

The lack of noises made him assume that John wasn't up yet. Since he felt still very exhausted, he returned to bed. The echoes of nausea and pain he felt were not the worst of it all, he was aware that his real life self had started to feel the cravings for real.

He briefly considered to get up and do some work on the case, but the tiredness was so intense - or the imaginary aftermath of imaginary chloral hydrate - it caused the inside of his eyelids to hurt. So he closed them again and concentrated on going to the floating sensation he needed as a landmark to find sleep again.

.

A bit later Mrs Hudson woke him when she brought tea, fussing about, asking if he was sick or unwell.

She also handed him a telegram from Lestrade who invited them to another crime scene.

On his way to the location, Sherlock stopped at John's surgery and collected him.

As planned, the doctor had just finished his last patient for the day when he arrived.

The ride to the outskirts of London took quite some time and the doctor used it to once more complain about Holmes' palour.

He was probably right, Sherlock felt drained of energy and was shivering from the bleak weather.

At least the snow continued to melt, it had in fact started to rain non stop.

Sherlock knew the February of 1867 was the wettest Britain has seen in a long time, and all the frozen waste was now smelling and rotting.

Finally, they reached a large area that seemed to be in a state of early preparation for some building project. A sign at the entrance hinted that another large manufacturing plant for some popular goods would be built there in the near future.

They asked to cabby to actually pass the extemporary gate and try to bring them in further because no one could be seen amongst all the heaps of earth, felled trees and vast areas of mud.

The man drove the carriage inside but after a few more metres he refused to go in further, explaining all the mud and ice from the snowmelt would get the wheels stuck. This far outside of the city the snowmelt was slower. The open landscape held the cold much better than the city with its chimneys and fireplaces.

Sherlock exited the cab, the man was probably right and he could see a few carriages and men in the distance.

They would get dirty anyway, so they could walk.

John cursed the weather and the mud but followed his friend to the cluster of people in the distance.

.

The new victim lay partially hidden in a heap of leaves, which had been piled up during the past autumn deep inside a small forest.

Now that the forest was cut down to make room for the new buildings the heap had been revealed.

Obviously the killer had not been aware that there would be dramatic changes to the environment when he chose where to hide the evidence of his crime.

The building process had been put on hold when snow started to fall, which had been quite late last year, but now as the weather begun to warm the workers had started to chop trees again.

The body was in an advanced state of decay and therefore it was not possible at first to determine the gender.

Clothing that would have given hints were absent. The body was completely naked, which in itself was rare.

Of all the murder victims Sherlock had read about in the Victorian age, most were dressed, at least partially.

Another issue was that the ground was still partially frozen and so was the body.

Someone quite stupid suggested to light a few fires nearby and to Sherlock's horror Anderson and Lestrade started to prepare for that.

Sherlock spent almost ten minutes trying to conjure up a solution how to do it better, but although all his ideas were good in theory, they were impractical.

Finally he surrendered to the suggestion, accepting that evidences would be destroyed, but he could do nothing about it. It was either warming the area up or wait for it to melt on it's own, which would be equally damaging to the scene. He suggested to erect a tent or something to keep the heat at place, prevent winds to carry small things away, and shield the scene from rain.

It would take days until the body would arrive at the morgue.

Sherlock felt impatience creep up his spine like a poison, bile couloured and itchy.

.

February 15th, 1867 – Friday - Day V4

Two days later they stood inside the morgue, Hooper present, Anderson luckily had other things to do.

Sherlock preferred Hooper, who – although being difficult – didn't complain about the smell, didn't waste too much time with ridiculous self-praise, and who was at least moderately competent for this period.

Hooper tried to throw him out repeatedly, but he just ignored her. For hours the remains brought no important clues.

The corpse turned out to be a woman, who had born a child, but except that there was little knowledge they could gather, the decay was too far advanced.

Or maybe the fact that they found nothing just meant that science was not developed enough to do so.

Sherlock ran into one mental brickwall after another when trying to figure out ways in which he could try things with the resources he had at hand, but other than keeping his mind busy nothing came out of it.

Finally there was just one last thing to do, cut open the lungs. It was then that the first moderately interesting fact was revealed.

"Oh!" Hooper exclaimed and Sherlock stepped closer, having already given up the hope to find anything at all.

When he inspected the tissues in the dim light he found they looked wrong.

"She must have inhaled something that caused the damage... or swallowed and it went down the wrong pipe," Hooper stated.

"Take a sample," Sherlock instructed and she trew him a nasty look. He had probably ordered her around, which she wasn't too fond of.

"Here," she said two minutes later, handing over three small segments of lung tissue on a slide.

They looked at it through his magnifying glass, speculating what might cause this kind of damage while Watson just stood nearby, taking a closer look at the outstretched organs laying on the half decayed chest.

It was obvious the obnoxious smell of the cellar was getting to him and he therefore rarely spoke.

Sherlock knew Watson wasn't squeamish, but something about this corpse was getting to him. He kept his distance, which was unusual.

Sherlock cut the samples into smaller pieces and transferred them to separate plates, then added test liquids to each of them.

"Caustic..." he concluded a few minutes later, "Enough to severely impair the woman's ability to breathe."

"You mean she died because she inhaled acid fumes."

"Probably."

"Then this wasn't murder but an accident?"

"Don't draw premature conclusions," Sherlock reminded her.

"Right."

"Did the autopsy of the first victim show any signs of lung problems? Why didn't I read the report already?" Sherlock asked.

"I only finished it yesterday, we had a busy few days," Molly justified. "The DI has a copy for you. But there was no lung damage like this, although the boy's lungs weren't healthy. We found no cause of death, it is very mysterious," she added with a fair amount of sarcasm.

"Not healty, in which way?" Watson asked.

"He had asthma, not too bad, though, but it certainly prolonged the recovery time of his pneumonia," Hooper explained.

"Oh."

"But it was not the cause of death," she insisted.

Sherlock was rather disappointed by the lack of information. He wished he had been there, even with his lack of medical knowledge, he might have found something. But it was no use, the information were lost... not available.

The mystery of both deaths was certainly the most interesting clue they had found so far and Sherlock felt the rush of the case finally hit him, though in slow motion.

"I will then visit the DI after we are finished here. I insist to take a few samples of this lung with me and test it to find out what substance she might have inhaled. I will send you a message as soon as I know."

Hooper nodded appreciating his willingness to share information and the respect he showed her medical knowledge – and also that he was keeping her secret.

.

2016

John woke with a start, instantly noticing what had woken him once more.

Rosie seemed to be having a bad night, as was he.

It was a few minutes past 2:30 and it was the fourth time she was awake.

Overall she was difficult since Mary's death, which was to be expected. Babies don't cope well after losing the most important person in their life.

Understandably she was moody, frustrated, not eating well, and overall quite distressed by the absence of her mother.

John had barely managed to fall asleep twice this night and he was starting to feel a headache coming up that was probably caused by the tension he couldn't shake these days.

He stared at the ceiling, waiting if she would settle down again. He couldn't take her out of the crib every time she was a little frustrated. He and everyone around would regret that. Small children needed to learn to sometimes just calm down on their own again.

As did he.

He couldn't just get up every time his nightmares took him to the aquarium and go to fetch a drink.

He would not ruin his life the way Harry had.

This time the dreams had been vicious, not only Mary had died, but Rosie too. The bullet had travelled through the baby carrier Mary was wearing for some odd nightmare reason and killing them both.

He had not only held his dying wife but also their bleeding out baby.

Mary had screamed and the simple memory of that noise was so horrible that tears started to well up in John's eyes.

Pressing his palms into his eyesockets until it hurt, he tried to gulp the distress that was rising in his throat down. But he couldn't hold back the choking sound that was the result.

Rubbing his eyes he sat up, hoping Rosie wouldn't take that as a 'someone is coming' noise.

With his head he knew she was okay but he wanted to check on her, to cling to her, make sure she was fine.

Now.

There was no use, she wouldn't sleep anytime soon, he decided. According to the noises she was sucking on her fist and lifting her sleeping sack clad legs, playing with the fabric covering her legs.

It was only a matter of time until she realised she was actually hungry, it would be her usual mealtime soon.

There were no toys in her crib and no pacifiers, Mary had set that as a ground rule. Although John had agreed back then he now needed to rely on the pacifier more often than he liked.

There were times Rosie just needed one to calm down enough to sleep and it was the only thing that helped.

The sudden stop of breastfeeding was highly disturbing for the baby and John had to switch to alternative foods earlier than he and his wife had planned, although they had discussed weaning her off, they hadn't started.

While still thinking about how Mary had held Rosie and smiled up at him while she fed her, he suddenly flinched when he heard something fall downstairs.

He shoved the duvet to the side and stood up.

The day hadn't been easy. John had been to a baby check-up with Rosie today and it was the landlady's turn to watch over the detective. After the appointment at the paediatrician John had taken Rosie to baby swimming for some quality time and they had spent a few hours at their house after that.

Mrs Hudson had babysat Sherlock and she reported he had been difficult when John came home in the evening, a sleeping baby in the carrier.

Overall John hadn't seen his flatmate more than a bit over half an hour.

And during those minutes Sherlock had been grumpy and taciturn. It had been difficult to make the detective eat dinner. He had tried to do conversation but Sherlock had just sat there and picked at his foot, silent and pale and staring into the distance.

The cravings had set in, that much he had understood. But Sherlock himself was not so forthcoming to inform him about this little fact, Mrs Hudson had told him.

Also, Sherlock had not allowed the doctor to touch him, had sent him away whenever he tried to interact with his friend.

When another unrecognisable noise made his worry start in earnest.

What the hell was Sherlock doing?

For a brief moment he considered leaving Rosie behind in her crib, but then he picked her up and headed down the stairs. She was happy about the change of scenery and so John concentrated on listening to the nightime flat.

He had almost reached the landing when another odd sound could be heard. And he realised there was a constant low knocking sound accompanying it.

And why was the person watching Sherlock not stopping him?

Who was on duty tonight?

When he entered the kitchen he saw Mycroft sitting on the kitchen table, his laptop open in front of him and his smart phone showing the feed from Sherlock's room beside it.

"What's he doing?" John asked without a greeting, leaning over the phone, but Sherlock was out of sight - except of his outstretched legs.

It seemed he had retreated into the only area of the room the cameras weren't showing.

A small spot on the ground behind the door.

"Why aren't you in there stopping this? The deal is he stays in sight."

"Strictly speaking, he is in sight," the older Holmes answered in an uninterested voice. He didn't even look up from his work.

"What's he doing?"

"Banging his head, probably."

"What the hell, Mycroft!"

John went into the living room and put Rosie down in her playpen, then hurried back towards Sherlock's door.

To his surprise he found Mycroft was blocking his way.

"Don't."

"What the hell is wrong with you? He's hurting himself!"

"He always does that, he needs the stimuli to keep himself from going crazy."

"Always?" John echoed, getting angry now and pushed past him.

"Please Dr Watson, I have seen him go through this more often than you have and trust me, it is better to let him do this than...."

"Sherlock, can I come in?" John asked, knocking carefully.

 

 

 

Notes:

A/N:
I am not sure if FF was malfunctioning again when I published the last chapter. You might want to check if you read it before continuing.
Sorry this took so long, but my health was giving me problems in the past weeks and I couldn't concentrate on anything.

Chapter 8: Day 4 (2016)

Summary:

Sherlock and John are having a bad night.

Notes:

Many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip for her patient beta work.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

2016

 

"Sherlock, can I come in?" John asked, knocking gently.

On the other side of the door Sherlock closed his eyes. He should have known the noise he was trying to keep down might draw attention to him.

He was torn between letting John in and needing solitude.

Just a few days ago he had let people see his state deliberately, but he had enough of that now. It had been necessary to get John's attention to reach his goal to make his friend safe him.

But now that the deed was done and he didn't want to be seen, wanted no one to pity him. He was miserable enough without having to endure people around.

Suffering through this was a private matter - as was being high, which he had been very private about all his life - until a few weeks ago. It had been difficult to get used to letting other people witness it, but necessary for his mission.

Now that it was done and he wanted privacy.

The fact that they wouldn't let him alone and had surveillance in place as part of the deal he had needed to accept to be allowed to go home instead of to rehab made it difficult.

The drugs had made him feel invincible and dulled his need for privacy, although his mind had provided the input that it was only the chemicals and it was not real, but his very state had shoved aside that knowledge. No matter how meticulously he had planned to be careful and be not too psychotic when he was alone, that plan had totally failed.

He seemed to have hallucinated Smith's daughter and all tries to prove that she had in fact been in the flat had been futile up to now.

The sudden memory of the moment in the morgue, when he saw her and realised he had never met her before worked itself into the forefront of his mind. That horrible moment when time had stood still and he realised everything was collapsing around him, like a house of cards. He had felt that lost in his adult life once before, in Baskerville when he thought he was losing his mind because his senses told him the opposite of what his eyes were.

This was similar.

Questioning his mind was one of the most devastating things there was. The only real constant in his life, the only thing he really trusted - failing him. Without the capabilities of his mind he was no one and useless.

It was one of the most vulnerable and horrible sensations he knew; and in this compromised and exposed state John had raised his hands against him.

Sherlock had known of course that this might happen, but had relied on John to wait for privacy and a moment where Sherlock could actually handle it. He had been prepared for this, but not in this setting, not while still fighting the shock about it all going so enormously wrong.

In slow motion, he saw his entire carefully prepared plan go wrong.

Losing control was something he feared and it had not just happen on one level in the mortuary. 

He needed to find out what had gone wrong but couldn't concentrate enough to find a conclusion, not even now.

Once more, the events played out in his mind, it made his ribs start to ache as well as the wound on his forehead, triggered by the memories. But the plan going wrong resulted in fear that was sucking away all the smart thoughts, as it had happened back then, preventing him from even drawing the tiniest logical conclusion.

John's anger and Smith's laughter added to it, distracted him, floored his intelligence and he couldn't hang on to it. Impulses took over, hurt him by purely existing and having a life of their own he was unable to control.

A state he hated.

It was similar to the one he was in now. The only path of thoughts present in his mind an impulse, no matter what he did to distract himself.

The all encompassing impulse to get drugs - right now - it was maddening. His senses and mind seemed fogged by the need.

He needed cocaine and it was the one thing that dominated it all, made everything else meaningless.

He remembered the other times he went through withdrawal. It was always a detestable experience that left dread and dismay in its wake. Being shot had been bad, but withdrawal was – although only slightly – worse. One aspect of it that was yet to come and that he dreaded were the psychological issues. By now he also was no longer suffering from the delusion that this was the last time he'd have to do this. Although he hadn't had a relapse in the past ten years, it had happened again. In addition, he wondered if he could have figured out another way to make John save him than to bring a criminal down in combination with the drugs.

Would it have worked better without the drugs?

Had him being high added to John's anger?

Probably.

Maybe John would have been more sympathetic if he had looked in need of help in some other way. Maybe if he hadn't been that messed up the plan would have worked better.

Had he used this to warrant his relapse?

Because he had tried to drown his grief about losing Mary and John and it had been the easiest way?

He knew he had asked himself all this before and realised the psychological issues had already started to get bad. His thoughts were going in circles and although it had started days ago, it was getting worse.

As was the anger at himself.

There was more anger about being unable to do anything good on a personal level, at failing to lessen John's agony and grief. As well as about being useless and unable to help the most important person in his life.

He despised his own helplessness.

"Sherlock?" John's low voice came through the door again. He sounded worried, and as if he hadn't slept... and defeated.

As defeated as Sherlock felt.

Nevertheless, he was too tired and too fed up to deal with John right now. He didn't deserve John's care. If he hadn't been so smug to believe he was able to handle everything Mary wouldn't have died.

But not only his mental state was getting worse. Every nerve ending in his body seemed to have been sandpapered and was now a source of piecing agony.

The muscle aches added to his pain, even if he didn't move at all.

At times moving felt necessary and he had walked from the door around his bed and back for the past hour to get rid of the restless tingling in his legs. It felt like he needed to run and he fought the urge to do so. Mycroft would misinterpret it – as would everybody else. It felt like he needed to do a few rounds on a race track but there was none at hand, which irked him in addition. 

"Go away," he mumbled, loud enough so John could hear, trying not to sound rude. Maybe he was overcompensating, because he knew his level of aggression had risen during the past days. It was an aspect of withdrawal he tried to fight all the time and reminded himself to fight it, all the time, too.

Even if he wanted to go to a gym where he could run alone in the dark, he'd not even make it there; he was too weak and exhausted. The combination of restlessness and tiredness were driving him crazy.

"Mate, come on, let me in."

He had spent the first part of the night in his mind palace with the cold case but after a bathroom break had been unsuccessful to retreat there again. His tries to enter had ended after only a few seconds, something had kicked him out again.

Maybe he should make another try.

"Sherlock. Please..."

John seemed to be nearing his breaking point if the light trembling in his voice was any indication.

Some tiny aspect of him wanted John to make it better, although he knew there was no way he could. Maybe even talking to him would distract him for a few minutes. Even a John as bitter and gruff as he was, was better than no John.

If only Mycroft would go away.

"Send him away," he requested.

The doctor's steps moved away from the door and Sherlock could hear a silent discussion going on, then the lid of a laptop that was shut.

A minute later John was back, tipping the door with some fingernails as a silent way of knocking.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment longer, still wanting to be alone but needing something, too. Something that wasn't drugs but that he was unable to name.

God, he wanted to shoot up so badly.

With one hand he unlocked the door, slowly so that it wouldn't screech, then he lifted his knees so that John wouldn't bounce the door into his lower legs.

The doctor opened the door carefully and poked his head in first.

"Can I come in?"

"Stop asking stupid questions. I wouldn't have opened-" Sherlock spat.

"Right. Sorry, sorry."

Slowly, John stepped into the room and went down on his haunches.

As so often in the past days Sherlock didn't look at him, evaded his gaze. He stared onto the old wooden floorboards.

"Cravings getting to you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, already overexerted by the interaction. But then he nodded.

"You're shivering. Chills?"

Sherlock actually needed to open up his senses to notice the other man was right. He was just trying to block sensations out, they were too much.

"Want to go back to bed? I can bring you the cherry pit pillow again," John offered. Mrs Hudson had introduced the thermal pillow to them, it could be heated up in the microwave within a few seconds.

"No," Sherlock hissed, the smell made him nauseous. "Hot water bottle."

"Alright."

When John held out a hand Sherlock ignored it, but started to use the wall to lean on when he staggered to his feet. The doctor knew better than to touch him nowadays and Sherlock was glad for it.

"There is Thai takeaway. Your favourite."

It was the second time John tried to make him eat, but in contrast to most people withdrawing from cocaine Sherlock wasn't suffering from increased appetite. Or maybe one of the other drugs he was withdrawing messed up his appetite.

Overall many of his symptoms were atypical, it made checking into the average rehab facility useless, where underpaid and overworked staff had no time to do anything but to go off pat would mean more stress than necessary, luckily on this Sherlock had received support from Mycroft.

The pain intensified when he made the first small step and he stifled a groan. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw John raise a hand, ready to stabilise him, but he managed to start walking on his own and John backed off.

"I'll be back in a mo with your meds. You're almost due for the next dose of painkiller."

Morphine. John meant morphine.

Two hours ago Sherlock had been sure he'd make another try to refuse further doses, wanting to get it all over with at once, but right now the small relieve the drug would give him was desperately welcome.

Sherlock carefully lowered himself into the bed, it felt cold and clammy.

In the kitchen someone filled the kettle and switched it on.

He felt another wave of desperate want for a syringe full of bliss and all he could do to soothe his agitation was starting to rock again. A habit he had been broken off by his parents early, and he only came back to during withdrawal or severe distress.

It wasn't enough... and it felt pathetic.

He needed space, less sensory input, and less being watched.

Desperately trying to drown the paraesthesia he started hitting the headboard with the back of his head, only pain stimuli would be enough to do so. The pain was so refreshingly different from the dull piercing aches and also brisk since it came from only one spot he could focus on, it was good.

But then suddenly it stopped when the surface behind his head changed texture. He jerked his eyes open and realised John was next to him, had pushed his own hand in between Sherlock's head and the wood.

"Jesus, Sherlock! Please don't hurt yourself."

The softness of John's hand felt so disgusting and was so sudden Sherlock almost jumped out of his skin in frustration. He barely managed to stifle a loud holler working its way up from his chest.

It felt bad and then John had switched on the bedside lights, which send tendrils of pain into his eye sockets.

"Sorry. Take your meds," John spoke way too loud and all the sensation piling up was too much.

It overwhelmed him.

He felt the urge to hit something - hard... and scream until all the built up distress was gone.

But he didn't, managed to hold back – by pressing his thumbnail into the soft flesh of his other hand's palm to create pain in another way.

"Get out!" he yelled, not able to keep that need secret.

"Sherlock, I-"

"I said get out!"

"Hang on. Tell me what is bothering you?"

"Stop asking stupid questions! I need some damn stimuli, and it happens to be pain, so leave me be."

"Sorry, can't let you hurt yourself."

"So you are allowed to hurt me but I am not? If you have the right, I have, too!" he shouted.

The comment hit John like a punch; Sherlock saw it but was way too unnerved to be nice any longer.

"No, I didn't have the-"

"Shut up and get out!"

John's mouth closed and his expression hardened.

Why hadn't he left him alone as he had wanted from the beginning?

Why had he been so demanding?

Sherlock had known something like this might happen, that's why he had wanted to be alone.

But right now he didn't care any longer.

For a moment, John stood frozen and shocked in the middle of the room, pills and a big glass of water in his hands.

It took him visible effort to actually step closer to Sherlock and place the items on the nightstand, risking getting closer again and thereby agitating Sherlock even more.

"You need to drink more, you're getting dehydrated and that is the last thing your kidneys need. So drink the water and take the pills," his voice was cold and dead.

The speaking and being told what to do worsened Sherlock's mood, the voice grinded on his brain – it felt like a grater moving over the inside of his skull. And when John stepped closer, Sherlock smelled his Rosie-smell and bed-smell and aftershave and sweat.

Sherlock lashed out to protect himself from the additional olfactory assault, swept the glass of water from the nightstand in his anger. It flew across the whole room and collided with the wall. Only then the detective realised it was not glass but plastic.

They were treating him like an imbecile, using unbreakable stuff. He was angry to be denied the satisfaction if it breaking.

"Shit, Sherlock!"

"Get the hell out!" he yelled on.

In the living room Rosie started to cry and finally John retreated. He had the presence of mind to actually switch off the light before he left the room.

The door remained wide open and Rosie's obnoxious noise was making it all even worse.

Hurting all over and in overwhelming pain now Sherlock got out of the bed with closed eyes, slammed the door shut, which he regretted immediately because of the noise and locked it again.

Then he stepped into the spilled water and his senses went into meltdown mode. The sensation of cold wetness in his socks, was so overwhelming he had to work hard not to scream.
Feeling blindly for the pills he found them and gulped them down dry.

Then sank back into his bed.

When he pulled off the wet socks something ripped from the violent movements.

With shaking hands he pulled the duvet over his head.

Cravings mixing with adrenaline and sensory overstimulation made him feel his heartbeat in his head, which throbbed and hurt fiercely now. However, he couldn't stop the input, which made him feel helpless.

He felt wetness in his eyes, not because of sadness but because of the senselessness of it all. Life was just a waste of everything. It was never worth going through all the shit just to stay alive. John was only staying because of his guilt, not because he wanted to. Sherlock was not worth it, he knew.

The damn pills had an effect-delaying component he cursed about – to make addiction less likely to happen.

He wanted cocaine.

No one would miss him, so why go through this?

As soon as John was better he would return to his life as a father, needing to work double parenting because he was the only parent left.

Sherlock would be alone soon again. And although John would have been saved Sherlock would not.

Not in the long run. So what was the use in staying alive if only misery was ahead.

It would never be like old times again. John would never really get over losing Mary. His bitterness about how his life had gone downhill was easy to spot and he was probably still unconsciously angry about Sherlock faking his death and Sherlock had broken his promise to protect them.

Even if John wanted to display forgiveness and friendship, it felt wrong, like a facade that might fall at any moment.

In addition, he didn't deserve John's forgiveness.

In fact, he was guilty of failing John and Mary... and Rosie. The child's presence rubbed that in whenever she was here. Sherlock realised he was angry with her but should in fact be angry with himself. He didn't deserve care or affection.

So why try any longer.

Maybe he had succeeded in saving John but their friendship felt shattered beyond repair.

He dwelled in these thoughts until he finally pulled the mental emergency break.

In an epiphany of analysing his own behaviour he realised that he had just been rude to John because he had been kind to him, punished him for being worried.

It also made him understand that this was the depression talking, turning every detail sour no matter how neutral it had been originally.

This was bad for detective work.

He had pinned a large note on a mental wall inside his head that said he had to push those thoughts away and be aware that it was all nonsense. Another note reminded him, that John was here because he cared and because he wanted to help.

But it felt like a lie to remind himself of that.

This felt like he was starting to lose the battle.

He was beginning to doubt what he had written down – aware he'd doubt it eventually, which was the reason why he had pinned the mental notes to a wall in the first place, to remind himself that it was not true.

No one had ever really truly liked him because he was himself.

He was socially inept, appeared to be arrogant and uncaring, and he was unable to show affection – people had told him that all his life, and he should be aware that they were probably right.

Why would anyone want him around?

He had never understood why John did from the beginning, and he was wondering why John had stayed before.

Focussing on his meandering self-loathing thoughts was making it all worse, he finally realised. Luckily, the pills kicked in while he tried to get rid of this kind of thoughts and he was finally able to focus on entering his mind palace enough for it to actually work.

 

 

Notes:

A/N:
Long and difficult to write chapter, this one.
Some feedback or constructive criticism would make my day ;)

Chapter 9: February 27th, 1867 – Wednesday – Day 6 in the Victorian Reality

Summary:

Sherlock escapes to his mind palace to solve the old case once more, but reality is haunting him even there.

Notes:

Once more many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip for her beta work and feedback! Check out her writing, beautiful H/C stuff :).

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

February 27th, 1867 – Wednesday – Day 6 in the Victorian Reality

"Holmes?"

God, he hated being woken by someone banging on the doors.

"Get up, you git!"

So John was in a bad mood, too.

His eyes jerked open.

He had tried to enter 1867 but it seemed he wasn't successful, it was clearly modern John's nuance of voice.

But when he looked around, it was only the words that were out of place, his room was its Victorian self and filled with 19th century furniture.

"I am awake," he answered, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.

"You better get out of there, we have a visitor," the doctor exclaimed, apparently still a bit ruffled about being held at distance last night - no that was real life John - this one had no reason to be gruff at all.

Why the hell was it this cold in London?

The fire had died again - which was his fault and no one else's, he realised - and his dressing gown was not even remotely warm enough.

Although terry cloth should have been invented by now... and produced and imported from the US... his gown was made of a thin fabric and fine wool. For modern standards it might have been considered warm, but for places without central heating... no chance.

"Holmes?"

"On my way!"

He tried to find the warm hand knitted socks made by Mrs Hudson but they were nowhere to be found.

.

Fifteen minutes later he had skipped shaving but had managed to dress himself.

For some odd reason his stubble connected him to his current future look and some aspect of his ancient self needed that. He probably needed something to ground him. He was aware that he had difficulties with the two realities mixing up and losing control over them or losing himself.

He was losing it. Even though he fought it had, he knew he was.

The thought was unsettling and he tried to shove it away. He needed to stay focused.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes," a voice greeted him the moment he entered the living room.

"Gregson?"

"Another body was found," Gregson stated without an introduction, but said no more.

Sherlock had an unnerved expression on his face, he knew he had.

What was the man waiting for?

"Details?" he finally pressed out beckoning with his hand in frustration, trying not to sound too unfriendly, fully aware his withdrawal issues were affecting his patience in a bad way."A young woman was found floating' in the Thames."

"Where is the body?"

"Currently being recovered."

"I will be ready as soon as possible," Sherlock turned towards the doctor, who had just stood by; obviously he had had breakfast already. He spotted the newspaper and saw the date: February 27th, 1867. He was sure it should be the 15th.

From his point of view it was his sixth day in the Victorian Era, but it seemed time was passing faster than he noticed.

In addition, it was also passing much faster than in the real world; he had kind of lost count but it must be a bit more than four days since he had returned from the hospital. He realised that his sense of time was totally out of whack.

But he had no time to sort that out now. Feeling no need to eat anything, the detective strode towards his room to dress.

This took so much longer than in modern times and he skipped the suspenders and the pair of braces. The trousers fitted well enough without them.

When he returned to the living room, already in his coat and with his leather gloves in his hands, Gregson's eyes widened and Sherlock frowned, unaware which odd etiquette he had broken this time.

When no one pointed it out, he decided to just ignore it.

No real consequences if he misbehaved here.

He felt too bad to care about much else than the case anyway. He wasn't in his underwear, it should suffice.

A cab was waiting outside and after another loud and straining carriage ride they arrived at the scene.

A constable and Lestrade were bent over an unmoving form, while several onlookers were kept at bay by two others. A fourth was talking to some workers. Sherlock deduced those had pulled her out of the water, their sleeves and lower trouser legs were wet.

When they stepped closer, Lestrade and the first constable were going through her apron's pockets, which clearly had been a bright white before, but was now of a muddy pale green brown, the pollution and the smell of the Thames was incredible, far worse than Sherlock had imagined it ever being.

"There's something in here," Greg's voice was full of anticipation as he pulled out a piece of paper and immediately tried to unfold it.

"Don't!" Sherlock interfered with a sharp voice and a hand on his shoulder, "You'll destroy it. We need to dry it first. Put it in an evidence bag."

"Evidence bag? What's that?" one of the men asked.

"Probably what the name says, go get some paper bags from the nearest bakery," Greg addressed the constable.

With desperation, Sherlock noticed that his eyesight was hazy and even here his thoughts had started to drift towards cocaine repeatedly.

He needed to concentrate!

It was getting harder and harder.

"Wax paper ones would be better," he addressed the man who was now hurrying off, then knelt down next to the body. John joined him and Greg a moment later, after shifting his weight off his bad leg.

He blinked several times and picked up one of her hands. She was stiff and he needed to bend lower to see better. The victim's skin was dirty and swollen but he was able to spot something that looked like eczema or some other type of skin problem near where her cuff started. They would have to open up the blouse to see it properly.

Next, Sherlock started to pat the sides of her hips looking for pockets in her skirt.

"Holmes!"

"What?"

"She's probably a virgin; don't touch her like this in public!"

"She's dead," he argued and slipped his hand into the pocket hidden by a fold in the wet and clingy fabric.

"Bit grumpy, today?" Greg addressed the doctor, who wisely decided not to answer.

Sherlock pulled the pocket inside out and revealed another piece of paper, smaller than the first and obviously a part of some packaging cut to pieces.

"High quality, contains rags. Part of what is probably a brand name on it, and some text, advertisement likely."

Carefully, he placed it on a boulder a few metres away.

"Anything else?"

Greg looked horrified when he realised Sherlock expected him to look for more pockets, but finally looked for more clues, gingerly.

"Empty," he reported once he found the other pocket.

"Which heightens the chances that this is a murder, then," Sherlock explained.

"What? Why?"

"Because if it was an accident, she would have carried keys, worn a jacket and have some kind of money with her, although some of those items could have been in a handbag that was lost… or just fallen out of her pockets due to the currents…. This couldn't have stripped her of her jacket. Aprons are usually provided by the employers and remain at the employer's household. I therefore assume she made it to work and something happened there. We need to find the family she was working for."

"How?"

"Skipped the morning coffee, Lestrade? Or spent all night arguing with your wife? Not really awake yet, are you?" Sherlock chided and John gave him a warning look.

"The paper you found first is probably a telegram, folded. Right size, right cheap paper quality. Either she received it, or her employers did, which is the more likely option."

"Right, sorry. Yeah, rough night it was," Lestrade agreed, "She hates my job."

"Then we better solve a few murders so you get a pay rise, to bring back her peace of mind," John tried to change the topic.

Sherlock wondered briefly if John disapproved of Lestrade's wife or why he implied all she cared for was money, but then decided it was irrelevant.

"Any ideas about the cause of death, doctor?" Sherlock asked and Lestrade gave a nod in permission.

Watson started to check her over.

"None so far. There is a light discolouration of the skin of her right palm, probably some kind of eczema."

"So we need to wait for the autopsy."

"…And check if someone misses a wife or daughter."

"Daughter. Young, no ring," Sherlock stated, "but she might have taken it off before cleaning, not wanting it to get ruined by aggressive modern cleaning agents."

He felt the inside of her palm for the callus a working class woman would get from wearing a ring.

"No horny skin that indicates she usually wears one."

No use looking for tan lines, every fashionable female would do everything she could to avoid getting them.

"Watson, let's go home and dry those pieces of paper carefully," he reached for the bags.

"Oi, that's evidence," Lestrade held out his hand.

"Feel free to join us, inspector. I might need to iron it and I doubt you have a flatiron at your station, so better do it in Baker Street. See, faster if I do it, and probably higher rate of success, too. Especially when it comes to not burning it in the process. Can't risk Anderson trying this, can we?"

.

An hour later Sherlock was heating the iron himself, while Mrs Hudson, Greg and John watched.

He first tried it on an old sheet of paper he had wetted himself, but it was too hot and browned the paper, so he let it cool down a bit more before starting to carefully dry the evidence.

After only two minutes he was able to unfold the thick wrapping paper with pincers.

John and Greg leaned closer.

"2 to ¼" was the only thing written on the inside, it was badly written and barely readable.

"What does that mean?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"Could mean a wide variety of things."

Carefully, Sherlock ripped open the second bag and produced the other sheet of paper. He repeated the process, though much more careful. The cheap paper was more likely to be easily damaged.

A few moments later they were able to read a telegram.

"Family Bernard Hollister."

"Alright, I'll send a constable to find out the family's address and their maids names."

"Better, let's go ourselves, their first reaction to the news might provide valuable insight and clues."

"Right, right," Greg agreed.

.

An hour later, they arrived at the family home. Two almost adult daughters and a mediocre housewife stated the maid hadn't shown up for work at all.

Furiously, the Missis had declared she would fire her as soon as she turned up.

When Lestrade explained she was dead, she had fainted and the daughters had to take care of her and asked them to leave.

"So what do we think about this meeting?" John asked the detective on their way back to the cab.

"They are lying… They were already quite stressed out when we arrived," Sherlock explained.

"Yes, her complexion was very pale when she understood who we were," John agreed.

"The younger daughter seemed quite nervous, too. At least she told us our victim was suffering from some kind of dermatosis. So we can exclude the thing about her hand," he added.

"You think they killed her?" Lestrade asked.

"No."

"No? Really? But you just said…"

"No premature assumptions, how often do I have to say this?" Sherlock hissed.

Immediately, Watson's eyes moved to his friend's face, in a galvanic movement, noticing that something about his tone was off.

They reached the police carriage that had waited for them the entire time, the horse was stamping impatiently at being left to wait, it whinnied lightly upon seeing passengers return.

"Holmes?" John tried to move into a position from where he was able to see the other man's face, but Sherlock turned away.

Then, suddenly, his legs seemed to become weak and he had to use his hand to stabilise himself against the carriage.

"Holmes?"

The doctor was by his side in an instant, wrapping his hand around his upper arm to support him.

"Don't!" Sherlock hissed.

"You will let me examine you this evening! Your behaviour is not normal and you, too, are pale as a ghost."

"How many real ghosts have you seen then?" Sherlock straightened and grinned, referring to the old argument they had during the Ricoletti case.

"Stop it!" Watson's voice was sharper than expected.

"My theory is they knew she was dead but it wasn't their fault. They - for some reason - tried to hide it nevertheless."

"What did you see?"

"There were several buckets outside to dry. The hallway was recently mopped, the kitchen used and dirty. She came to work, started work, then she died. It shook them, but as I understand sentiment it would have shaken them, too even if it wasn't their fault. Maybe it was the father, or she had an accident… or a burglary. Those people are more interested in their reputation than in what is right. They might fear for that. All those might result in distress that has the same outward appearance. Psychology is mainly still uncharted territory."

"Right, so what do you suggest next?" Greg asked.

"Get her address, talk to her relatives," Sherlock's voice was hoarse again.

"I will do it. You go home and take a break. I'll come by later," Lestrade stated in a surprisingly order like tone. John raised his eyebrows.

Greg had changed a bit since his last advancement, his leadership abilities were slowly surfacing since he had to manage more subordinates now. However, he frowned when Sherlock nodded silently and opened the cab's door.

The detective's hand was shaking and both those facts alarmed the doctor and the DI to a very high degree.

But instead of climbing into the carriage, Sherlock hastily moved towards a side alley, where most likely the bins were located.

A moment later the unmistakable noise of retching made both, the inspector and the doctor winced in sympathy.

"God, I thought he just got the morbs. But this sounds a bit more physical now, does it?" Lestrade asked. "He's not up to Dick."*

Watson rolled his eyes and went after his friend to make sure he was all right.

.

Nevertheless, he had barely made it to the corner when Sherlock reappeared, still very pale and wiping his mouth with one of his handkerchiefs.

Before John could say anything Sherlock had passed him, heading towards the cab.

"Holmes, are you alright?" Lestrade asked and stepped in the detective's way.

When Sherlock swayed, John stepped closer, ready to come to his aid.

"Go home, I'll take care of this," Lestrade urged when Sherlock gagged once more, turning away from them.

"Alright, I'll take him home," Watson agreed in a soft voice.

"You'll do no such thing!

"You need medical care, mate," Greg said in a caring voice Sherlock found was completely out of place - and out of time.

While Sherlock slowly climbed into the cab, Lestrade whisper to John, "What's wrong with him?"

The doctor shook his head, in a 'no idea' sort of gesture.

"Can we go?" came the urging voice from the inside of the carriage.

"Well, once he's decided to go he's impatient as hell, isn't he?"

"Probably afraid he might vomit again. I am really worried, Lestrade," the doctor admitted.

Watson followed his friend inside and the carriage started to move.

The horse was eager to move again and the ride was not as smooth as Sherlock had hoped it would be, although he was aware it was probably a perfectly normal ride, his senses were just too sensible due to him feeling sick.

.

Back at Baker Street Sherlock vanished into his room and locked the door before Watson had even gotten out of his jacket. The last thing he needed was more emphasis on how bad it felt. It would solicit more attention than he had to spare if Watson started to try to treat him. Paying attention to how bad he felt would worsen his state. It was the whole point to flee from withdrawal, he could not allow it to affect the Victorian reality, it would spoil the whole idea why he was doing this. Therefore, Sherlock was a bit unsettled by the idea that things were starting to spill over to this amount. His only solution was the same one he chose in the real world. Not a good one, but he was too exhausted to try better.

He hid.

The doctor tried all evening trying to assess his friend's condition but only silence answered when he knocked.

Shortly after midnight, he finally gave up and went upstairs to get some sleep.

 

 

 

* Got the morbs: Phrase from the 1880 that indicated temporary melancholy

Not up to Dick: Victorian Slang for 'Not Well'

Notes:

A/N:
Make me happy and give me some feedback. Constructive criticism welcome.
Many thanks to the wonderful people who wrote comments to the last chapter, you guys made my days. Thank you :)

Chapter 10: Still Day 4 (2016)

Summary:

Greg is woken up by an emergency call from Mycroft.

Notes:

Once more many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip for her beta work and feedback! Please check out her wonderful writing, too.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Day 4 in 2016

 

Greg's phone bleeped loudly and he opened his eyes to the darkened bedroom before reaching out for it and hitting the answer button.

"Yeah?" the inspector blurted out automatically, squinting at the bedside clock, which read 4.09am

"Lestrade?"

The DI had been fast asleep and he knew Mycroft wouldn't disturb him without a reason.

"What is it?" He was in fact quite alarmed to be called by the older Holmes and the adrenaline rush made him awake almost instantly.

Had something happened to Sherlock? Had he worsened? Or relapsed?

"I am aware that-"

"Is he okay? What happened?" Greg interrupted him.

"I'm not sure. John asked me to leave a few hours ago; apparently, Sherlock had asked him to. The doctor must have been sure he'd be able to handle my brother but things turned sour and he threw John out. Since the reason we are in this dilemma is the very fact that Dr Watson has issues asking for and accepting help I assume he hasn't called you and he is trying to handle it on his own which is currently causing for things to head south from what I am observing. Sherlock hasn't left his room – not even his bed in the past two hours.

"So, it's withdrawal at its worst at the moment?"

"No. The reason for my call is Dr Watson, actually."

"What?" Greg climbed out of his bed.

"John is neither in control of the situation nor of Sherlock's health currently. I need you to go there and take care of things. At this very moment, you are the only one equipped to do this. I fear my presence would do no one any good."

"Alright. I'll head over. Anything else I should know?"

Mycroft explained to him what had happened during the night and finished with a, "Thank you, Gregory."

Flabbergasted about being called by his first name, Greg needed a moment to answer.

"Well, have to run. Laters," he hung up and reached for his trousers.

 

Half an hour later the DI climbed the stairs to 221b, trying to be as silent as possible. He entered through the living room door, not wanting to spook John who had been in the kitchen for the past hours according to Mycroft.

When he peeked around the glass sliding doors, he silently knocked on the wooden frame to announce his presence.

Greg was alarmed, when the other man didn't react to his presence.

John was sitting on the floor to the left, his back leaned against one of the white cupboards. His posture screamed defeat, his legs outstretched, the left foot resting against the socket of the fridge. Between his legs, he held a half filled whiskey tumbler and the bottle was next to him on the ground. Greg feared John had consumed the missing half in the past two hours.

"John?"

The doctor jerked in surprise, blinking up at the DI who was now crouching down next to him.

"Hey, mate. How-?" Greg stopped himself. John wouldn't answer how he was and it was bloody obvious in what state he was in.

"Any news on Sherlock?" he asked instead, trying to assess John's state by letting him talk.

"How would I know? He doesn't talk to me," John slurred slightly. He didn't look as if he had emptied half the bottle. "I probably deserve it... He locked the door and won't let me in."

"Don't worry mate. It's what he's like. He won't want you to see him like this, in pain, craving and vulnerable, I suppose."

"I...."

There was just silence for a moment, in which John blinked heavily.

"John?"

"I don't know what to do. He needs something... and he won't tell me and..."

"He's probably suffering from intense cravings at the moment. That's when he locks himself in..."

Greg knew Sherlock going through withdrawal was a first for the doctor... and that it would be hard on him after the events of the past weeks. But it wasn't a first for Greg sadly. He had seen Sherlock go through this but John hadn't, not really.

After Magnussen's death and the events on the tarmac, Sherlock had vanished for withdrawal and everyone assumed he had either gone through it at Mycroft's home or in a private facility. John had been quite frustrated about being kept at a distance.

Greg also knew Sherlock had detoxed at home at least twice in the past, but that was before John. One of those times Greg had found him, and had prevented things from going really bad.

"What?... You've seen him go through this before! Jesus! Why didn't you tell me?" John stared up at him with glassy eyes, his gaze showed more than a hint of betrayal.

"Well, I... This is not a topic one talks about over a pint, mate. Was quite a difficult experience for me, too. And I imagine this is nothing Sherlock is eager to share."

"Sorry," John murmured. "I just feel a bit left out of my best friend's history. Especially if I accidentally stumble into facts that I really think someone should have told me earlier... or that I only learn after I blunder because no one bothered to include me."

"Where's Rosie?"

"In her bed," John's voice sounded chocked.

Greg understood that the other man probably needed a break to stay sane and that Sherlock was particularly difficult because he was ashamed and in a bit of a delicate state due to all the personal and confusing emotional things that had happened.

In the weeks since Mary's death Lestrade had seen Sherlock's grief and had understood that the detective had no clue how to deal with. It had been painful to see his desperate tries to be there for John fail, which put Sherlock in real distress right now on top of his self-recrimination.

Pausing for a moment Greg took in his friend's appearance, he looked worse now than the last time he had seen him, as well as guilt ridden and grieving, which was to be expected.

John had clearly lost another few pounds and his complexion seemed almost grey. The dark circles under his eyes looked almost like bruises.

"Blimey, John, when have you last slept?"

John just shook his head, emptied the glass, then picked up the open bottle and refilled the tumbler.

"I don't know what to do. He won't let me in, won't let me check him out, won't let me help him," he babbled. "I heard him making distressed noises several times over the past hours and..."

"You spent the past three nights ready to do whatever he needs, haven't you? Wasn't it Mycroft's turn last night?"

John didn't answer, just stared at the floorboards, then he raised the glass and drank another large gulp.

"Right. I think you need some sleep, mate. I will do the night shift. Come on."

"No. I need to check on him."

"Let me see him first. See how he is," Greg stated after an uneasy few seconds.

"Door is locked, although we agreed not to do that."

"Yeah, I have a key and I will go in there. Stay here, you need a break, let me take over for a while."

John was out of words too lost in misery, which Greg understood completely.

Greg stood up and headed for Sherlock's door.

As silent as possible he unlocked it.

Sherlock was on his bed, cover drawn up to his chin, even in the dim light it was clearly visible he was shaking.

Careful not to spook him, Greg stepped closer.

He found Sherlock fast asleep – curled up on his side. His features weren't relaxed, neither was his posture. The expression and the stubble once more reminded Greg of a Sherlock fifteen years younger and it horrified him.

Here they were again.

Greg was aware the nightmares and crazy dreams withdrawal caused were an issue Sherlock had always struggled with, as was the severe depression.

In this phase exhaustion and the intense cravings were quite prominent, as were a long list of other issues that made the detective miserable.

From the first time Greg had witnessed this he was quite sure Sherlock was completely out.

"Hey," he said in a soft voice, there was no reaction at all.

He watched his sleeping friend for a minute and brought a fresh glass of water from the bathroom. Before he left, he checked the room for drug paraphernalia, but only found a puddle of water next to the nightstand. He mopped it up and Sherlock didn't even stir due to the noise.

When Greg had visited Sherlock in hospital, he had assured him they would get through this, had offered his support and presence. Sherlock hadn't refused it, which made him both hopeful and worried.

Nevertheless, he also knew the severe depressions his friend would go through would be quite an issue. Sherlock would never be able to voice his suffering, and would be more likely to act physically upon his emotions, most likely ending in some form of self-harm one way or another.

Two severely depressed people in one flat trying to survive this entire ordeal - the idea had not only turned Greg's senses on high alert.

He, Mycroft, Molly and Mrs Hudson had made plans how to deal with this, and this had just left stage one of the withdrawing process.

Currently, John was the one needing more attention. Sherlock was out cold and as long as he stayed this way was not really an issue, but he would need attention at some point, fluids, nutrition and a medical assessment.

When Lestrade returned to the living room, John had moved over to the sofa, the open bottle nowhere to be seen, but the tumbler was full again.

 

"He's asleep," Greg reported in a low and reassuring voice. "He seems fine, but it's not the easy kind of sleep."

John took another sip of whiskey and nodded, not looking up the whole time.

"Slept a lot during the past days, and spent a lot of time in his mind palace, probably trying to figure out the cold case," he mumbled.

"How's Rosie doing?" Greg tried to guide the conversation away from Sherlock.

"Missing her mother," John said in a chocked voice and took a rather great gulp.

"Sorry… Just…" Greg was suddenly dragged into the overwhelming general sense of sorrow that was fogging the flat.

He fought it, he needed to remain the neutral point, stay strong and help them.

But it was hard - like a maelstrom trying to pull him into the dark.

"God, I didn't mean to…" John started, but the desperation remained in his voice.

"It's alright mate," Greg offered, "Did she learn something new today?" Small kids were just a great source of talking material for the new parents and he planned to use all he could to manage this crisis.

"I… I don't know," John stammered. A moment later Greg cursed inwardly because it seemed this too was the wrong topic when John started to look even more distraught.

The other man rubbed his eyes in a bid to hide his distress.

For a moment, Greg tried to desperately find another topic, then he decided there was just nothing that could soothe this existential anguish. All tries to ignore the issues would probably just end in disaster.

He had seen John in this state before, his expression hard but his composure barely present, in the days after Sherlock had jumped off the roof of Barts. He had also seen him drink like this, then.

Greg fetched a chair and sat down, then bent forward and rested a hand on John's shoulder.

"What's happening, mate?" the need to observe gone, he asked directly.

There was a long silence but finally John leaned over and just stared at the glass in his fingers.

"I..." his voice died.

"I..." he tried again.

John rubbed his face with his hands. After a moment of hesitation he continued.

"I didn't protect her. I didn't protect him... I blamed him and it forced him to protect me... and it almost killed him... and I can't lose him, too... I am such an idiot. I can understand he doesn't want me here. He's in a bad state... and he doesn't-"

"Oi! Slow down. He wants you here, John. In fact, he did this because he wants you here, it was the whole point."

The doctor covered his eyes with his free hand for a moment, then started staring at the cluttered table, but not focussing on anything.

"This is very hard for him," Greg said to kind of underline why Sherlock was behaving the way he was. "I've seen him do this before. On his own - and it almost killed him. He knew what he was getting into and I don't think he's pushing you away, he's just too miserable to let anyone to see it. The fact that he is allowing us all to be present while he goes through this is a remarkable change, even if he shuts us out for periods of time. Usually he is very opposed to having people present at all."

"He knows how dangerous this can be and he refuses my medical help nevertheless."

"Maybe the only thing he needs is not medical... maybe he just needs your friendship. Are you ready to give that to him?"

"Of course, why else would I be here?"

"I don't know, maybe because you feel guilty?... And guilt is the last thing he needs, because he is already drowning in his own guilt."

"Shit," John downed the booze in one go and went for another shot.

"When you refused to see him, it wasn't the drugs that killed him, it was the guilt, the grief,  and the resulting self-loathing. It made him take more drugs than necessary to get your attention. I've never seen him hurt like this before, I don't think."

Greg stopped himself after this remark, realising it was his own anger finding its way to the surface. Anger about John blaming Sherlock for the death of this wife.

He hadn't understood this train of thought from the beginning and he still didn't.

From what he had leaned Mary's former life had sparked a backlash and had killed her, and she had expected it and even prepared videos for the two of them to make sure her demise wouldn't kill them both.

Greg himself was in fact still a bit angry at John for what he had done to his best friend. He had listened to John's and other people's accounts of what had happened in the morgue and he couldn't believe it.

At first, he thought they were somehow trying to frame John, until the doctor himself had told him what he had done. The amount of remorse had been way too little in John at that moment and about that he was still disgruntled a little, too. John had an angry side, but he had never ever beaten Sherlock in such a way he had that day. Greg had been horrified when he read the list of injuries. 

"In a way this was Sherlock Holmes being suicidal," Greg tried to explain the seriousness of the situation John had not seen back then. "And I think he was well aware of what he was doing. He cared little for his own life and I gave him hell for that when I saw the state he was in. Only solved a single case, the rest of the time he cut himself off from the rest of the world. I told him not caring for himself was the worst he could do to both of you. From then on he evaded any attempts I made at making contact."

John's alarmed expression told him this was kind of new information for him. The doctor then got himself another glass of whiskey.

"How could I be this stupid, Greg?" he asked.

"Yeah, we all tried to talk some sense into you, you know that?"

"Yes. And I ignored you. Makes me an ever bigger arsehole."

"I tried to keep an eye on Sherlock, but he vanished for days, sometimes weeks, probably afraid Mycroft or I would interfere with his plans."

"You know, after I..." John's voice almost broke, "After I bashed him up... when he was in hospital, I said goodbye to him, still angry. I was probably trying to run away from what I had done." John gulped repeatedly, trying to keep his voice steady. "Maybe also because I was afraid of rejection, because I knew I bloody deserved it. What kind person does that to his best friend?" his voice broke on the last two words.

There was a long moment of silence, before he composed himself and continued.

"I am not here out of guilt, Greg, but I do feel guilty. And ashamed, more ashamed than I have ever been in my whole fucking life."

Not really knowing what to say Greg kept his silence, it was time John was getting this out. Intoxication had lowered his walls and since Greg doubted he was this honest with his therapist it was probably the best option. He was glad John was finally opening up, after months of only interacting with a mask on the surface he felt this was what was going on on the inside.

"I wrote him a note, it said 'Piss off'...I chose those words because it was actually one of the topics of the first conversations we ever had, the first day we..." John choked on his words and his eyes started to fill up.

"That was quite mean," Greg agreed in a low voice.

"I know," John bit his lips, seeming fighting tears once more. "And kicking a man on the ground is something I never thought I was capable of and I don't know how he can ever forgive me for that."

"He will. You know him. He will. It was the way to get what he wanted so he accepts it. And that is the point where we need to protect him, because it is where he doesn't understand how to do it."

"I know," the doctor said once more. "I don't recognise myself. And I can't even look into the mirror at the moment."

"Mate, sorry that I ask, but... are you talking to your therapist about that?"

The other man shook his head.

"Why not?"

"I don't know... She's... kind of odd. Her questions and remarks are not really what I expect sometimes."

"Er, well... If you can't really trust her maybe you should get another one."

"Not that much of a choice, besides, she said she just works with another approach than most therapists do nowadays."

Greg realised John's voice was getting more impaired by the booze by now. Maybe this was another aspect, he was talking about this because his tongue had been loosened profoundly by the alcohol. This amount of opening up was out of character for John, who barely talked about feelings, especially while he was sober.

After Sherlock's death the only time Greg had seen him break down was after they had a few pints. But back then John had managed to get a grip on how much he drank before it got out of hand. But now, that self control seemed to have evaporated.  

"When he arrived at my therapist's house he was so high he had problems walking. I... I examined his arm for needle marks, gripping his hand so he couldn't move away and..." John gulped down his tears, "... and he kind of... He held onto my hand as if it was a lifeline. It was... it..." John's voice broke.

"He was desperate and this was what he had been working on for weeks. He wants you back, don't keep him at a distance."

"I am not sure he does. He doesn't even look at me, Greg. He only stares at the ground. His whole body language is showing his disapproval."

"No, John. That's not true, mate. He has fallen into a behaviour pattern you just haven't seen before. He's suffering"

"What?" John looked up at him, frowning.

"When Sherlock is very depressed, hating himself to a really alarming level, and is in an overwhelmingly bad place, then he won't look at anyone."

Now, John looked at the ground, frowning.

"When I first met him... he was like that. In a very bad place. He is currently revisiting a lot of his former behaviour patterns. You just don't know them because it was before you two met. We all told you he has changed a lot since he met you. We didn't only mean things like being rude, appearing un-caring or being anti-social. It's also about self esteem and caring for himself, too. Those have become better, too."

John looked at him with a hint of disbelieve.

"There are other signs, too. When he is severely depressed or self-loathing like this, his language changes, becomes more monotone. He gets overall very silent, speaks in a muted voice. Stops making eye contact at all. His self-confidence has evaporated. He might manage to appear cocky for a few moments if he thinks he needs to, but it's just for show. Overall, this is as low as it can get. Has nothing to do with you. His ego has suffered a deadly blow and on top of that he is grieving and desperate beyond words. And he has no idea how to fix this, he's completely helpless of how to do anything right at the moment."

"I have seen him in depressed episodes before, he has them now and then... but it was nothing like this," John tried.

"No. But I saw him like this long before the two of you met, when he was in his early twenties. Not looking at me was a bad sign and I learned to be on guard as soon as this started."

"Okay," John gulped and Greg realised although he had meant to assure John this was not on him, the background knowledge was not encouraging.

"John, he loves you like a brother and he is not blaming you. The only thing you can do is open up to him again. Go back to how it has been before. Let him in again."

The doctor's face contorted and for a moment Greg feared he'd have a meltdown, but a moment later he regained his control. Though Greg was sure it would be good if he for once would let it all out.

When John went for the whiskey bottle again, the DI took it out of his reach. Then he stood up and gently took the empty glass out of John's hand.

"That's enough, mate."  

John didn't fight him. It was obvious he was on the end of this tether, too.

"We need to take care of you, too. Come on, let's get you to bed."

"I need to check on him," the doctor muttered.

"Alright, let's do that first, then you get some sleep. I'll take care of him," Greg said, and added '...and you' mentally.

But when John tried to get up, they found out the hard way he was barely able to stand. Greg managed to prevent a fall and heaved him back into the sofa, but it became clear John was in no state to get up the stairs, probably not even to make it to Sherlock's room.

"Jesus, John. Stay put. I'll get you some water."

Greg fetched another glass of water - this time for John - and made him drink it, though by now John was cooperating less and less.

"Come on, mate. Just lie down and take a nap," he took the empty glass from his friend and pushed him slowly sideways to make him lie down.

"Rosie..."

"Babyphone?"

"Kitchen table"

Greg fetched that too and put it on the coffetable while John sat up again and tried to get off his shoes.

 

A few minutes later Greg had checked on the baby, Sherlock and covered John with a blanket who had mercifully fallen into an uneasy sleep. The DI decided to wake him up in a few hours and make him drink more water. John would have a bad hangover the next morning.

When he was sure everyone was safe, he sat down on the kitchen table, unpacking his laptop to do some paperwork. It seemed to have become kind of a working place for anyone watching Sherlock. Greg had seen Molly with her laptop as well as Mycroft sitting on that table in the past week.

 

 

Notes:

A/N:
The show never explained what was on the note Molly gave Sherlock (or did I miss it?). My first thought was it must read 'Piss off' and I hoped it would be explained later, but it wasn't. So I just assumed this was on the small piece of paper.
We saw John drink in the mini episode as well as in at least one of the nights after Mary's death, that is why this chapter happened. I don't see John as an alcoholic, but the scenes show he is struggling.
I'd love to get some feedback.

Chapter 11: Morning of Day 5 (2016)

Summary:

Greg is a very good friend.

Notes:

Once more thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip for her beta work and feedback! But after she beta-ed this chapter I made major changes and rewrote a lot of it, so if this is a mess it is entirely my fault.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Two hours later Greg heard Sherlock enter the bathroom, or maybe more sneak into it. The morning commuter traffic almost drowned out the low noises and it was clear Sherlock was trying to avoid meeting anyone.

Greg just listened, trying to hear if his friend was in distress or doing anything suspicious. He knew the cravings were intense, but he had seen Sherlock handle them before. If he was determined to honestly go through with withdrawal his strong will would keep him from taking something secretly, it had been this way the last time Greg helped him through it.

But back then, he had strong motivation. He wanted to be allowed to do cases with Lestrade.

Unfortunately, currently Sherlock seemed to be too fed up with life and its struggles in general, not having much motivation left.

Greg therefore didn't really trust him not to do anything stupid. On the other hand, Sherlock knew very well that in case this wasn't successful Mycroft would cart him off to a rehab facility and Sherlock would do almost anything to prevent going through that.

When ten minutes later it had been silent for almost four minutes, Greg stood up and walked down the hall, then stopped in front of the bathroom door.

He could hear nothing.

What the hell was Sherlock doing?

He knocked carefully, but there was no response.

"Listen, if you don't answer right now I will come in."

"Hmmm," came Sherlock's answer, after almost twenty seconds.

"Right. Can I come in then?"

When no response came, Greg steeled himself for the bad things that might lie behind the closed door and turned the knob.

Dim light made it hard for him to see at first. They had installed a special dimmable light bulb so Sherlock wouldn't suffer from the bright light.

When Greg's eyes had finally adjusted, he spotted his friend, who sat sunken and leaned sideways against the bathtub. A wet washcloth was on the ground near his knees.

Slowly, Greg knelt down next to him, eyeing him carefully.

His friend was shivering and looked dishevelled.

"Sherlock?" he whispered. "What's happening?"

Another hum, neither a yes nor a no.

"Do you feel sick?"

"Nope," came a hoarse reply, barely hearable.

"Why are you sitting on the bathroom floor, then?"

"Got dizzy," the detective explained in a hoarse voice, then cleared his throat and continued,

"The wallpaper seems alive and the periodic table spread its elements all over the walls of my room. Hallucinations are starting."

"Well, you can handle them. You always do. Your mind knows it's not real, just keep reassuring yourself that," Greg tried to empower him.

"I do. I am. But I needed a break. It was too much," Sherlock seemed to pale even further after this admission.

"What are you not telling me?"

"If you are aware that there is something I don't want to tell you, I don't see why you ask me to do so anyway." Sherlock's speech had improved in the past moments, it was a bit easier to understand him now.

"Hey, I am worried. Please tell me what is going on."

"I just told you, wasn't that humiliating enough?" Sherlock murmured. 

"Yeah, sorry. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For trusting me enough to tell me."

A long silence followed, in which Greg inspected all surfaces of the room for anything suspicious.

"Oh for God's sake, I was just... I was not..." Sherlock stuttered in annoyance. Although his eyes were closed, he was aware what the DI was doing.

"You were just...?"

"Fine, if you... I was trying to... I had a bad dream," he stifled his own try to explain.

"How is John?" Sherlock added a moment later.

He hadn't opened his eyes, yet.

"That bad?" he asked when the DI hesitated.

"He's... Christ, I'm not sure..." Now it was Greg stuttering, trying to understand all that Sherlock had just said.

"Tell me, Greg," Sherlock insisted with a weak voice, the chills were intensifying.

Greg was so surprised by both, being called by his name and being asked about John, he momentarily didn't know what to say.

"He's not having a good time, mate," he finally explained after a brief silence.

"Did he drink?"

"Yeah."

"How much?"

"Too much."

That caused Sherlock to blink at him, obviously even the low light was too bright for him.

His bloodshot eyes were filled with pain, probably physical and mental alike.

Greg also saw the overextension and desperation there.

Sherlock looked so very lost it shocked Greg. He had seen his friend having hard times before, but the expression in his eyes reminded him way too much of the time shortly before Sherlock had overdosed years ago.

"Sherlock, be honest with me. Do we need to put you on suicide watch?"

The other man's eyes closed again and he lowered his head, which Greg found very not reassuring at all.

"Don't be ridiculous. I am fine. The issue is solved, the case is finished. I succeeded in... Mary's request. Everything is great!" Sherlock displayed an overdone tone of happiness.

For a horrified moment Greg remembered the tape from the hospital, remembered how Sherlock had asked Culverton Smith to kill him, and how later his voice had broken when he told him he didn't want to die.

The intense memory of his tone caught up with the DI once more. When he had heard it the first time, he had been glad he was alone, because it brought tears to his eyes.

All of them were aware that suicidal thoughts and actions were part of the withdrawal side effects, therefore they were watching out for the signs. Greg was well aware that he probably would never get an honest answer to the question but the reaction to it and showing care were things that send messages both ways.

"You saved John... And now... it is time that you allow him to save you, because that issue is not finished, yet."

"You are wrong, this is over."

Sherlock's response was either denial or fake, Greg realised immediately.

"No, Sherlock. No. This is a very important part of John saving you. If not for you then for him. You both need to get through with it. You can't stop here; you might as well undo all you have gained if you allow the gap that is forming now to widen."

Greg paused for a moment to let this sink in.

And then a sudden realisation hit him. Was Sherlock distancing himself from John because he feared that as soon as withdrawal was over John would return to his flat and his daughter and forget about him?

He remembered that Mary had called him during the wedding planning, asking him to involve Sherlock and John in a case to reassure Sherlock she wasn't taking John away from him. The case they had solved had been named 'The Poisoned Giant' afterwards.

At first, Greg had found the request a bit odd, but knowing the detective, he understood it.

In hindsight, after he had heard the speech at the wedding and seen what had happened afterwards it wasn't odd at all any longer, Mary seemed to have understood a lot about Sherlock.

"Have you ever told John about how hard her death hit you, too?"

Sherlock's silence answered that question immediately.

"Why not? You need to."

"No."

"Sherlock, this is important, he needs to know what it means to you that she died. That is a conversation that needs to happen."

"I dislike stating the obvious."

Sherlock's breathing was suddenly off and Greg moved his right hand towards his friend's head, hovered it over his scalp to sense if he was having a fever, making sure not to touch him.

He had learned that the hard way the last time he had helped Sherlock with this. It had led to a full-blown meltdown when Greg had failed to fight his own impulse to comfort a suffering friend by touch. The lack of alternative things that might comfort the man added to feeling so damn helpless. Seeing Sherlock like this was not easy, he knew why it got to John sometimes.

"Please don't touch me," Sherlock groaned.

"I won't, don't worry. I am just trying to find out if you are running a fever. It seems you are."

"I know... My skin burns although I am freezing."

"I think we should get you back to bed, mate."

"Don't touch me..." he moaned out in a weak desperate plea.

"I won't, I won't. Can I get a blanket to pull you up with?"

"No. I can do it."

Very slowly and with painstakingly uncoordinated, slow movements, Sherlock started to shift his weight. He sat up straighter before he placed one palm on the ground and the other on the doorframe, then he carefully tried to lift his buttocks off the ground.

It actually took four tries until he even managed to get into a half kneeling half sitting position, but Lestrade didn't interfere, although his heart ached seeing this.

Almost four minutes later Sherlock had finally managed to drag himself up, using the door handle and the frame.

On shaky legs, he shoved one foot forward, then the next, barely able to keep himself upright.

Greg moved with him, followed him closely. It didn't escape his attention that the other man was sweating profoundly.

"Please don't breathe that loud. Also, I can feel your breath on my back," Sherlock complained, voice now shaky, too.

The distance between them was over a metre.

"Gee, Sherlock, if you fall I need to catch you, deal with it. And I can't stop breathing just because your senses are all wound up. Sorry," Greg said in a gentle voice.

In slow motion, Sherlock continued to move towards his bed, leaning on the bedside table and carefully taking care of keeping his balance.

When he finally sat down on the edge of the bed, Greg held out his hand.

"Wait. Before you lie down, I need you to take your temperature, can you do that?"

The other man's face contorted as if in pain, but he nodded.

Greg fetched the thermometer from the kitchen counter that currently held all the medical supplies.

He was relieved that Sherlock was no longer as angry as John had described. Right now, all agitation seemed to have left him, was replaced by overwhelming exhaustion and resignation. Sherlock's tone was very monotone. Nothing he had said in the past minutes had contained any emotion at all.

When he came back, Sherlock was struggling to remove his sweat-soaked long sleeved shirt. He had seen the bruises on Sherlock's side at the hospital, but they made him wince again.

Holding out the in-ear thermometer, Greg asked, "I assume you want a new shirt? Which one?"

"Dark blue, top shelf, second row from the left."

It took Greg a moment to find it, despite the exact statement of place. Most of Sherlock's clothes were dark and the dim light wasn't helping.

He unfolded it and placed it on the bed next to Sherlock. "Anything else you need? When is your next dose of morphine scheduled?"

"Few hours. Get me the small yellow pills," Sherlock muttered, while slipping both arms into the sleeves.

Greg fetched the medication John had prescribed on a 'if necessary' basis and noted the dose on the sheet of paper they used to record all medication Sherlock was given. The printout of the medication regime confirmed that Sherlock had spoken the truth about when his next morphine dose was due.

Back at his friend's bedside, he handed Sherlock the thermometer. It needed only seconds after Sherlock finally managed to press the button that started the reading.

They then exchanged the blister for the thermometer.

Lestrade read the display.

Elevated temperature, but no fever.

Sherlock fumbled with the blister to break the silver foil, but the pill fell out of his trembling fingers twice before he finally managed to put it into his mouth. After he swallowed it dry, he carefully sank back into the pillows, still breathing heavier than normal and looking totally spent.

Greg pressed the remote control for the LED bulb in the bathroom, to turn it off. The bedroom darkened and now the room was only lit by the lamp in the hallway.

"Take care of John, will you?"

"Of course, yeah. I will. Just rest okay. I'll take care of everything. Don't worry," Greg reassured him.

A sarcastic huff was the only answer and the DI assumed Sherlock was very well aware what had led to the hard drinking.

Like everything else, Sherlock had probably deduced the issue even before he had arrived at John's therapist.

The day after Smith's arrest, when Greg had visited him in hospital, Sherlock asked him to keep an eye on John and his drinking habits of late since as long as he was incapacitated. It was a very unusual request because Sherlock had formulated it as 'needing a favour'.

Greg knew Sherlock was having a hard time right now because he was well aware that this night's behaviour had pushed the issue, but was helpless and too drained of everything to do anything about it.

"John is sleeping it off on the couch. He'll be fine, but probably have a bit of a hangover in the morning. I'll be in the kitchen. Try to get some more sleep, mate."

.

A few hours later Greg hurried into Sherlock's room again, when he heard unsettling noises.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

His friend was still on his back in the bed, staring at the ceiling with a shocked expression and a frown on his face.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Pressing his lips into a line, Sherlock's face seemed to threaten to crumple. Then, after he squeezed his eyes shut forcefully for a moment, his features relaxed and he opened his eyes.

It was obvious that he needed a lot of energy to force his features into a neutral look. He made no efforts to sit up at all or move otherwise.

"Something resurfaced in my dreams... The south wall of my room... it looked a lot like the wall with... eugh... Molly's refrigerators."

It took Lestrade a moment to realise that he didn't mean the one at her home but in the morgue. Additionally, the stuttering distracted him for a moment.

Then he noticed that Sherlock had said 'a lot' which meant something, Sherlock was not using language like this if it wasn't true. Over the years, Greg had learned to listen for details like this and things he wasn't saying.

"Right. And what did it look like exactly?"

Sherlock huffed, it sounded like a sarcastic laugh, but the insult Lestrade expected didn't came. His friend seemed frozen but breathing hard.

"I see her," he pressed out in a low voice.

"What? Who?"

"I... Mary... my wall... the morgue."

It was not making a lot of sense and Greg grimaced, then it hit him that Sherlock had just spoken in present tense and he wondered how much of this was another hallucination and how much that was affecting his friend's mental faculties.

He tried to imagine what Sherlock was describing before making a comment that might make it all worse.

His wall had shifted into a morgue wall with refrigerators...

A moment later it hit him.

The morgue John had beaten Sherlock - seriously injured him - it was a lot more likely that he was seeing that one.

It must have been a moment of earth-shattering understanding for Sherlock that everything he had planned was failing. John had describes him as 'horrified' and 'shocked by something unknown' that had then made him freak out and grab a knife.

Although Greg had tried to understand Sherlock's and John's statement about what exactly had happened, it was still not clear to him. Both statements were a mess and none of it made a lot of sense.

"Was it Smith's morgue?" for a moment Greg feared to be corrected for using the incorrect terms concerning property but it didn't happen.

Sherlock just nodded silently.

"And you saw Mary back then, there, or just now here? I mean, was it a memory or did it just happen?"

"Here," Sherlock huffed, his tone made clear he didn't want to speak about it.

"What did she do?"

"I don't know. She was talking, but I couldn't understand her."

"Is she still here?" Greg wanted to know, and caught himself gazing through the room.

"She's looking out of the window, back towards me now."

Greg sucked in a breath and couldn't help but stare at the covered with curtains window. Suddenly he felt the hairs on his back and arms raise, goose bumps were forming.

The situation was a bit like seeing a ghost through Sherlock's eyes and it was distressing even for him.

What Sherlock was feeling, exaggerated by his condition must be a lot worse.

When he lowered his gaze again to look at his friend's face, he saw Sherlock had closed his eyes and the slits between his eyelids looked rather soggy.

Greg bit his lips, he felt utterly useless and helpless.

There was nothing he could do.

No means to comfort the man.

"Would you like to get up and sit in the living room for a bit?" he suggested, well aware Sherlock had spent most of his days since the return from the hospital in his room.

"John is upstairs, sleeping again. Mrs Hudson took Rosie to day care."

Sherlock nodded and sat up, his movements on edge and tense.

His body was not happy about the sudden movement and Greg saw him fight vertigo for some moments, but Sherlock lifted his legs out of bed and slowly stood up.

"Easy, easy."

"Bathroom."

When Sherlock swayed, he couldn't help but grab his upper arm.

After a moment of horrified hesitation, Greg realised that Sherlock was not trying to shake him off. But his shirt was once more clammy from sweat.

"Eh... You feel sick? You need to go there fast?" Greg wanted to know.

"No. This is not withdrawal from morphine – yet."

The knowledge that this was just the first half of the ordeal and another, physically way more difficult withdrawal was ahead of him after this, must be adding to Sherlock's gloom.

"There are other reasons that might make you feel sick... stress for example."

"And for that I took the pill a few hours ago. You gave them to me, they do help. And it would also help to get out of here, now!"

The detective started to shuffle towards the bathroom door, Greg moved with him.

When he reached for it to open it, Sherlock finally shook him off.

"I can manage it from here. Make some tea?" he asked. And before he closed the door after him, Greg saw him look over to the window once more.

The brief expression of relief he saw in Sherlock's eyes told him he was no longer seeing Mary there.

 

Notes:

A/N:
Feel free to make my day by writing some feedback.
Constructive criticism welcome.

Chapter 12: Day 7 in the Victorian Era - Ottilie Godwin

Summary:

Holmes and Hooper spent the day together - more or less working.

Notes:

Many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip for her beta work, feedback and friendship!

Chapter Text

 

 

Early Afternoon of Day 5 in 2016

 

An hour later Sherlock was on the sofa, trying to read more of the 1867 case files.

Obviously, he had broadcasted his frustration, because Greg returned for the third time offering his assistance.

He felt restless and jittery and in desperate need to occupy his brain with something challenging. Although his ability to concentrate still left a lot to be desired, he needed to work on the case.

So far, he hadn't found any clues that might connect the deaths of the maid and the boy. He was just going through random unsolved deaths from 1867 to 1870 no one had managed to explain. And those two just had been the first ones he hadn't solved within five minutes. They rather stood out. He had solved three overall, all now in a different folder with neat little notes on the sheets about the solution everyone else had overlooked.

The next sheet to read was a police report from the maid's case. He hadn't read the autopsy report yet, but it was the after next.

The fact that his eyesight was still blurry and he couldn't concentrate enough to read more than a few lines at once were beyond annoying, especially since most of the documents were handwritten as well as yellowed and therefore hard to read.

"Sherlock?"

Greg still stood in front of the sofa, his hand outstretched now.

"What?"

"Can I read that and summarise it for you?"

"Why?"

"Well, apparently, because you can't."

"Don't be-" Sherlock scrunched his eyes closed in annoyance at their burring and opened them again, shooting a glare at Greg.

"Oh, shut it. Give it to me. Come on," the DI interrupted him.

Sherlock frowned but held out the pile of high quality colour copies.

"Don't summarise it, read it all. Every word. The printouts are ordered chronologically. If there is a picture*1, tell me what it shows. I have studied them and will know which one you are referring to. The autopsy was finished with no result. The reason for this might be that the physician was incompetent. Therefore, I need to know every word and every fact to determine if something was overlooked or if there really was nothing out of the ordinary."

"Okay."

Lestrade put down the file on the coffee table, brought the chair from the other side of the room – the one that was usually reserved for clients - and sat down.

Well aware that the first pages were all just text Sherlock closed his eyes to concentrate better and this time he had no problem to enter the Victorian sector of his mind palace.

"Well, that handwriting is bloody hard to read." Greg cleared his throat. "Alright. March 5th, 1867. This is written by hand, into a book for reports..."

Sherlock made sure to allow Greg's voice in and let the facts that were coming in evolve into an autopsy setting.

.

Tuesday, March 5th 1867 - Day 7 in the Victorian Era

When Holmes entered the morgue, irritation crept in on him the moment he saw Anderson instead of Hooper.

"Where is Mr Hooper?" he used the made salutation to maintain her cover although in this era it was custom to just use the last name and skip the Mister – at least when talking about or to a man.

"Upstairs, talking to Lestrade," Anderson answered grudgingly. "Feel free to wait outside until he comes back."

"I will wait here. Is the body ready for the examination, yet?"

"Which one?"

"The maid, Ottilie Godwin."

"I was just about to bring her in."

For unknown reasons Anderson was even more ill-disposed than usual and gave him another annoyed look, which Sherlock held - equally annoyed - until the other man walked away.

Shortly after that, Hooper entered the dimly lit room. It was their third meeting after he found out she was actually a female person.

Overall Holmes didn't care much about gender and gender roles. He had always failed to understand why people made such a fuss about it or regarded half of humanity to be less worthy or competent than the other half.*2

He not only had chosen long ago to treat both genders alike but also their statuses. In crime, those things didn't matter that much. Although women less often turned into perpetrators, if they did, their behaviour could easily stand up to men's.

Many people found his behaviour improper when he treated both genders or maid's and masters alike, with the same respect or disrespect he found suited their behaviour.

"Ah, Dr Hooper. Nice to meet you again," he greeted her.

However, his friendly words were met with a frown.

She either sensed his carefully hidden difficult mood or was wondering if he was mocking her. For a moment, he didn't know how to properly react to that.

"I would like to join you in the autopsy," he stated with a light bow of his head.

She shoved forward her chin, "Lestrade ordered me to let you if asked."

Obviously, she wasn't happy about that.

Did she still fear he'd blow her cover?

"You are an excellent chemist apparently. Dr Watson never fails to underline that," she spat.

"You might want to take the time to actually observe my skills instead of believing what you read. Getting to know me from talking to me might be better than from reading Watson's romantically glorified prose."

Their last meeting had been quite productive and he had hoped his appreciation of her skills would ease what she thought of him. Therefore, he was taken aback by her deprecating mood.

"You might find out that I am actually not really as depicted in those stories. A lot less intelligent and heroic, actually," he tried to stall her.

The words seemed to make her a bit insecure.

"Shall we begin?" he changed topics with a wide grin that was harder to accomplish than he had anticipated.

"I noticed the discoloration of her lips and fingernails," she answered, lifting one of the woman's hands up for closer inspection.  

The first minutes of their outer visual examination were slow, stiff, and difficult.

When they inspected the burns – or at least what looked like burns – all over her right palm, they discovered that the underside of her forearm also looked slightly burned. There were two almost straight lines of redness, going from her hand to her elbows.

Due to the time she had spent in the water Sherlock hadn't been sure at first if the redness of the skin wasn't due to something else she had been in contact with after her death. Damage by other environmental factors couldn't be ruled out since these days, the Thames had more in common with a waste dump that moved than with a river.  

"This looks as if there was liquid she put her hand in, then she raised her hand and the liquid ran down her forearm towards her elbow, doesn't it?" Hooper suggested.

Sherlock nodded, he had thought the same when inspecting the original black and white pictures of the victim's arm.

A bit annoyed, he shook the reminder of the 2016 reality off, wondering if he should establish more complex rules about what he could remember and what not from real life. It could be both helpful and counterproductive to not be aware of modern forensic science. On the other hand, he didn't know what exactly the marks looked like, the notes on the pictures were a bit superficial about the nuances of the discolouration. In addition, the photos were slightly out of focus. He decided to banish all thoughts that were out of Victorian reality for the moment and continue.

When they started more invasive medical procedures their communication became easier, probably because Molly had gotten used to his presence by then and felt more at home with it. He took great care not putting up a show but to value her opinion as a medical professional.

"Oh!" Hooper made when she finally managed to extracted a small amount of urine.

It was slightly blue-green in colour, which finally brought forth a revealing information about how Godwin had died.

"This is a telltale signs of phenol poisoning!" she explained and he agreed.

From then, they started to try to relate other findings to prove it or disconfirm that.

The slightly yellow tinted eyes were present, too and the discolouration of the fingertips and lips, which must have turned slightly blue, also fit into the picture.

"There might be other injuries that could tell us how severe the contamination was. The typical reactions to severe systemic poisoning could be…" Sherlock started.

"…Convulsions or seizures," Hooper finished, and nodded.

They searched her for physical damage that might have happened during a seizure.

After a few minutes, they found some small superficial puncture wounds on her scalp. It probably happened when her head had banged against a surface and her hairpins pierced the skin as a result. However, the pins were no longer there. They had probably loosened from the hair in the water and they couldn't prove she had seizures at first.

"The punctures might have happened in another way while she was in the water," Hooper muttered.  "Also, some areas of her skull are free of hair, ripped out somehow, it seems."

"She might have bitten her tongue," Sherlock wondered out loud.

"I will check her mouth, then I will try to palpate the smaller bones that might break easier during a seizure," Hooper announced and Sherlock assisted by holding a light to shine into the mouth.

Hooper gave him a puzzled look; obviously, she hadn't expected him to do assistant work, but then she accepted it.

They found bite marks, at the side of her tongue as well as her inner cheek. Two small but nasty injuries that were deep in her buccal area and hard to see, unless one looked for it.

"She probably felt the burning but didn't realise what it meant, how serious it was. Chances are high she then tried to wash it off, but it was too late," Sherlock summarized.

"The phenol was absorbed through the skin rather quickly, resorptive poisoning can occur even with only a small area of skin. Then it can quickly lead to paralysis and a severe drop in body temperature. She fell, seized and shortly thereafter fell into an apparent-death-state*3. Death probably occurred shortly thereafter," Hooper finished.

"The only question now is, was this an accident or murder?"

"How can we distinguish that?"

"We need to find more clues. If we can't, we are at an impasse."

"The great Sherlock Holmes can get stuck?" she asked, with the unnerved undertone from before.

"It actually happens quite often in the early stages of a case when too little evidence leave me in the dark for a short period of time," Sherlock explained. "I already told you I am not as Dr Watson depicts me."

She just made a humming noise in response.

"There was a note that contained numbers in her pocket. After these findings, I assume it might be an instruction how to create the cleanser. If it was, it could be the reason that this happened. The setting implies the reaction was intense and occurred fast after contact with the liquid, which means the dilution played a major role. She maybe came into contact with a substance that was 10 times more intense than it should be. Someone noted how to create a solution but forgot to write down that the solution needed to be diluted further before use, too."

.

After they finished the autopsy in the early afternoon, Sherlock went shopping on his way home. He bought some more chemistry equipment and something to counteract his headaches – aspirin was luckily available. He also brought home a bottle of carbolic acid – which was used for cleaning and likely to have caused the maid's phenol poisoning - and four pig legs to test it on.

He had just returned to Baker Street and changed into more comfortable clothes when Mrs Hudson brought in tea. Watson wouldn't be in for another few hours.

Holmes plans for the afternoon included testing tissue samples from the maid's forearm for carbolic acid.

But before he had time to finish his tea, he felt so utterly exhausted that he lay down on the settee, planning to just rest his aching body for a few minutes before setting up the experiments.

.

He was woken by a knock on the door and a moment later Mrs Hudson entered, announcing he had a visitor. She looked a bit surprised to see him hastily sitting up from a nap, his hair ruffled and his dressing gown crumpled. He felt even worse than when he had before sleeping.

Hooper followed the landlady into the living room and Sherlock hurried to the mirror to sort out his hair with his hands. They came back greasy and he huffed in annoyance. Victorian hair products definitely took some time to get used to. The mixture was making a mess on whatever the hair came in contact with, which was overall too inconvenient. In addition, the feeling on his scalp was sometimes so annoying it made him feel close to losing his temper - or maybe it was from the smell.  

Hooper's grin told him she was knowing exactly what he was doing and was amused about the fact that she had caught him in a rather private moment.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, when he returned to her side, deliberately not holding out a hand, but he wiped them on his dressing gown before he offered her a seat at the table by gesturing at it.

"I've come to apologize. I was rude today and it was not your fault... nevertheless I took it out on you."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to figure out what would be the right thing to say.

"My sister keeps putting pressure on me to end the charade and become a 'ministering angel of domestic bliss'*5, which leads to nasty arguments now and then. She is the only one aware of my... real occupation, besides you and the Watsons, obviously. Everyone else thinks I am a nurse. Since my parents died a few years ago, I live alone at the family home and that is the only way I can keep this up. My sister visited yesterday and we didn't part in a friendly way. Although she shares my view that women should be allowed to vote, she can be a church-bell*6 sometimes and I am not too fond of that. It was not your fault I was angry, and after Lestrade's colleague once more demonstrated his view about working women..."

"I understand. Don't worry about it."

"I am sorry to have woken you. Are you ill?"

"I am just tired, thank you. But I have a request... I don't mind you doing what you are doing, in fact, I find it very interesting that it seems to work so well. It is a valuable insight about human behaviour and this culture you must have gained by doing this. I might be interested in interviewing you about it later if you were fond of the idea? Wearing those closes and hiding your figure is fine with me, but... a shave would.... I mean the moustache is a bit... distracting. Could you take it off?"

At first she frowned, but then, much to his surprise she laughed out loud.

"You are aware you need a shave, too, aren't you?"

"I am. I am sorry I am asking this of you when I myself am in such an... unpresentable state."

"No, to be honest, it is a nuisance," she unceremoniously ripped it off and placed it on the table, the sticky side up.

"It itches and is hard to eat with, and sometimes it comes off at the most inconvenient moments."

Now Sherlock was the one who grinned, too.

"Quite like a real one. My stubble is starting to itch, too."

She looked puzzled as if not getting why he didn't shave then.

A moment later, they were interrupted when Mrs Hudson knocked again and brought in fresh tea.

Hooper discretely covered her mouth and the moustache on the table with her hands while the landlady put the tablet down.

"Don't serve it, I can do it. Thank you," Sherlock sent her off, much to her surprise. A moment later, she was out of the door again.

"Any more ideas about the maid?" Hooper asked.

"I assume she mixed the solution, used a mop and then she somehow put her right hand where she had already mopped or spilled the solution. It started to burn, she tried to wash it off and returned to work, then fell and shortly after that died."

"That much we assumed already before you left the morgue," Molly teased.

"Whoever found her... It took time after that to clean up that mess, and the person who did it must have been very careful not to come into contact with the substance, too. Additionally they must have understood what was happening immediately, and aired the house thoroughly, otherwise we'd have more bodies."

"Oh! Maybe the reason why she was dumped in the river was that she was already soaking wet from the attempt to clean the room she died in and her in one go. Moving her without cleaning her up first would have been dangerous," Hooper added.

"There was a room that seemed quite damp when we went to interview the family she worked for. They also had a lot of windows open I now remember."

"This does look like an accident," Molly pointed out.

"Don't forget the piece of paper. If someone wrote down the wrong numbers it was either stupidity or ill intention."

"If it was the latter, that person must have made sure somehow the right victim would be affected. A skilled maid or housewife might have prevented this from happening."

"Don't forget that the discovery of germs happened not that long ago and we know about it because it is our profession. The use of carbolic acid and carbolic soap as a germ killer is very new to many maids," Sherlock stated.

"Yes, right. There are dangerous chemical now used to eradicate that invisible threat. I read that the improvements help to sterilise the surgical field have significantly raised the numbers of patients surviving surgery. Antiseptic procedures in surgery is a very interesting field I plan to study soon," Hooper explained with enthusiasm.

Sherlock was aware that in the 1850th and early 60th had been a very bad time when it came to public health; London had gone through the peak of unhealthy living conditions that caused cholera and later tuberculosis epidemics.

People were desperate for cures and to prevent something like that to happen again. They turned to pharmacies and anything that promised to eliminate the recently discovered pathogens.

The germ theory set off a wave of downright germ paranoia that started after Pasteur's works were published, the microscope was invented and bacteria could be seen. People started scrubbing and cleaning everything, which led to a new definition of cleanliness.

The Victorians worshipped science and quite often the hazards were ignored when it came to scientific progress and new inventions.

Dangerous chemicals were used lavishly, companies didn't take the time to test them thoroughly before selling them, so people weren't aware of the risks.

Carbolic soap sold well, as did other cleaning products and for local pharmacies the new scientific knowledge meant lucrative business.

"I was about to test the skin sample for chemical residues and then try different solutions on pig skin. If you'd like to join me?"

She smiled at him, obviously quite happy about the offer.

 

------------------------------------

 

*1 The author is aware that this little fact is not correct. In the 1860s, there was not really forensic photography yet, it wasn't used until the late 19th century. This is not a mistake, it is artistic freedom to bend facts a bit, but I did my research.

 

*2 During the first minutes of the episode TAB I wondered why Holmes' behaviour towards women was different from Victorian Lestrade and Watson, who seemed to share a certain view of how a Victorian woman had to be and was treated, a view that Holmes obviously didn't share.

He treated Mary like an equal, in contrast to Watson. During the episode, he continued to do so and I wondered why.

I still do, to be honest. Was it like this in the original stories by ACD, was Holmes ahead of his time? The more odd I found that he - in the end - was the one who not only admitted society had treated them wrong, but he himself, too. Sure, he treats other people bad sometimes, but that is not related to gender.

Overall TAB underlines the discrepancy between how Sherlock sees himself and how others see him. Maybe this was just one more of those differences. Feel free to comment on this, I'd be interested in what readers think about this.

 

*3 I wasn't sure if the word coma was used already in that decade. The words 'apparently dead' was used thought. If anyone is interested, I got this from 'Worldneurologyonline' and there is an article about 'Apparent Death and Coma in the 18th century'. Sorry, I can't post links here, therefore you have to google it if you are interested.

 

 *5 Term used by Charles Dickens

 *6 Victorian Slang for a 'talkative woman'

 

 

Chapter 13: Day 5 (2016) - Cravings

Summary:

The carvings are hard to handle.

Notes:

This chapter was not beta-ed. I am not a native speaker and I hope you'll be able to ignore my mistakes.
My wonderful beta is currently not available but I am very grateful for the work she already put into this.
Many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip! She just posted a wonderful new chapter of her story 'Recoveries'. For anyone who likes H/C – I recommend it hereby.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Day 5 in 2016, late afternoon

 

 

"How's he doing?" John greeted Greg when he came down in the late afternoon. Molly had picked up Rosie around noon and would stay with her overnight at the Watson's flat. Before that Mrs Hudson had done the babysitting.

"How are you doing?" Greg returned the question in a low voice, closely watching John's body language.

The doctor looked awful. Deep circles under his eyes, the stubble was clearly visible and his face was still swollen around the eyes, all clear signs of the hard night he had.

"Hung over. Hell of a headache," John admitted, not even hesitating. He seemed to want to add something but then just shook his head. Greg knew what was coming. His friend felt sorry for what had happened the night before and would sooner or later try to apologise for it.

"That's why we let you sleep mate. Did you sleep?"

"Bit... Listened to what you read to Sherlock for a bit, too."

Greg had been aware the door was open upstairs. Around noon, he had checked on John, who was fast asleep but he found the door wide open.

"It's quite interesting... that old case he's working on. If it is a case, that is."

"He hasn't told me about it in detail, yet," John muttered, seemingly, he felt shut out. "How is he doing? I should check on him."

"Molly examined him earlier but it is about time for the next check, I guess. They talked for a while, after that he seemed a bit more settled."

Greg watched John fight with himself, not sure how to approach Sherlock, apparently.

"He's... he feels quite guilty, too, you know," the DI tried to encourage him.

They together walked from the living room into the kitchen.

The doctor was well aware that Sherlock was walking on the edge, that his transport's malfunctions consumed most of his patience. Even 'normal' patients were grumpy and rude when in pain and feeling poor, John was used to it. For Sherlock this probably felt as if the difficulty level of coping with human company had skyrocketed.

John fetched a glass and filled it with water.

"He's awake then?" the doctor asked in a low tone while he sipped the cool liquid.

Greg nodded.

"He's getting worse. He-"

"Cravings?" John interrupted him.

"He's handling those better than expected. Depression was a bit hard on him last night. He had a dizzy spell, found him in the bathroom..." Greg explained what had happened, aware that keeping things from John wouldn't work.

"What is really disconcerting is that he had... he was seeing things."

"Seeing things? As in hallucination?" John looked at him with a painful frown, out of narrowed eyes, but his gaze was piercing.

"Yeah," Greg nodded, "Nothing too wild. And he didn't panic or anything, he was just..." Greg tried to find the right words.

"What happened?" John massaged the bridge of his nose between his fingertips.

 

"He was disconsolate, I guess, and... maybe we should talk about it later. It wasn't pretty but... he was aware it was a hallucination – which is good. When he left his bedroom, the spell seemed to be over."

"Alright." John took the charts and studied them, read what Greg and Molly had recorded, he was glad they were taking the documentation this serious.

"Sorry, I interrupted you. Is he awake?"

"He just slept for three hours but I think I heard him in the bathroom about fifteen minutes ago." Greg fetched a water bottle and headed down the hall where he carefully knocked on the bedroom door.

John hesitated, he was not up to this, yet – not before a strong coffee and some time to sober up a bit more. He still couldn't think straight and the ghost of what had happened last night hung still in the air and made him feel embarrassed and uncomfortable.

Absentmindedly, he stared at the spot on the kitchen floor where he had sat last night. At least Sherlock hadn't seen him.

"What do you want?" Sherlock's unnerved voice greeted Greg when he entered the room.

"Well, good evening to you, too, Sunshine!" the DI retorted in a low but not sarcastic voice while he scanned the room, trying to find out if something might be irking the other man.

"Brought you some water. Time for a check up, too. John?"

The doctor blew out air, trying to prepare himself to face Sherlock. A moment later he got under way to follow Greg into the room.

"Shh!" Sherlock made, and only then Lestrade and John realised he had his phone in between his ear and the pillow, was practically lying on it.

For a moment, the detective just listened, then he spoke to the person on the other end.

"Yes. Can you make a list of all members of the Family Bernhard Hollister who were born and died between 1830 and 1950, including the cause of death. Even better would be if you could send me a copy of all the documents... Yes, I will send someone over who will show you an ID. Thank you."

The moment the other person must have hung up was clearly visible on Sherlock's face because he dropped the false friendliness and closed his eyes briefly, as if the call had drained all his energy.

"Working?" Greg asked, grinning.

John wasn't happy and he had already taken air to once more remind the detective he needed to take it slow.

"New insights?" Greg then asked and John realised it was good that his friend even managed to think about the case and that he should be glad Sherlock was trying to focus on something.

When Greg held out the thermometer and the bottle of water, though, Sherlock moaned in frustration. The DI then placed them on the duvet, close to Sherlock's feet.

Meanwhile John was reminded of the events of last night by the bad taste in his mouth. He tried to prepare himself to say what he thought he needed to say.

It was no use to prolong it; he wanted to get this over with.

Sherlock needed to know he wasn't angry and that he understood mood swings were part of the process.

"Hey," he greeted his friend, tried to appear relaxed and easygoing. It somehow reminded him of evening rounds in Afghanistan. When trying to lighten the mood of badly wounded young soldiers by broadcasting a bit of confidence was what he had to do.

Back then, it had never felt this difficult, though. Probably because he rarely knew any of his patients personally.

The detective was slowly trying to move up a bit in his bed, leaning sideways, he tried to rearrange the pile of pillows behind his back.

Simultaneously, a wave of scrutiny hit John full force.

John should have been prepared for that.

Sherlock's eyes started to dart over John, though not with the usual speed. Nevertheless, it seemed as if every tense muscle, every tiny detail out of place was catalogued, every tiny movement analysed. John was well aware that he probably looked like a homeless drunk.

Without taking his eyes of John, Sherlock tried to sit up a bit more. But the fractured ribs were still giving him a hard time, and would continue to do so for a few more weeks.

Greg picked up the thermometer and handed it to the detective, who took it and then inserted the tip into his ear, pressed the button and removed it again- his gaze still not leaving John, although he didn't even once met his eyes.

Touch issues were getting worse, John realised, while he too tried to evade the gaze that seemed to strip him of every last bit of privacy he once had.

Despite that, he noticed the little tremors that were shaking Sherlock's thin form and that he looked even worse than last night.

"Want some tea?" Greg interrupted the uneasy silence.

A grunt was the only answer.

But it seemed Greg had interpreted the noise as an affirmation and left, leaving John feeling exposed.

For a moment, Sherlock's eyes narrowed and John lowered his head, it was no use trying to hide anything from his friend, and maybe it was easier than to have to say it to just let him collect the information himself.

Finally, John just wanted to suggest to forget it and go on but as he took a deep breath, Sherlock interrupted him.

"I am sorry," he said.

When John looked up this time, Sherlock was once more evading his eyes and looking sideways, not focussing on anything.

"It is normal to be irritable during this phase, no need to-" John muttered.

"Yes, there is a need."

"Okay. Apology accepted," John hurried to say, "Can we now pretend this didn't happen and continue to focus on getting through this?"

"I assume you assume that is the least stressful path of action and therefore the desired one?"

John huffed out a laugh, "Yes."

Sherlock didn't react to that. For a moment, he stared at the display of the thermometer in his lap, then handed it over for John to read.

"Can I examine you and help you change?" John asked, pointing at Sherlock's sweaty long sleeved shirt.

After an excessively long pause, the other man nodded and carefully started to pull his shirt over his head.

The doctor took his time to palpate his heart, his lungs, check his BP and everything else.

Sherlock just endured it passively, allowing the touch. John sensed how unstrung he was, mentally and physically.

.

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock sat dressed in a fresh shirt. Getting changed had left him looking grey and breathing heavily. To reduce the stress John decided to let him do as much as he could himself of the tasks that were necessary for examining him. First, he asked him to pull the skin on the back of his hand up to assess the level of hydration.

They both watched him do it.

It took the skin way too long to flatten again.

Aware what that meant, Sherlock grimaced.

To John's horror, he was much more dehydrated than the doctor had thought.

"Greg said you were dizzy last night... Did your blood pressure drop when you stood up after lying down?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as if it was hard to remember.

"I don't know... maybe?" he said in the odd tone of slightly confused cockiness John had heard at the hospital when the detective had mused about the importance of the number 'three'.

"Mate, you need to drink – a lot!" John urged and pointed at the bottle of water Greg had left on the nightstand. He wondered if Sherlock was feeling more out of it than he let them know.

Blinking a few times, Sherlock nodded and picked up the bottle.

With worry ceasing his features into a frown, John watched him struggle to open the screw cap.

A moment later Greg returned with a large mug of tea in one hand and carrying a manila folder under the arm.

"Want to do some of the reading?" he offered the folder to John.

"No, he wants a shower and has an obnoxious headache," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, not in a calculating but in a struggling-to-see way. "So do I."

"Nope, no showers for you yet," John said in a warning voice.

"My own smell has turned into a source of discomfort," the detective argued.

"He sweated a lot last night," Greg informed.

"Maybe tonight. if you are more hydrated and have eaten. No getting the stitches wet. We bought some of those waterproof plasters. No promises, though. Let's see what your BP says later, then decide."

"Go. Shower," Sherlock urged him, trying to make it sound casual but failing miserably.

After a brief moment of hesitation and a nod from the DI, John finally left.

"So, I am the taleteller again?" Greg smiled at Sherlock and handed over the tea, which the detective accepted with great care not to spill anything. Wisely, Lestrade had only filled the mug two thirds.

"I need you to pick up the documents for me... Show your badge so they know it is a legitimate request."

"Alright. Where?"

When Sherlock's gaze just shifted into the distance and no answer came, Lestrade stepped closer again.

"Mate?"

The shaking of Sherlock's hands seemed to worsen and Greg carefully pulled the hot mug out of his grip.

That made Sherlock snap back to reality.

It was obvious something was causing a bit of distress.

Sherlock gulped repeatedly and his lips were pressed together tightly. Greg could see his jaw muscles work.

"Sherlock? What is it?" Greg tried again in a low voice.

"It's... The chemical changes in my brain are currently not easy to handle. Peaking, actually," Sherlock admitted. Though his voice was hoarse, it was carefully voided of all emotions.

"Hey, look at me..." Greg waited for him to do so, and his pause elongated. Sherlock looked at his hands, but no into his eyes. For Greg that was good enough, he knew Sherlock was trying to listen. "The cravings will pass, you know that. They don't last forever. You are able to manage those desires. They built up, they reach a peak, they subside. Just hang on until they do... I can read or we can watch telly or something."

After another long silence, in which Sherlock allowed himself to sink back deeper into the pillows, he finally dragged in a deep breath and cleared his throat.

Greg literally saw him fight his impulse to jump out of the bed and abscond to purchase whatever was available.

"Stay strong, you'll get through this," Greg leaned down a bit to try to meet his friend's eyes, but Sherlock just looked sideways a bit.

"Get my headphones... the ones on the skull," Sherlock pressed out and Greg could spot small beads of sweat on his forehead.

"On my way," Greg said slowly, as if not sure he should leave Sherlock on his own for even a few seconds. The man's stubbornness and discipline were amazing, but right now the DI was not ready to rely on them completely.

Still, it was a big step that Sherlock was informing him about the problem.

However, apparently letting anyone help with it was currently not the thing he was convinced could work.

Greg hurried to do as asked and when he returned, Sherlock had thrown most of the pillows out of the bed and was curled up on his side, facing away from the door.

Lestrade rounded the bedstead to see his face.

Sherlock had his mp3 player clutched in his right. The thing looked a bit ridiculous because a jack plug adapter was sticking out of it that was bigger than the device itself.

Sherlock opened his eyes when Greg cleared his throat.

"That bad?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just held out his shaking hands and Greg handed the high quality headphones over.

"You know, I could get you some in-ear headphones, to make it more comfortable... you know, lying down."

Sherlock manipulated the pillows to make a hollow for the bulky rounded ear cups before he took them out of the DI's hand.

"No... Need the... need the cup things... over the ears," Sherlock had obviously problems articulating things. "Works better with..." he trailed off.

When he hadn't finished the sentence fifteen seconds later, Greg asked.

"Sherlock, is this a danger night – I mean... I mean do you fear you might lose your nerve to get through with this?"

The other man looked sideways and seemed to be lost for words.

When no response came after almost ten seconds, the DI leaned a bit closer, making another try to meet his eyes.
When he spoke again, his voice was much softer and caring than Sherlock had heard in a long time.

"Alright. That's answer enough."

"I'll text you the address," Sherlock made a blatant try to change topics and throw him out at once.

Greg stood there for a moment, hesitating and not sure how to proceed.

"Leave," Sherlock huffed, but without any anger or resentment in his voice. It sounded more like unmanageable desperation than anything else.

Hesitating, Greg caught himself chewing on his lower lip in sympathy, then he left the darkened room – with the plan to return in under three minutes.

 

 

Notes:

I hope to now return to frequent and regular updates, as planned.
I had a few difficult months and a side effect was that I couldn't concentrate on writing. But now I am a bit better and I spent a lot of time in the past three weeks working on this story and I had a lot of inspiration.

Constructive criticism welcome.

Chapter 14: March 6th, 1867 - Wednesday, Day V8

Summary:

The problems follow Sherlock into his mind palace.

Notes:

I am not a native speaker and I hope you'll be able to ignore my mistakes.
My wonderful beta is currently not available.
Many thanks to Ernil i Pheriannath / Sparkypip for the friendship and beta work!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

"We need to see the family," Sherlock greeted Lestrade the moment the man entered the flat. "To find out who wrote the dilution down. Whose handwriting it is - and to confront them with the new facts, find out their involvement. The man of the house should be home by now. Let's go."

Lestrade and Watson exchanged exasperated looks before the doctor hurried to get his jacket.

What followed were two hours of strained discussion at the Mansion of the Hollisters.

.

The first thing Sherlock did was ordering the entire family to write down the numbers from one to ten but keeping it secret what he needed them for. The first priority was to get proof they weren't the ones who gave the skivvy maid the faulty instructions.

To the waiting group's utter dismay, Sherlock then retreated into the kitchen with the writing samples, leaving John and Lestrade to deal with the family. It was the only space that promised silence and a minimum of distraction to compare the original note with everybody's hand.

.

Half an hour later, in which there was no tea because Sherlock blocked the kitchen, he confronted the family with the fact that he was sure they were the ones who put her in the Thames, though not guilty of killing her deliberately.

After a lengthy discussion, in which Sherlock explained his deductions, the family still denied everything. In the end, the detective lost his patience and decided to play the 'human psychology card'.

"The young woman has a family who loved her and who will dearly miss her. The same you would miss your daughter, Mr Hollister," he addressed the husband, then made a pause to let that sink in.

"The reaction to contact poisoning occurs after five to 30 minutes," he explained, "when she realised something was wrong and tried to wash it off, it was too late. At first only white patches appear on the skin, those aren’t painful... She must have tried to wash it off, but it was too late."

The small group of people in the room stared into different corners of the stuffed room, but didn't look at him.

"At first, she probably suffered from severe abdominal pain and nausea. A bit later, she started to have trouble breathing...  Then she died - alone and in a horrible amount of pain."

Blatantly, he looked around and to his triumph, he found one of the daughters was openly crying and the mother seemed to fight with tears.

They hadn't actively killed her, but he couldn't really feel sorry for them. They had tried to cover up her death, maybe even caused it by being careless.

It only took another minute of heavy silence until Mrs Hollister finally admitted that she had found the Ottilie dead, a few metres away from the bucket and a wet spot on the ground where she seemed to have started cleaning – exactly as Sherlock had assumed.

It turned out he was also right in the assumption that they were so very cautious about their reputation, that they - in a cloak-and-dagger operation - had washed away the acid and thrown her into the Thames, together with the soiled cleaning rags.

As soon as it was clear what had befallen the maid after her demise, Sherlock concentrated on trying to figure out the reason for her death.

"Do you happen to know where she bought the cleaning agents and who wrote this?" he asked, showing the mother and daughters the piece of paper with the wrong dilution written down.

Working together with Hooper, Sherlock had proven it must be a dilution because when they tested various dilutions of carbolic acid on the pigskin the only one that caused burns in the intensity the maid's skin displayed where the ones that were caused by a solution made with the numbers in question.

"She did all the shopping and… sometimes went quite far to get good offerings or quality. My wishes," the Misses explained, "There are three chemists on her way, let me see if I can find quittances."

"And while you are at it, see if you can find the bottle the solution was stored in."

"I am sorry, but we threw that one out right after..." Mrs Hollister said. "There was a label on it, but I don't know what it said."

She left and came almost immediately with six receipts from the past two months. Sherlock sorted them into to two different shops and four different writers. But none of the quittances was filled out by the person who had written down the fateful numbers that much was clear.

Therefore, the next thing to do was to find out where the note had been written and by whom.

Sherlock informed the waiting group they were all free of any suspicion of murder, but there might be further inquiry about the accident itself.

"You can leave," the detective finished his explanation.

"This is our house!" the husband protested.

"What?" Sherlock looked up, puzzled.

Lestrade stood up.

"Thank you for your help, we'll be in contact."

To their surprise, the youngest daughter stepped forward and reached for Sherlock's hand, which he only reluctantly allowed her to take.

"Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes, for proving we didn't harm the poor thing. She was such a nice girl and so eager to do a good job."

"Honey, I already told you how inappropriate it is to talk to her as much as you did. She is just a maid," the mother scolded.

"She was a friendly person, unlike many others."

"There will probably be further investigations because she was not properly instructed how to use the cleaning agents," Sherlock addressed the mother coldly.

"But my mother didn't know she didn't know! It is in the responsibility of the person who told her how to mix it!" the oldest daughter protested.

"But your mother was clearly aware how dangerous it could be, otherwise there would have been more people affected," Sherlock said.

The mother stared at him in shock.

"I was in fact informed about the risks by a very competent pharmacist when I first bought that cleaning agent, when it was quite a new invention. And I assumed she would be, too when buying it."

"Invention?" Sherlock frowned. As a chemist, his understanding was that most chemicals had always been there, no matter of humanity's awareness of them. Their uses for mankind though had to be figured out by a vast number of experiments, which needed creative thinking, but it was not an invention per se.  

"Also, there might be consequences for lying to the police about this," Lestrade explained, "and getting rid of the body... as well as trying to mislead us, telling us she had eczema on her hands."

Most members of the family were quite gloomy after that statement.

When it came to saying their good-byes, John held out his hand for the daughter to shake, while Sherlock carefully made sure to hide his hands behind his back.

The now slightly idolising undertone the young woman used in her goodbye didn't go unnoticed by John and Lestrade.

The father, who had been not very cooperative during their earlier conversation and who had been quite dismissive, only now realised that although the maid died at their house and there would be a small scandal, the blame for her murder would have created a far greater disaster. He then joined his daughter's praise and suddenly the atmosphere changed into over-friendly and grateful.

Which meant Sherlock left the house as if it was on fire.

Greg and John took their time to bit them all farewell properly before they followed their friend to the waiting police coach carriage.

.

They stopped at both pharmacies in question to ask the owners if they could identify the writer, of course without telling them why they were really asking. Sherlock asked under the pretence that he remembered that in the same pharmacy where he had gotten the note they sold his favourite tooth powder.

The owner of the first store was sure he had never seen the handwriting or the paper at all and gave a sample of his own writing and his assistant's – as well as a probe of his best selling tooth powder.

The second shop's apprentice was out but the pharmacist showed them detailed instructions the young man had to write for every customer to help him memorise facts. The handwriting was different from their piece of evidence, and so was the one of the man himself, he too advertised his oral care products and Sherlock bought a little box to use for experiments.

In the end, they wondered if it was worth seeing every chemist in London about the note - or at least Greg and John did, Sherlock of course argued this was exactly what detective work required and that it needed to be done.

When Sherlock suggested to find the next Kelly's directory*, John interfered.

"I strongly advice against doing this yourself. You need rest."

"Right. Listen to the doctor, Holmes. You look poorly. I will send constables out to get writing samples. You can then analyse those to your heart's content."

"They will behave suspicious."

"I am sure Lestrade can explain them how to do the same harmless little scam you just used," Watson smiled.

.

They had barely returned to Baker Street when Watson was called away for a house call, one of his patients had fallen off a ladder. These days there were no A&Es at hospitals and most emergencies were still treated by the local doctor.

Sherlock felt so drained that he decided to lie down and muse about the case while relaxing his aching limbs in his bed.

He was woken by Watson's return, who then ate dinner and talked to Mrs Hudson in the living room.

Still not fully awake, everything suddenly irked him.

It was hard to keep his irritation in check and prevent himself from yelling across the flat to silence them. All noises seemed to be extraordinary hard to endure, as was the structure of the fine linens on his bare skin.

He kicked off the bedding and clenched his teeth not to make any loud noises of distress.

It felt as if his mind was plagued by myriads of ants trampling through his nerves, it made every sensation painful and fulsome.

To protect his flatmate and himself from his foul mood and oversensitive nerves he stayed in his room.

.

"You need a shave to look decent, young man. People were turning their heads on your appearance all day," Mrs Hudson greeted him an hour later when he finally had found the strength to come to the living room.

He grimaced, aware he had missed something, though still trying to figure out when she had the chance to observe other people looking at him.

In his current state, shaving was a thing he tried to avoid because if might cause a sensory overload, especially when done by someone else.

But it was a fine line. If his stubble grew out too much, the itching and sensory input it brought could become very annoying, too.

Unwashed skin would also peeve him at a certain point, there was a limit to how much of his own body odour he could stand. He was well aware that this point was almost reached, in real life he was longing for a shower for days now and his own stench was starting to slosh over into this reality.

Therefore, he should try to shave and have a decent wash sometime soon; maybe it would allow him to keep the problem out of the mind palace reality. He had skipped bathing the past days, feeling too exhausted to even try.

But according to how raw his senses were already, it would be challenging.

"Holmes?" Watson was up and scrutinizing him the moment he stepped into the living room.

Before the detective could say anything, Watson had reopened the door Mrs Hudson had just closed after her and was addressing her on the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson can you please heat up water for a bath! As soon as possible! Thank you."

Sherlock cringed from the loud noise and was aware that he had ridiculously squinched his eyes shut.

"I don't..." he tried.

"Yes Holmes, you do. No arguments! If a client comes in here, we'll lose them immediately to your deterring smell. Also, we have a meeting tomorrow with that young man who asked to see you."

Right.

Sherlock plunked down into the chaise longue. Unfortunately, something was rucked up under his weight.

For a moment he considered just leaving it there – it hurt too much to move – but then he decided the noise it would make was rather annoying.

He shifted his weight and incompetently pulled the obnoxious object out.

It was the London Evening Standard, a newspaper that was not among his favourite ones, he wondered where it came from.

But then the headlines caught his gaze: British North America Act is passed in the House of Commons.

A way smaller article was titled: Polish composer Wiktor Każyński died March 6th in St. Petersburg.

Sherlock considered reading the article but found his eyes wouldn't focus properly.

"Hey mate, come on. Let's get you in the warm tub. You'll feel better once you're clean."

The tone was so much John that Sherlock looked up in confusion.

Watson smiled down at him. With care and without causing too much noise, the doctor removed the newspaper.

"You are stiff," Watson announced.

When no answer came, he continued, "What ails you?... Please tell me. Not knowing is giving me a lot of grief, my dear friend."

He rested a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder and for a moment, the detective just sat there, trying to collect himself.

The touch felt vivid and harsh at the same time, but he couldn't – wouldn't - shake it off, the tiny gesture was too precious.

A physical manifestation of friendship and care.

Not for the first time he wondered if this would be easier if he told the doctor what was going on.

Watson had seen war and was aware of the perils that followed if pain was needed to be numbed for a long period of time. He had lived through his own injury's pain management and the aftermath thereof. For this very reason he should be aware of the problems it brought.

He also was a doctor continuing his studies constantly, learning the new scientific sensations of the era. Maybe he would understand.

During the mid and late Victorian Period awareness rose about what certain drugs did and what addiction was. The results were tries to somehow govern the trade. Up till then many drugs were freely available for everybody.

Though a lot of people still considered constant drug use as a moral weakness, some scientists had already understood it should be regarded as an addiction.

The 1861 edition of a famous household book already warned of the well-known risks of cocaine, of giving too much, too frequently, too lightly.

On the other hand, drug use was not was not seen as a serious social and medical problem until the early twentieth century, which was a few decades away.

What was difficult to understand for him was that Watson had an odd way to react to his drug use sometimes.

At times, he seemed to think Holmes needed to kill some well hidden pain and understood that, on other times he seemed quite angry about it. He was probably deciding which was which from a catalogue of internal moral guidelines Holmes hadn't figured out, yet.

For a long moment he was contemplating, trying to remember why he had decided not to tell Watson about his abstinence.

His ability to concentrate wasn't getting better.

Maybe because he thought he couldn't stand Watson knowing?

Or thought he might not understand?

On the other hand, his nervous fussing was hard to endure, too.

Suddenly, he realised Watson had been a lot less gruff than usual recently. Had been patient and waiting without urging him to talk about his problem.

He remembered his decision to be able to rant freely and use Watson as a mental punching bag for all the things he couldn't unleash on John.

But instead of yelling and insulting the Watsons' human flaws, he suddenly experienced a rush of desperate need he couldn't identify.

"Hey?" the doctor's hand was still on Sherlock's shoulder, and now the thumb of that hand was tapping slightly onto his collarbone.

Sherlock closed his eyes, focussing on the point of contact.

The touch was so familiar... and such a strong sign of support.

And he was too enervated to make decisions and run away from his friend's care... and keep the facade up.

"The water is ready, let me help you."

A strong but gentle hand under his armpit heaved him upright and a moment later, they were stumbling into the other room where Mrs Hudson was preparing the bath.

He had tensed up, expected his senses to spike painfully.

But it didn't happen.

The touch didn't make him want to scream. He didn't have to fight to keep his distaste contained.

They reached the heated room when he felt his strength leave him.

Although he longed for feeling clean, he now doubted he was up to this, felt too weak to even undress himself.

Tired...

"Holmes!" Watson said alarmed, very close to his ear but in a low voice. "Hey!"

Puzzled and a bit disoriented he realised he must have dozed off and Watson had heaved him into the dressing chair.

Fingers fumbled for his wrist.

And the touch was actually...?

Welcome?

His mind staggered to a halt when his internal dictionary popped up and provided him with a term: touch starved.

He had never thought he would find meaning to that word, but the want for presence and the need for decisions being taken away from him was as alien as this.

Was he really suffering from such a condition?

Was it a mental or a physical need?

Was he just overwhelmed by all that was happening and the need for care – which he consciously despised - but subconsciously needed?

The repulsion he felt for a moment was strong, but he decided to inspect his strange sentiment closer.

It did feel like hunger he realised when he opened his internal dictionary to find the in detail definition of the word to read it.

With an internal eye-roll he acknowledged to himself it might fit.

It was ludicrous nevertheless.

He didn't want it to be true, felt pathetic and humiliated enough by his body's and mind's affectations, he couldn't take something like this on top of it all.

Distantly, he was aware that Watson's agitation about his lack of response was gaining intensity, so he shoved his reflections away to handle his friend first.

"Holmes?"

The initial thought about whether to inform Watson about the origin of his state shoved away by a new difficult concept.

He raised his gaze.

Watson was trying to help him out of his jacket and wanted his cooperation.

"I don't need assistance, please leave me be," Sherlock tried.

"For god's sake, Holmes! You will let me examine you!" Watson ordered sternly and Sherlock knew this John would not let himself be shaken off with a few rude words.

Although his hands were still shaking slightly, he managed to unbutton his shirt and hang it up on a wall hook in reach.

A moment later, Mrs Hudson came in to bring another large pot of hot water she then poured into the tub. The house was equipped with running water and plumbing but not yet with closed fire ranges fitted with back boilers.

This was his goddamn mind palace – why not?

It had been the last time he was here!

Why was it that much more inconvenient this time?

He needed comfort, the house should have stayed in his 1895 state to meet his need.

The answer to this was obvious.

He was miserable and his transport took every chance it got to remind him of that, besides that fact that his current reality was actually earlier in time.

A hot bath would be good, though.

Occupied by his own pensiveness, he kind of shut himself off from the experience of being examined by Watson, who had proceeded to action without his permission. The Victorian doctor wouldn't be of much help anyway, there was no use other than getting him off his back.

"Your behaviour tells me you know perfectly well what your health issues are caused by. Am I right?" Watson's stern tone jolted him out of his thoughts. He was holding a stethoscope and his leather doctor bag was open next to them on the ground.

Once more, Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and tried to think, to decide how to respond.

Without opening them, he admitted, "Yes."

"So what...?"

Sherlock opened his eyes when Watson interrupted him.

"I am not sick. I am not dying. I will get better. There is nothing you can do!" he burst out.

"I am sorry, Holmes, but I can't trust you with things like that. You have neglected your body too often in the past... and damaged it just to solve a case. Therefore, I am prone to think this is an error of judgement and prefer to trust my own – educated – observations."

Sherlock felt his jaw muscles work and he briefly wondered if getting out of the room was an option. Getting in the bath were he couldn't evade this conversation seemed not a good idea.

He just shook his head and remained silent, out of words and not knowing what to say and how.

"Talk to me for god's sake!" Watson suddenly yelled, his patience depleted after days of seeing his friend suffering without knowing the cause.

The aggressive tone made Sherlock flinch hard and he leaned back in the chair, to get as far away from the other man as he could.

Watson's eyes widened about the unexpectedly hefty reaction to his loud words.

He frowned and anger was replaced by worry.

Then, he too, made a step back.

It was clear Watson was trying to say something but was rendered speechless, obviously trying to understand the reason for Holmes's unconscious reaction.

Consternation, confusion and distress passed over the doctor's face within a few seconds.

"I am sorry," Sherlock mumbled, unable to look at him.

He felt miserable and caught, and there was an aspect of shame.

Somehow he might have just wrongly insulted Watson for something John had done.

"What happened?" Watson asked in an unexpectedly low and slightly panicked voice.

Sherlock evaded his gaze and concentrated on not mentally regurgitating how it had felt to lie on the ground in the morgue, beaten and bleeding.

It was difficult.

"Please tell me."

"I was in a fight. It is not the reason for my poor health," Sherlock reassured him, well aware he was staring into space.

"Are you in pain?"

"Not to an amount I can't manage."

"I want to help, what can I do?"

Watson stepped closer again and Sherlock was at a loss. There was nothing anyone could do but wait for it all to get better. He shook his head, struggling still with the decision if he should tell Watson about his abstinence and the effects it had.

The doctor would probably welcome what he was doing but start to monitor him as closely as John was.

Additionally he was struggling with the idea that if the withdrawal by itself was present in this reality it could possibly destroy the desired effect of it being a respite from the very thing.

He had tried to will the Victorian doctor oblivious to his ailments but about this very point the mind palace didn't behave to his command. One more thing that was probably ruled by his subconscious issues. Or maybe it was rooted too deep in John's behaviour for him to write it out.

A slight tap to his cheek brought him back.

"This is not funny any longer. What are you taking? You had more cocaine in the past days than usual, didn't you?"

Sherlock just shook his head once more, and fell into the same trap he liked to use on other people when interrogating them.

"None," he huffed, feeling the need to correct a wrong statement.

"None? Since when?"

"Several days."

Watson sat down heavily on the footstool that was standing in the corner, indicating he very well understood what that meant.

It was out, then.

What Sherlock hadn't expected was the sudden onslaught of fright the revelation caused him.

He needed to erase this from this mind palace session and make Watson forget this had happened!

Immediately!

Unable to think clearly, he tried to leave his mind space.

But when he reopened his eyes, he was still in the richly decorated Victorian bathroom.

Escape!

He needed to get out of this situation, internal alarm bells ringing so loud he could hear nothing else.

Consciously, he tried to call the wooden door he used to enter this realm if he had issues focussing – he had rarely needed it to exit.

When nothing happened, he stood up on shaky legs and headed for the hallway. If the door wasn't coming to him, he needed to go where he installed it, opposite John's bedroom door... upstairs.

Watson grabbed his upper arm.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"I... I need to... Let me go."

Watson did, but when he dragged himself up the stairs, wondering why he hadn't placed the entry somewhere more practical.

Watson followed him, making sure he didn't fall, but Sherlock ignored him.

Problem was, the door wasn't were it was supposed to be.

Unsettled by this new disturbing discovery, he frantically shoved his hands all over the walls in the hall, looking for a hidden doorframe.

When he closed his eyes in desperation and did it a second time, his fingers finally touched it.

The doorknob.

Maybe it was not visible because Watson was standing behind him, babbling and clearly wondering if he had lost it.

Not daring to open his eyes, afraid it might not be there if he did, he fumbled to open it.

It moved with difficulty and it took him several tries until he finally managed to turn it.

When he stepped through though, what greeted him was not, as expected, his 2016 bedroom.

It was heat and smoke and the unmistakable smell of a house on fire.

He tried to make a step back, but the door that had been behind him moments ago was gone.

His back was against a solid wall.

 

 


 

*

"Kelly's Directory (or more formally, the Kelly's, Post Office and Harrod & Co Directory) was a trade directory in England that listed all businesses and tradespeople in a particular city or town, as well as a general directory of postal addresses of local gentry, landowners, charities, and other facilities. In effect, it was a Victorian version of today's Yellow Pages. Many reference libraries still keep their copies of these directories, which are now an important source for historical research." Cited from/source: Wikipedia

 

 

 

Notes:

A/N:
Extra long chapter to compensate for the long wait a few weeks ago.

Chapter 15: Still Day 5 (2016) - Almost midnight

Summary:

Everyone is having a difficult night.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

"He needs to stop disappearing into his mind palace," John stated when Greg returned to the living room.

"Funny enough. Right now he isn't even in a state to go there, I think. But do you really think it is wise to expect him to go through this torture more conscious than necessary?"

"No. That's not what I meant. The problem is, he's not moving enough and not drinking enough."

When Greg took breath, John interrupted him, "I know we shouldn't do anything that might tip his careful balance while he is walking on the edge, but he is getting worse."

"John, I know this is very hard to watch. I feel as helpless as you."

"He's getting dehydrated to an amount that will make things go downhill soon," John ranted on.

"Right now he is even less able to communicate his issues than usual," Greg made the issues known he had observed, "Additionally he's trying to figure out what and how to say the right thing. After last night he probably thinks he'll only make it worse if he speaks. Therefore, he's reluctant and quiet... and overwhelmed by cravings right now."

"You really think the cravings are the worst of it? I think the depression is hitting him equally hard."

"Yes. This is a danger night... Although every night is a danger night at the moment, this one will be bad. The cravings come in waves and are at a high this very moment. He tries to handle them. I think he's totally overwhelmed with... everything... Sorry, as a medical man you know that... sorry... It's just... The music is a bad sign, it means he can't or won't - for some reason - use the mind palace. He shouldn't be alone. He'll hate it, but for the next three something hours, we need to be in there with him."

.

They took turns sitting in Sherlock's room after that.

The detective seemed to ignore them completely, he didn't even adjust his position or roll to his other side.

Sitting there in the dark, John was amazed how much self control Sherlock had. It was clearly visible how much strain it put on him to fight his body's cries for relief. All his life, the doctor had never seen someone go through withdrawal from these kinds of drugs. Contrary to expectations, he hadn't had to chain his friend to a wall to keep him from following his urges - yet.

It was grievously hard for John to monitor Sherlock's trembling back, his way too fast  shallow breaths. The music must be at a volume Sherlock's sensitive ears would register as pain since John could hear it through the headphone at the other end of the room.

What was getting to him was that he could do nothing else than stare at his unmoving tense from.

Sherlock was still perspiring and would need another shirt soon. He was wearing all clothes inside out at the moment, because even the seams were incommodious. Sherlock's clothes had no tags, the detective removed them immediately, because even on a normal day he claimed they disrupted his thoughts due to the itching they caused.

During the last three days they had gone through Sherlock's entire wardrobe of comfort clothes and although Mrs Hudson was washing daily, John knew someone needed to get more non-irritating soft cotton clothes soon.

Feeling utterly useless, it made John physically uncomfortable to sit still while his best friend seemed to fight his battle alone.

Now and then Sherlock's breathing changed into a more laboured pattern or even hitched.  The little chocked noises he made now and then hit John's apprehensive soul and every time it happened he had to close his eyes for a few seconds to keep his own emotions in check.

Finally, after almost four long hours, the tension left Sherlock's body and his breathing deepened.

Within a few minutes, he seemed to have fallen asleep – or managed to go to his mind palace.

John decided to wait a few more minutes. When he deemed it safe, he to returned to the living room, where Greg had taken a nap.

"Order some pizza? I know a place that is still delivering at this hour," Greg mumbled and sat up, his hair a mess and his stubble starting to show.

John winced, it was almost midnight.

Eating was the last thing he felt he needed, worry and shame suppressing his appetite. But his medical senses told him he should eat. Replenish the stuff his body was lacking after the drinking. It might even help the still present aftereffects of the hangover.

"Come on. You need nourishment. Prefer something else than pizza?"

John shook his head, out of words and unable to make another decision.

.

An hour later, both men were sitting at the dining table.

John had relaxed a bit and it seemed having a decent meal and drinking a lot of soda had improved his mood a bit.

Greg had abstained from having a beer and was also having a sugary soft drink.

They were almost finished eating when suddenly there were noises coming from Sherlock's room.

John and Greg looked at each other in alarm.

Some seconds later the bedroom door burst open and the detective stumbled into the kitchen. He had to use his arms for balance on the doorframes and walls.

John saw him coming towards them through the lit kitchen.

Sherlock's movements broadcasted so much distress and precipitance that he was up and moved towards his friend immediately.

"Sherlock? What the hell?"

When Sherlock lifted his head, John could see his face. The detective was very pale and the dark areas around his eyes had worsened. He looked seriously ill and his face was covered in sweat. But the most troublesome thing was his expression, it was clear he was in panic mode.

"Get out!" Sherlock's hoarse yell echoed through the silent house.

"What?" Greg headed over to them, too, but Sherlock was already opening the kitchen door and scurrying into the hallway.

"Shit!" Greg sounded confused and changed direction to stop their friend.

It was John who reached Sherlock first, grabbed his upper arm, this way preventing that he ran down the stairs.

The doctor was mainly afraid Sherlock might fall, he was clearly weak-kneed.

For a moment, John was convinced this was finally Sherlock's first try to get rid of them, to somehow sneak off and buy drugs, but when he saw the terror in Sherlock's eyes and the desperate tries to free himself from John's grip, he tried to assess the situation from a different point of view.

Sherlock's chest was heaving way too fast and John was sure his pulse was through the roof.

"I need to wake Mrs Hudson. Get Rosie! We need to get out of the house!"

"Sherlock? What the hell are you talking about?" Greg passed them and made a few steps down the stairs, effectively blocking Sherlock's way down.

John wrapped his other arm around Sherlock's chest to get a better hold on him.

"What? Why?... Sherlock! Calm down!"

Sherlock flailed and fought them, then started to yell.

"Mrs Hudson! Wake up!"

"Shh! Shit Sherlock! You'll wake the whole street."

"That's the point!... We need to get out... now!" Sherlock stammered with a trembling voice.

"What's the matter with you? Why the hell should we get out?" John demanded, his tone now suspicious.

"Rosie! We need to get out! We need to wake them..."

"Tell us why!" Greg ordered, staring at Sherlock's face, who's gaze was scampering through the room but looking at nothing, with a speed that was dizzying.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Mrs Hudson turned on the light from downstairs and started to come up the stairs.

"No! Don't come up! Get out! There's a fire. Get out!" Sherlock urged her, struggling harder against the restraining hands.

"What?" the landlady squeaked.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Greg raised his hands in front of Sherlock, "Where?"

"Something is burning... I can smell it!" Sherlock argued.

Everyone was suddenly busy trying to sniff the air and find the source of the smell that was unsettling Sherlock so much.

John shook his head first. "Can't smell anything. You?" he addressed Greg.

"No. Nothing."

They stood in puzzled silence for a moment.

"Relax, Sherlock. Why do you think there is a fire? Did you see it? Is it in your room?" John tried to figure out what was happening.

"Yes."

Greg passed them again and sprinted back into Sherlock's room to check it.

"It was burning. I could smell it. It smelled like a burning house – not like someone making a fire but like all the various types of materials burning that are present in a house," Sherlock urgently rattled off, still trying to wind out of John's hands but with no vigour.

When Greg returned, he silently shook his head, out of breath but still alert.

The landlady had made it up the stairs, carrying a small fire extinguisher, she was now the one blocking Sherlock's way.

"Check my room, too," John asked him.

The DI hurried up the stairs to see if everything was all right there, too.

"The smell, there was that smell... and the flames," Sherlock's voice hitched, he sounded more confused than anything else.

"We can't smell anything. There is no fire, mate. I checked every room," Greg reassured him coming down the stairs.

Sherlock was just breathing heavily and shaking his head in disbelief, not struggling against John bracing him any longer. Without him realising it, the touch had shifted, from keeping him in place to keeping him upright.

To make sure everything was alright, Mrs Hudson went to check her flat and even checked the streets outside, but returned a minute later and assured them there was nothing burning.

With shaking hands, Sherlock shoved his greasy hair out of his face, then started to pull at it.

"Hey, stop that," John demanded in a gently voice, "let's sit you down."

When the doctor lowered him down onto the top step, Sherlock had to follow him down, having no strength left to keep himself standing.

John took a seat next to him.

"Sherlock? What just happened? Did you just have a nightmare?"

"No!" Sherlock insisted.

"Are you still smelling smoke?" he asked.

"No."

"Was it a memory?" John probed, not yet ready to suggest it was a hallucination. "Have you ever been in a burning house?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, it was clear he was trying to think.

Meanwhile Greg went to get a glass of water.

"Sherlock?" John tried to get the other man's attention when Sherlock was only staring into nothingness, obviously trying hard to remember.

"The smell... it was... my room was... something was burning... I... There were flames. They were high," the detective was struggling to keep it together.

"Alright. Have some water," Greg held out the glass and Sherlock took it.

"The intensity of my transport's reaction is kind of unnerving..." Sherlock pressed out between sips, trying to hide the very fact.

Unseen by Sherlock, Greg and John once more exchanged alarmed looks when Sherlock struggled to hold the glass in his trembling hands. Greg took it from him as soon as he stopped drinking.

"I am losing my mind," Sherlock croaked in a slightly hysteric tone, clutching his hair with his hands, as if to keep his head in place.

"You've been able to differentiate between reality and hallucination last night, what is different now?" Greg asked while John gestured to Mrs Hudson to give them some space. She nodded and went back to bed.

"I don't know," Sherlock whispered. "There is... Maybe there is strong... sentiment at work? This is difficult. I don't know why." He gulped repeatedly.

"Alright," John understood his friend needed something to relax him, even if it was only the tiniest bit to make him feel minutely more comfortable. "Can you make it to the bathroom? Let's clean you up."

"Shower?" Sherlock asked hopefully. The greasy heaviness on his head was interfering with his ability to think, he had understood that days ago.

"Yeah, no... Better have a bath, I think. But you need to calm down a bit first. That okay?"

The responding nod was tired but grateful, but they had to help him up and into the bathroom.

.

Sitting in the warm bathing water, Sherlock closed his eyes in their 2016 bathroom.

Someone had made sure everything was as easy on his senses as possible. The room was lightened by waterproof rope lights, installed while Sherlock was still in hospital. Additionally, John had poured a generous amount of 'extra sensitive' baby bubble bath into the water after they both had an awkward moment watching him tremble like a leave in the water, causing tiny splashing noises.

The thick layer of fine bubbles made the bath a sensory delight. The thousands of tiny bubbles reflecting the many blue LEDs was intense but also had a calming, maybe even soothing effect.

It felt better than he had in days.

He had longed for a bath for so long. Had been irked by his unbathed state. Although he had washed every day, it failed to make him feel clean. He had needed this.

The odd waterproof plaster on his face was a bit annoying and John had made it clear he  was not allowed to put his head under the water, had to yell for assistance when he was ready to rinse his hair.

Nevertheless, everything felt alien right now.

His body.

His thoughts.

Even the flat.

He had been through the process of detoxing several times and this time was different. Maybe it was just the fact that he was older, more experienced, had more words for conditions - emotionally and physically - to register.

It had never been this hard on him.

He remembered that after the last difficult withdrawal, which was before he had met John, he had sworn that no high was worth to go through this low.

When he had started with cocaine some long weeks ago, he had been at a low already and he hadn't cared any longer. It was not the high he had needed, it was the escape.

And the cause... going to hell.

But this was the real hell he was going through right now. 

Another factor that hadn't been there before was: John.

This factor gave the entire thing a way more complex and existential touch than anything else had in his life.

It was amazing and terrifying, what John's presence was doing to him... or his absence. The shifts in perspective he generated.

The first time John's absence had made him kind of sick was during the time he had hunted down Moriarty's web.

It had been an eye opener.

No-John was disabling him, an absence that turned existence into a hollow shell.

It was ridiculous, but true.

He had spent a lot of time denying it.

When he had finally accepted it, spent even more trying to find out why.

Disharmonism happened when John wasn't there and he still couldn't grasp it or put it into coherent words.

John's discardment felt the more devastating the moment Sherlock realised that.

He had turned himself into a mere shadow of his former self.

And he was no longer sure he had the strength to work it all out.

Their issues seemed to be an insurmountable obstacle.

The world was so dull without cocaine.

Everything was unbelievable bleak.

Looking forward for a bath was pathetic. As was the hope that things would get better.

He moved and the sounds of little splashes echoed in the tiled room.

It suddenly made him feel much more desperate and lost than he had during the past days.

Life as he knew it was over.

John was a father now, one with double responsibility. He could no longer just hand their daughter over to a wife understanding he needed a bit of adrenaline.

Even if he had truly forgiven Sherlock, things would be very different from now on.

The changes seemed unacceptable, unfeasible to adjust to.

He disliked changes and knew he didn't cope with them very well, especially not live-changing ones like these.

His life would be dull from now on.

There was no future he could picture that could be worth all this pain.

Desperately, he reminded himself that he needed to find positive aspects, find a way for him and John to continue what they had done in the past... but he failed.

The only thing that felt real was the bleakness, the loss, the dullness and his flaws.

Everything interesting seemed somehow to be linked to John. Without him crimes were boring, eating unbearable, and cups of tea not worth being brewed.

Everything just seemed to be unmakeable.

The flat was the only thing that felt real, but everything that was supposed to be out there, was gone. He had lost all connection to it in the past days. Good crime fighting, people, interaction, life in general, nature, news, reality... all lost. Gone from his reality.

He didn't know what day it was, let alone the date.

Everything felt completely disconnected from his thoughts and reality.

He knew he shouldn't think about this in his state, but he couldn't keep thoughts like this away.

Reality had shrivelled to the size of the flat. Nothing good in it, only grief and disappointment, pain and darkness. Anxiety paired up with depression.

He felt the panic creep in, and for a moment, he had the common sense to fight it, but then it caught him like a huge wave and left him gulping for air like a stranded fish.

The ghost of the panic he had felt earlier when confronted with the fire in his room was still there and relit more distress.

He tried to fight the panic by thinking.

Where was this coming from?

Were there gaps in his memories?

Had he deleted memories from his time in Serbia he hadn't recovered yet?*

Unlikely.

Frantically, he tried so search through the details of the fire he had sensed, which left him even more unsettled.

But he couldn't find anything even a bit similar to what had been playing out in his mind.

And the only thing – besides the horror and the smells and the heat – that he knew that he saw a small gap in the flames and even though he knew he would get hurt he leaped through it.

It was likely it wasn't a memory, just another hallucination.

Yesterday, he had been able to just lie there and watch whatever his subconsciousness was regurgitating. Had the calm to just observe the things that evolved.

They were painful, but he had managed to find the balance to be able to just observe.

Never in the past had he suffered from hallucinations as intensely as this time.

The odd thing was that some kind of sense memory was somehow there, but not in terms of pain or burns.  

The taste of ashes on his lips.

The penetrating smells of melting plastic and burning wool.

He gulped repeatedly, still feeling the breathing issues the smokes had caused.

Or was it just the panic? It hadn't lessened.

His chest felt tight and he was experiencing light-headedness.

The hallucinations had been threateningly unsettling. Mary being there or the morgue coolers, with those, he could make the connection where the subconscious issues came from.

But the fire?

Then he remembered there had also been a glimpse of emotions and sensations he couldn't remember to ever have experienced. But when he tried to probe or explore them further they seemed to recede.

Evaporate.

The entire thing might be completely disconnected to his current situation but felt nevertheless primeval and reality shattering.

When the door was yanked open and John stormed in, Sherlock realised he was gulping for air like a fish out of water.

"Hey?"

John's fingers were at his wrist immediately and the relief this touch caused was almost too much to handle.

He giggled frantically about the absurdity and the alleviation about the fact that John was no longer keeping him at an unscalable distance.

"Breathe, Sherlock. Come on, mate."

He did, rolling his eyes about his own pathetic reactions.

It took effort, but he managed.

"That's it."

The loud sounds of him sucking in air added to his panic for a moment, but the fact that his friend was there made it easier to handle.

John's presence grounded him.

But then, another realisation hit him like a brick wall.

He wanted nothing but out of experiencing this. The urge to contact Wiggins or some dealer hit him so hard, he could physically feel it.

Still fighting for breath, he realised he was in danger of sneaking out soon and he was still sure they wouldn't be able to stop him.

Intense fear that he really might do something this stupid floored all other thoughts.

The past hours - before he had managed to enter the mind palace, which resulted in the unfortunate interaction with Watson in their 1867 bathroom - had been so hard, he wasn't sure he could do that again.

Something so urgent and raw, a hunger so overwhelming it felt like starving, had spiked in a way that had drained all his energy.

The intense want his transport had thrown at him had made him nauseous.  

He was afraid he would fail to resist.

"Look at me, please," John's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

Slowly, he narrowed his eyes and looked at the other man, who was down on one knee in front of the tub, ready to interfere if something happened. His gaze alert and his hands ready to take action.

Sherlock couldn't raise his gaze, his head sagged downwards in defeat.

"I can't..."

"What, Sherlock?"

"... this," He failed to explain.

"Alright, mate. That's enough. Let's get you out of there."

Only after that, Sherlock remembered that he hadn't washed his hair and he shook his head.

Afraid he might lose his fight with his will to endure this until he was through, he tried to concentrate on something else.

"Hair," he huffed.

"Sherlock, you're hyperventilating. You need to get out of there."

"Shampoo?" he insisted and after a sigh and a few long seconds of hesitation John handed him the bottle.

 

 


 

 

* This refers to Sherlock suffering from repressed memories that resurface and give him a very hard time in my story 'Define Vulnerability'.

 

 

Notes:

There is fanart for this chapter.

Withdrawal by TheCeruleanFeline


To see a bigger version of this, go here:
https://ao3-rd-3.onrender.com/works/16021130/chapters/37562393

Chapter 16: March 14th, 1867

Summary:

Sherlock finds he has a new case.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

The day started as harmless and boring as all the others in the Victorian era had before – he woke up in his bed. The thing was he had deliberately concentrated to not start the entry into the mind palace like this because over time he found it quite annoying to have to actually go through a morning routine every time he arrived in 1867.

Apparently, his efforts didn't have the desired effect.

The room was cold and his discomfort rose.

Sensing it was not something he could do in his current mood, so he hurried out off his bed to escape the bleak room. He had seen way too much of it in the past week and was starting to despise it.

The living room was equally cold and dark.

He tried to change the setting by concentrating on warming it up. His body in real life was tucked warmly into the bed, he shouldn't be cold.

To his dismay nothing happened.

His mind palace seemed as faulty as his dishevelled mind.

A wave of sadness hit him, and he tried to fight off the idea that he was broken beyond repair and it was not worth the effort to try to fix this. It was just prolonging the inevitable.

Well aware that he was not allowed to give up he tried a second time, closing his eyes to improve focus, but once more the environment remained the way it was. The only thing that happened was that suddenly someone was snapping his fingers in front of his face.

"Holmes?"

His eyes jerked open.

"What are you doing here, standing in the dark?"

Watson was right in front of him, letting his hands sink.

Sherlock just stared at him, his face working to contain the desperation and hollowness he felt.

"Let's lit the fires," Watson continued when Sherlock remained silent. Or maybe he just feared Sherlock might have a breakdown and wanted to give him the chance to collect himself. "Mrs Hudson isn't up yet," he added and turned away.

It was not fast enough to prevent Sherlock spotting the look of worry on his face.

Watson started to pile wood into the fire place and Sherlock walked towards his study, which was where the kitchen was in 2016, to lit the fire there. He was a bit overwhelmed by the sudden unexpected company.

They worked in silence for a short time, until Watson finally couldn't stand it any longer.

"Any interesting theories about the new case?"

"New case?"

"The young man that came in yesterday? He was worried about his fiancé, he failed to contact her in days. She seems to have vanished."

Sherlock frowned, unable to remember.

He still felt dazed and couldn't shake the tiredness.

"Your notes are still here, on the table," Watson pointed at the messy piles of papers on the dining table before he went over to wind up the clock.

It was early, half past six, and still dark outside.

The dim light of the lamp Watson had obviously carried in tinted the room into flickering yellow light that superseded the cold darkness.

Why didn't he remember?

Sherlock picked up a few sheets with notes and a picture from the table. It showed a young dark haired women and the photographic paper looked frayed, as if someone had carried it for a long time.

All the sheets lying around were filled with his own handwriting but he couldn't remember any of it.

For a moment, it felt like waking up in a strange place with no idea how one had gotten there. But then his gaze fell onto a small newspaper clipping, which then gave him access the allegedly lost memories.

A young man, planning to marry a woman who loved him.

Son of a wealthy doctor.

Had been abroad to study for two years.

When he had returned to his parent's home, they had presented him with a letter that his fiancé Emilia had sent. In it, she explained that she had married someone else and moved to Australia with him.

The abandoned husband to be - Avery Portmann was his name - didn't want to believe the letter was true and had claimed she was missing.

He reported that he had been experiencing problems with his parents in the past, who weren't too fond of her, but had finally accepted their son's choice.

Their reluctance had a lot to do with her rural upbringing, another issues were that she was intelligent, spoke her mind and loved her work.

For his parents she hadn't been home keeper enough and they were afraid she wouldn't be able to be a good housewife any time soon.

Avery had tried to first contact his fiancé's mother, Mrs Rowe (her father was dead). But the letter addressed to the mother came back and the young man then went to see her himself.

Only to find new tenants in the house who knew nothing.

"You wanted to see the landlord to find out when the mother had left and why," Watson provided.

"Right," Sherlock agreed, remembering every detail now, "Get dressed."

"What? No! It's way too early to knock at respectable people's doors," his friend protested while lighting up the other kerosene lamps in the room.

"The best way to get detailed and honest answers it to not wind up people by disturbing their sleep."

"Right. Make tea then."

"I am not a maid, you know."

"You were about to make it anyway."

"That's not the point."

Out of boredom and the need for a stimulant, Sherlock filled one of the clean beakers with water from a carafe and kindled the Bunsen burner. He then placed it in a holder over the flame and started searching the messy shelf behind the table for the metal can with his special tea blend.

It took him only a moment to find it. He fetched the filtering paper, which he then folded into an improvised tea bag. His hands were still stiff from sleep and it was difficult to shake the dried tea leaves into the tea bag. Then, he pinned it close with one of the needles he kept on the table.

Only after that he realised Watson was watching him, grinning. Immediately, Sherlock feared this little detail might make it into the next edition of the 'Strand Magazine'.

"Don't," he said and Watson made an exaggerated innocent face that told Sherlock he had been right.

"I'll get milk and sugar then," the doctor muttered and headed for the door to fetch the items from downstairs.

This gave Sherlock a welcomed moment to compose himself and take another look at the evidence and notes.

He remembered now that Avery had been a quite nervous, almost 30 year old man, unsettled about his fiancé's - Emilia's - disappearance. He had stated that even if she loved another man he wanted to know she was all right and did it out of free will. Nevertheless, he was completely convinced there was foul play at work.

The fact that he was marrying this late had been due to the fact that his studies had taken a long time and that he had been to India and parts of the orient to study anthropology.

Avery seemed intelligent, educated, a bit shy and adored his fiancé for her emancipation, especially after seeing other culture's ways to treat women. It was a topic that was not as 'hot' as during his first visit in the Victorian era in the 1890s, but the attention was clearly growing.

From Avery's*1 carefully hidden anger Sherlock deduced that the topic was a sore spot. The most likely cause was probably the parent's attitude.

Watson's return interrupted his musings.

The water was almost at the boiling point and Sherlock waited a bit longer, then killed the flame and threw the tea bag into the beaker.

 

An hour later they were on the way to interview the landlord, Mr Thompson. The man and his wife told them the whole story in detail, over a cup of tea Sherlock refused but was served nevertheless. Watson accepted it gratefully.

It turned out Mrs Rowe seemed to have had some kind of breakdown or episode of hysteria over the anniversary of her husband's demise. She had been taken away by the newly established ambulance service after screaming for half the night.*2

The daughter had been there and accompanied her to wherever the carriage had brought her. But they hadn't returned, not even the daughter.

After a month the landlord had still received no message.

In the end, they had to rent the flat to someone else and give away the furniture when even a request at the police brought no news.

The elderly couple seemed still a bit agitated about it all, although it had happened almost six months ago.

They seemed to have liked their tenants and when Watson asked if the mother had suffered from depression or hysteria before, they described she had been melancholic for quite some time and was sometimes a bit odd, but it had never escalated like that before.

A bit to Sherlock's surprise, Watson promised them that they'd search for mother and daughter. The Thompsons expressed their gratefulness and asked them to tell the daughter to contact them.

"What is left of their belongings? Did you keep pictures?" Sherlock probed suddenly, although he internally had already decided it was time to leave.

"Yes, yes. There are pictures. We had to decide which of their personal objects to keep. It was so awful!" Mrs Thompson said with tears in her eyes. "But we couldn't store it all, we already were two months back with the rent, which is our only income."

"Sarah, please!" her husband protested when she revealed this little detail.

"I'll go and get the photo album for you then," he hurried off.

Mrs Thompson smiled at John.

"It really put a dent in our finances that we waited this long. Our Henry would have liked her."

"Henry? Who's Henry," Sherlock pricked his ears.

"Our son. We lost him in the war."

Sherlock's interest immediately flagged and he turned to look at a painting on the wall, a portrait that was at least 100 years old, if the style of the strokes wasn't deliberately made in an old-fashioned way.

"That's my grandfather," the landlady explained.

"Obviously," Sherlock said dryly. The family resemblance was stunning, especially in advanced age.

A moment later slow steps on the stairs could be heard.

Mr Thompson re-entered the room and placed a thin album on the table, which Sherlock quickly opened and browsed through.

"This is the family?" Sherlock pointed at one of the last pictures that seemed to have been taken, because the following page was blank, as were the ones after that.

But another picture was lying loosely face down in between the pages. Sherlock picked it up and turned it.

It was clearly a post mortem photography of Emilia's father.*3 Overall there weren't many pictures, which made it quite clear that the family hadn't had enough money to afford more. There were five of Emilia growing up, a slightly blurred wedding picture of the parents and some of other family members shown in poses that displayed their profession.

"I will take those three," Sherlock picked the family picture and the latest portrait of mother and Emilia and gently removed them from the black carton pages.

"We will inform them that their things are here and ask them to contact you. Good day." Sherlock bent down his head slightly in greeting and headed for the coat rack in the hall. He then slipped into his winter coat.

A bit surprised by the sudden hurry, Watson thanked the couple and followed him before Mrs Thompson had time to politely show them the door.

Outside, Sherlock stopped at the gutter, mulishly staring up into the sky. It was sleeting and muddy, the cobblestones slippery.

He had no luck this time, no cab or any carriage could be seen nearby.

The moment Watson caught up with him Sherlock started to walk towards the nearest bigger street.

His friend knew him too well to talk. He would, as soon as he was sure Sherlock had finished thinking about the facts they had just learned.

Sherlock was sure that his friend also noticed his hunched shoulders and that he was still feeling poorly. But even aware of this, Sherlock failed to relax his muscles an fake being better than before.

Sherlock was glad to be out of the stuffed house. Every corner and free space had been filled with typical Victorian nick-knacks, memorabilia and status symbols of times long past.

He wondered briefly if the green wallpapers were so old they were still dyed with arsenic colours. No one in his right mind - and especially a landlord - should’ve missed the regular news (that had started in the early 1850s) about the risks for several chemical in dyes that were a severe health hazard.*4

Sherlock wasn't claustrophobic but the dark walls with rich floral designs, filled to the brim with cupboards and little shelves, had made it hard for him to breathe – either as a result to physically or mentally feeling cramped.

It had been hard to concentrate on the relevant facts. But in the end he was quite sure their worries were genuine.

It would’ve been easier to just throw out all the Rowe's personal belongings and deny to know anything about the disappearance than keep all the stuff and even get in trouble for not having an income. Mr Thompson had been so ashamed when his wife mentioned it, Sherlock absolutely believed it was true.

Their next stop would be Avery's mother who was supposed to be home according to the son. Avery and his father were at work.

Sherlock had planned it like this on purpose, to interview the women without her husband present.

Somehow his issues to stay focussed seemed even worse than the other days. While the hansom cab moved towards the wealthier parts of town, Sherlock drifted off.

Not back to reality, but to very unpleasant and dark thoughts that were hard to keep at a distance.

One of those were that he found the suspicious and frequent covert glances Watson gave him somehow more alarming than usual. The doctor's expression seemed to have turned from worried to annoyed, maybe even slightly angry.

Because Sherlock was keeping things from him?

Sherlock was aware that he was doing so. His efforts to make his friend forget about what had happened in the bathroom the other day seemed to have worked.

Watson had not addressed nor even hinted at the events and Sherlock was sure he would have if he remembered.

But something seemed to have woken an old anger, caused by the fact that Sherlock hadn't informed him that he was alive after the Moriarty debacle – for years.

Against his will, Sherlock felt his own agitation level rise with the annoyed body language and the rising number of one syllable answers. He had not noticed it at first, but in hindsight, he realised that both factors had gained intensity over the day. He had finally noticed it during interviewing the Thompsons Watson had shown it both within minutes, repeatedly. Of course Sherlock couldn't be sure his friend's gruffness was due to something he had done when he hadn't asked, but it was only logical.

During the cab ride on a normal day he would concentrate on preparing his questions for interviewing Mrs Portmann and run the details through his head to make sure he'd forget nothing, bring it to the forefront of his mind.

But all tries to do so ended in unsorted facts just hovering around in the dark, drifting away when he tried to sort them into a useful arrangement – or any order at all.

He was paying the price for saving John and up to now Watson had been the John he missed.

Real John was emotional, difficult and sad.

Watson incorporated the friend he missed, he suddenly understood.

Now that Watson was showing anger something difficult began to stir.

The realisation caused a flicker of shame.

He was recreating the person he missed instead of facing the real life version and solving the problems.

Once more doubt welled up and he feared that real John would leave as soon as he was starting to recover from his drug escapades. The idea was nagging at him and filled him with fear he wanted to deny.

He felt unusually melancholic and down today, had to kick himself to execute any action – mental as well as physical.

If left alone, he'd probably only sit in a corner and stare into nothingness, overwhelmed with just existing.

He was just so overwhelmingly tired.

 

 


 

 

 

*1 It was uncommon in the Victorian Era when speaking to or about other people to use their first name, if you were not very close to them or past the age of childhood. Since Sherlock is struggling with names in general, he used the names he can remember more easily here. It will play a role in the future so just bear with me, this is not a mistake.

 *2 Wikipedia: 'History of the ambulance'

 *3 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post-mortem_photography

 *4 https://www.ancient-origins.net/history-ancient-traditions/arsenic-poisoning-0010336

 

 

Notes:

A/N:
I left the citations in for a change, in case anyone is interested in background reading.
Is anyone? Or is it hindering the reading?

Chapter 17: Disruption - Part 1

Summary:

Sherlock finds himself in a dire situation

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Sherlock's elongated return to consciousness was accompanied by nausea and a profound headache.

Before he was halfway alert, some automatism kicked in and started a high alert routine, triggered by the discomfort.

The first thing his dazed mind understood was that he was not in his bed.

Then vague memory flashes of hasty movement and pain assaulted him.

From distressed dozing he was thrown into a mental position of attention.

As if on autopilot, his body froze, preventing him from rolling onto his back to be more comfortable.

Something was not right and even though he wasn't thinking clearly it had become an instinct to be careful and observe first. The routine seemed to work without his brain keeping in step with it, which swamped him with bewilderment.

Realisations came in slow; his almost painfully intense heartbeat distracted him additionally.

It was essential to find out what was happening before he even moved.

He was on his side, his head on the ground, his neck bent at a painful angle.

Showing to the outside world that he was awake might prevent him from collecting valuable intel. Because as long as he seemed out his attackers might be not too careful about talking.

It took a lot of concentration to slowly relax again and keep his breathing under control.

His face so close to the ground meant there was another dire problem.

The smell of leather combined with stale urine and other nasty things was hard to endure. The more shallow his breaths the lesser the olfactory assault.

Nevertheless, he had to forcefully hold back a gag and his stomach responded with cramps.

He tried to block out the smells but it didn't really work, which was no surprise, because it never did.

Maybe he drifted off again, or maybe his senses were not working full force. Because it took quite some time until he realised that his hands were wrapped around his waist and he couldn't move them.

Pinioned.

With as little movement as possible, he tried to explore the unnerving touch, move his fingers carefully, turn his wrist a bit.

Fixated somehow.

It felt... different.

The perceived touch was caused neither by conventional ropes nor handcuffs.

That his hands were not exposed to air was the only thing he could sense - except that he couldn't move.

He was unable to feel at which point exactly his arms were fixated.

Had the tangled position cut off his blood supply temporarily so that he was unable to feel things properly?

Information were coming in unnervingly slow and his brain still had issues handling them.

The most intense sensation after the pain in his head was something very irritating pressing into his crotch, he had to fight the impulse to wind himself away from - whatever it was.

He repeatedly had to remind himself to concentrate on finding out what he was lying on.

The same was true for any other action.

It seemed the ground was neither made of concrete nor wooden floorboards.

Oddly firm, but smooth and resilient.

The closest thing it came to was the padding of an examination table.

It took a lot of concentration and time to take stock of the data his transport was providing.

Further down his feet were bare, it added to his discomfort because they were cold and felt wet.

He had to take a break after that, overwhelmed by the discomfort and the struggle to relax.

Several minutes later, he attempted to open up his senses to the general situation.

First, he listened.

Wherever he was, there was no one close by, there was absolute silence.

The relief about this was short-lived, because he realised that this meant John might not be close by either.

For a moment, he considered if it was wise to continue faking unconsciousness. The need to know where his friend was felt urgent and raw.

Therefore, it was an easy decision to carefully scan his surroundings before finally giving away he was awake.

Maybe it would go unnoticed in case someone was watching him.

As slowly as he could, he opened his eyes halfway, hoping to find himself and John incarcerated by some villain he would be able to remember soon.

The room was dimly lit, which was an alleviation. But his eyelids were irritated and swollen, moving them felt like sandpaper on his eyeballs.

The first thing he understood was that John was not there – or at least not in the half of the room that was in his range of vision.

It took almost a minute until he had blinked away the blurriness enough to actually see his surroundings.

However, his mind failed to process what his eyes delivered.

At first glance, the room looked like Moriarty's cell in his mind palace.

Same colours, same padding on the walls.

Why was he here?

Why was Moriarty not here?

Confused, he tried to roll onto his back.

Then, with a jolt of horror, he understood he was wearing a straight jacket.

How had Moriarty overwhelmed him and changed places with him?

Panic blossomed, deposited a heavy weight on his ribcage.

It was a struggle to kick the mind-over-matter-routine into action and remind himself to think!

In order to roll into a supine position without the use of his hands he had to lift his knees and plant his feet on the ground.

The effort made him grunt from the pain the movement caused.

When he was finally lying in a supine position, he was breathing hard.

He carefully turned his head so he could see the other half of the room and there was no one there either.

He was completely alone.

Strange sensations of abandonment and loneliness pressed into him. They were so intense they caused additional nausea that seemed to be located in his chest instead of his stomach.

He closed his eyes to concentrate on forcing the unsettling emotions down, but had to open them again only seconds later when the darkness amplified them.

His breathing escalated involuntarily and he fought for control.

The room swallowed the noise but it was painfully loud in his ears nevertheless.

Lifting his gaze to the ceiling he noticed that he was not chained a wall like Moriarty.

In addition, the cell was a lot bigger than the Moriarty’s.

… and the light panels were absent.

The differences were obvious, really.

He should have discerned that immediately, especially since he had built Moriarty's prison himself.

Also, this cell had a life like touch he had deliberately not added to his mind palace's padded cell: odours.

To get his attention off the annoying bodily perceptions he tried to focus on his surroundings. One section of wall padding had a slightly different shape than all the other rectangular panels. It was slimmer and appeared to be a doorway, equipped with a cushioned loophole at eye level.

But for the moment the hole was closed, all he could see was whatever blocked it.

Which meant no one was watching him - at least not from there.

There might be cameras, though.

His gaze wandered up to the ceiling and the areas above the padding, looking for any surveillance equipment.

The batting went up at least until a height of three metres, which was a bit ridiculous.

No one could jump that high or climb up the flat walls.

Above the padding, directly under the high ceiling, there was a row of small rectangular windows that allowed a bit of light in.

It was no direct light, looked more as if there was another room outside, which had windows to the outside.

He tried to sit up; it turned out to be an ordeal. Unable to use his hands, his bruised muscles had to do all the work. He involuntarily squeezed his eyes shut due to the pain it caused. No matter what, he needed to get his face away from the smells; he feared he might vomit otherwise. Not only would that cause even more pain but it would also worsen the smell.

The action made him acutely aware of the fact that he was still suffering from broken ribs. Memories of being beaten by John resurfaced, because he felt similar to back then.

Pain in his ribcage.

Shaking from the sheer emotional drain the situation caused.

Paralysing fear that he was failing at the only thing that mattered – saving John.

This time it hadn't been a suspect who had tried to escape, it had been his only friend and he didn't want to think about it, it was not the time. He tried to push the memories away.

In fact, his most pressing issue was that he wanted his companion to be present or come to his aid.

It was quite a bit of work until he finally sat upright, the effort left him feeling even worse.

He unconsciously licked his dry lips and the taste that exploded in his mouth made him gag, luckily he got it under control before anything came up.

Carefully, he breathed through his mouth to keep it that way.

Then his hampered intellect finally connected the dots.

It was definitely not Moriarty’s cell.

Neither was it Moriarty who had left him here.

This was real.

Must be real, there was no other logical explanation.

A real padded cell and he had been forced to inhale chloroform he could still taste.

No wonder he was feeling sick.

After several minutes of intense effort, Sherlock finally managed to remember things from the recent past.

He had had a bath at home after hallucinating a fire in his room.

John and Greg had been there.

He hadn't trusted himself to not sneak out and buy drugs.

Had he managed to leave?

Ran into a dealer who had a bone to pick with him?

He must have been overwhelmed by a perpetrator he hadn't seen.

Had John been with him?

Was he in another cell nearby?

He felt uncharacteristically nervous about not knowing where his companion was.

No matter how he had gotten here, his wits were supposed to save the day.

But he was just sitting there, restrained and tottery.

No brilliant ideas or good plans.

Frowning, he just stared at the leather covered brown walls.

The deductions that usually just flooded in and that he then only had to sort into useful categories, didn't come.

There was only crippling exhaustion.

He had to actively seek out more facts from his surroundings.

The inability caused more anxiety to roll in, instead of deductions.

Then, finally, he noticed an odd detail. The leather was relatively new, although the cell looked well used.

He desperately tried to puzzle the meagre facts together.

Who had a padded room in a cellar?

Some kind of fetish?

Some kind of museum that had restored an old sobering-up cell to show people what it was like in past times? Because this was in use, not an abandoned old hospital.

He looked down on his body, the only other object in the room that held information.

Other than the straight jacket, he was wearing some kind of dark blue trousers.

The simple cut was clearly that of nightwear, but more robust than he liked.

Definitely not his own.

He could barely see anything else than his lap and the pant legs, everything else was covered by the straight jacket.

The jacket had a strap running around his crotch, which was more than uncomfortable and would make it difficult to get out of the restraints.

Luckily, the pyjama wasn't made of polyester or any other kind of itchy synthetic fibre.

Concentrating on his legs, he could feel something itchy that was probably a bandage on his lower left leg. When he used his toes to shove the pant leg up, his suspicion was confirmed.

He could not remember how he had been injured and who had patched up the wound.

There was absolutely nothing else in the room. His own clothes were gone, as were his socks and shoes.

No coat.

Nothing he could use as a weapon or to free himself.

Even after staring up at the windows for quite some time, he couldn't spot any outside movement.

He just sat there and listened for a while, but could hear nothing.

Over time – half an hour might have passed since he opened his eyes – he thought he heard distant steps for a few seconds. There might have even been hushed voices, but in the droning silence he couldn't be sure he wasn't imagining them.

.

After some time had passed, he tried to evaluate the situation in a structured manner.

What had he done last?

After his bath, John had sat in his bedroom with him, monitoring him, he remembered.

No matter how much he tried, he couldn't conjure up anything after that.

The possibility that he was in his mind palace remained, which - in theory - he could leave any time.

So he tried. He closed his eyes and concentrated on opening them in 221b.

But when he did open them again, he was still in the padded room.

It had happened before, that he couldn't depart, he was vaguely aware.

What had he done to return to the real world back then?

He imagined the door in detail and reminded himself how his mind palace worked to ease the process.

But it didn't appear.

The walls remained smooth and padded.

No mental doors, not even the hint of one.

Before, he had found it by sweeping the walls, he suddenly remembered.

His first try to stand up ended in an almost-fall when he staggered to his feet. The second did land him on knees. The impact was hard and it added sharp pain from the joints to his list of ailments.

Panting, he just knelt there, trying to control the agony and his mounting frustration.

Too weak to even walk.

Pathetic.

The inability to use his hands would result in serious injuries if he fell full length and he understood that it was the last thing he needed.

Logical conclusion: get out of the jacket first.

A short time later he had to admit that this also was an aim he was unable to reach.

His body was shaking from the strain just to lift his leg or try to reach the buckle that held the crotch strap in place. The lack of leeway made it impossible; the strap was fastened too tight.

Suddenly, the eerie silence was interrupted by a scream in the distance.

Sherlock froze.

Another cry followed only seconds later.

John.

It was hard to say if the desperate scream was that of his companion.

The voice sounded desperate and as if in considerable pain.

Agitation robbed him off the little energy he had left and he involuntarily sank back to sit and recover from the efforts.

When the scream came a third time he was relatively sure it was John.

What were they doing to him?

He needed to get out!

The only thing that happened when he fought the straight jacket was that the pain escalated and his vision started to get distorted by dark spots.

Panting in panic, he crawled over to a corner and leaned himself against the wall.

Being in the open, in the middle of the room, was too unsettling. He couldn't stand it any longer.

He was trapped and unable to get out.

And even worse: John was, too.

Despite or because of his agitation he blacked out.

.

Some indistinguishable time later, he jerked back to awareness.

He was still in the padded cell.

And still alone.

He frowned when he found memories - or dreams? - were floating through his consciousness.

Ghosts of foreign physical touches and actions he had witnessed, but they were only vague pictures.

It was hard to concentrate on them due to his tripping thought processes. He briefly wondered if he had been drugged, additionally to the chloroform that had been used to knock him out.  

He felt somehow disconnected from his self, his thoughts were fragmented at best and he was so very exhausted it rendered him unable to move.

There was nothing else to do so he tried to chase down the odd dreams he had been floating in, clinging to those fleeting impressions.

After some time he worked out what he had done last in his 1867 mind palace session immediately before he had his blackout.

Watson had accompanied him to interview Avery's mother.

The woman had been very hesitant to answer any questions at all, appearing shy and introverted.

Apparently, she was fond of her son's choice of a wife but felt obliged to present her husband's view of things to the outside. The details of the conversation were diffuse and the facts he remembered sparse.

The mind palace session had been uninformative and eventless, so he returned to his current situation.

The most urgent thing was to get out of this cell.

Handling the anxiety for John remained an issue, it was distracting and strong.

Apparently, there were two possibilities: a) for some reason his mind didn't allow him to leave or b) he couldn't because he was really physically in this cell.

It stressed him out, no matter how much he tried to remind himself that all this might just be his imagination.

Did the fact that he had been drugged to be brought here against his will spoke against the imagination theory?

No.

This could be a hallucination.

If it was, it was oddly consistent.

Most of his hallucinations were messy and unpleasant, and didn't make a lot of sense.

Nevertheless, the thought that he might not be in control of something his mind was generating was very unsettling.

The only other time the mind palace had misbehaved like this was when PTSD had destroyed areas of it and left parts of the virtual building in ruins.*

Remembering had taken its toll.

Unaware that his leaden eyelids closed on itself, he drifted off, even though his position was quite uncomfortable.

 

 

 


 

*This refers to my story 'Define Vulnerability'.

Notes:

Additional Bonus: More Art

 

Confined - Sherlock in a Padded Cell by TheCeruleanFeline

 

To see a bigger version, go here:
https://ao3-rd-3.onrender.com/works/16021130/chapters/37389008

Can you guys can tell me if the art in the notes is good or bad to put it there?

Chapter 18: Disruption - Part 2

Summary:

Sherlock finally finds out a bit more about his situation.

Notes:

This is maybe a not as fine-tuned as I try to do normally. I am struggling with an old disk prolapse and I'm in a lot of pain and my fingers are numb. Getting treatment turns out to be harder than expected.
I hope it is not too bad to read. I just can't really type at the moment, it makes things worse. But I didn't want to leave you with that cliffhanger any longer, so I hope you will understand and overlook the mistakes and just be glad I didn't take another week to finalise it.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Some loud and unknown noise made Sherlock jerk back to awareness.

His heart sank when he found he was still in the padded cell and still confined by a straight jacket.

The screeching noise had come from the door, which was now open and a figure stood there, illuminated by a bright background.

Sherlock blinked, trying to see details. The intense light immediately aggravated his headache.

Whoever the person was, his or her posture displayed self-confidence and authority. When the figure came closer, Sherlock's eyes slowly adjusted to the light and he was able to collect information.

A man.

The clothes were in a mute dark colour and looked like a mixture of a suit and some kind of uniform, he noticed first.

Then his gaze wandered up to the face and it became immediately clear the man was home in the Victorian era.

His hairstyle, the suit and the large key ring on his belt made Sherlock realise he was definitely not incarcerated in a 2016 villain's den.

Which meant he was still in his mind palace, probably in 1867.

This was an institution of some kind, most likely a hospital or a prison.

Slightly dismayed by this turn of events, he tried to figure out what that meant, waited for the pieces to fall into place. This information was supposed to set something in motion, unveil things he should know.

Dumbfounded, he waited for it to happen, but it didn't.

The man came closer and he instinctively moved out of the corner to have an escape route.

When he moved, the man stopped and looked at him with intense scrutiny.

Some long seconds later, Sherlock actively started a deduction process when nothing happened.

This had not been in the files, not even the slightest hint that had – even remotely – anything to do with an institution.

A bit dazed, he tried to search his memories for what had happened last in this setting. He must have overlooked something important.

"Mr Greenberg, if you continue to misbehave it will only cause you to stay in here longer," someone spoke.

He must have closed his eyes because he had to open them to see. He looked around for the addressed person, but they were alone, except for a large muscular man who was waiting outside the door, and who was obviously not the one that had been spoken to.

That only left him.

Good.

Case of mistaken identity then, problem solved.

"My name is Holmes," he stated, his voice hoarse from disuse. "This is a misunderstanding," he continued after he had cleared his throat.

The middle-aged man sternly looked down at him.

"Also, I am not misbehaving," Sherlock added, carefully.

The man looked as if he thought otherwise, "Ignoring me is quite rude, don't you think?"

"Why am I here?" Sherlock asked.

"You were hurt, Mr Greenberg. And others were, too."

"My name is Holmes."

"The blow to your head must be affecting your memories. If you attack me or anyone else you will be chained to a wall. If you stay calm for a few hours, you can return to your room in the evening."

"My room?"

"Yes, we have a spare single room for you. Quite a luxury these days. You seem to have a good friend who is paying for it."

"John?... Where is he?"

"Who?"

"My friend."

"The lean dark-haired man who paid for your treatment?"

Sherlock wondered who he meant, it was obviously not John. Nor Lestrade or Mycroft.

"No. Dr Watson… he is my friend - and my doctor."

"There is no Dr Watson noted in your files," the attendant informed him.

Sherlock lost the connection to reality for a moment, when he tried to find out what exactly was happening here and how to convince the man of his real identity. This was surreal and not making any sense.

In addition, he was not even asking the right questions. It had kind of escaped him.

Where he was should have been his first query.

"Mr Greenberg, can you hear me?" the attendant was touching his shoulder and he hissed in disgust. Trying to get away from the touch instinctively, he made a hasty movement which caused the other man to make a step back.

When Sherlock's and the attendant's gazes met his was still confused and the other man's was alarmed. He was clearly ready to defend himself.

Was he in a prison?

No, the man had said treatment.

Hospital, then.

"Do not hiss at me, or you will stay in here even longer!"

Sherlock deliberately lowered his gaze and relaxed his body, sinking lower down, hoping it would suffice as kind of a peace offer.

If he really was in a Victorian era institution any kind of protest might get him into real trouble. They were probably not handling patients as careful as in modern settings. Sherlock had lived through a lot of bad experiences in hospitals and rehab. Those had taught him how bad things could get when one didn't follow the rules in modern times. He didn't doubt that in this setting there were far worse things that could happen – and a lot more strict rules to follow.

Sherlock started to fear what might be behind the bright light in the door.

The nurse seemed to get annoyed by the lack of reaction he was getting.

What was he expecting?

Sherlock was trying to get onto his knees, it was difficult without the use of his hands.

"Please remove the straight jacket."

"No. Dr Winter ordered it stays on until this evening."

"What time is it? How long have I been here?"

"Several days, according to our files. But you were transferred to my ward yesterday."

"What! Days?" Sherlock was getting louder, his irritation and discomfort rising. "Where am I?" he finally asked.

"West Surrey Hospital."1

Trying to process this, he closed his eyes, sinking back to sit on his calves. He had no recollection of having heard about any hospital with that name. It certainly was not in the files.

It was humiliating to be unable to get up and stand in front of the other man. The attendant looked down on him, his gaze clearly broadcasting he didn't like to be addressed in a tone like that.

"I want to see my doctor," Sherlock said carefully.

"He will see you when he has time."

"When will that be?"

"When he has time."

"I want to see him now," Sherlock urged in a low voice.

Out of reflex, he tried to stand up, get his feet under him, but the moment he put weight on his left leg, he suddenly felt a sharp pain and vertigo hit him hard. He almost fell over sideways. Out of reflex, he tried to lift his arms but couldn't.

Luckily, the other man – who was carefully observing him – reached out to steady him. His grip was firm and his expression hard. The sudden pain the movement and the touch caused made Sherlock grunt.

Without a word, the man lowered him to the ground and the intrusion of his personal space in a vulnerable situation like this made him clench his teeth. The foreign touch and closeness were too much, his body reacted with an alarming amount of alerts. Rising respiratory rate and pulse.

"Your leg is hurt and you have a concussion. Stay calm and rest. Someone will come back later and bring you to your room."

The words were spoken with a finality that made it clear any kind of objections would be no use.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Sherlock saw the men leave and the door closed.

Sherlock crawled back into the corner to sit more comfortable. He needed to think.

Find a way out.

Prepare how to reason, to convince them to re-check his identity.

They needed to contact Watson, call him in to confirm it.

 

Exhaustion must have pulled him back to sleep because the second time someone turned the key in the lock, the rude awakening repeated.

He was getting sick of this.

Two male attendants and a bulky man entered the room.

This couldn't mean anything good. Their postures were tense and they looked as if they meant business.

Once more, he tried to get himself out of his own mental creation, but it was futile.

"Mr Greenberg can you hear me?" one of the men asked sternly.

"Yes," Sherlock answered plainly.

"My name is Hughes. I am the head attendant responsible for you. Do you understand?"

This time Sherlock nodded.

"We are here to remove the straight waistcoat. If you behave well we will then escort you to your room for the night. We expect you to eat, prepare for the night, then calmly go to bed and sleep."

Sherlock stared at him in disgust. The man's speech was slow as if he was talking to an imbecile and the tone as if Sherlock was a small child.

"Do you understand?" Hughes repeated when Sherlock didn't react, speechless and overtaxed by the behaviour.

His gaze flickered through the room and he tried to find any kind of escape route.

"Mr Greenberg?"

"Of course I understand," he finally managed, holding back an unnerved comment because he feared the other man wouldn't take it kindly.

Sherlock was well aware that he needed to get out of the padded room to learn more about his situation. Finding out why he couldn't leave his self-made alternate reality had only second priority.

The head attendant waited in front of him while one of the other men walked around him in a wide circle and started to unfasten the buckles that kept his arms behind his back.

"Don't make any sudden movements," the bulky man warned him.

Why were they giving him the mass-murderer-in-a-high-security-prison treatment?

Then he suddenly remembered that the man who had visited him first had uttered that Sherlock and others had been hurt.

Did they think he had done that? Was that why he was here?

The idea unsettled him. He had no recollections of that, but felt that he had been attacked.

For some reason, there was a feeling of a intense… unease/guilt?

He struggled to place the foreign feeling. Nevertheless, he was quite sure he wouldn't attack anybody without being assaulted first.

So maybe it wasn't even guilt he sensed?

He was still not good at identifying his own sentiment and when his logical mind failed to provide a reason or he had never felt that before. It might be as well a queasy stomach or some kind of hunger. Additionally, withdrawal was playing havoc on his feelings, the same things felt different or good things felt bad, soothing things unsettling.

How had this happened?

"I want to speak to my physician, Dr Watson," he demanded again, in a tone he hoped sounded firm but polite.

"You don't have a friend with that name. Your friend promised to visit you in the upcoming days. You have to be patient until then," Hughes announced.

"How do you know who my friends are?"

"Your real friend left us with a list of names of persons close to you."

"And you have memorized them?"

"Wasn't that hard. There were only two names and I just read them a few minutes ago," the head attendant informed him.

"Then I need to send a telegram."

"This is not a hotel," the man answered, a bit gruffly.

The man behind him had finally managed to open all the buckles on the jacket and allowed him to slip out of it. His hands fell towards the ground, heavy and stiff.

Sighing, he rolled his shoulders and straightened his elbow joints that had been in the same position for hours.

The clothes he wore underneath turned out to be a worn hospital issued pyjama made of pure cotton. At least that wasn't as uncomfortable as modern synthetic hospital gowns, though the smell was difficult to handle.

His senses were still acting up and it wasn't making things easier.

With a shiver, he realized that this meant they had undressed him.

No, they hadn't - he was in his mind palace. Everything he didn't remember did not happen!

Nevertheless, he desperately tried to remember how he had arrived here but there weren't even any fragments of memories about that. The same thoughts and attempts circling in his head again and again, it was unnerving.

Why was he unable to organise them?

Part of the answer was clear: withdrawal.

Then suddenly a question occurred to him: why was he struggling so much harder with executive function than usual?

Although he had noticed he was struggling he hadn't seen the connection to this special kind of difficulties. He got stuck so often he rarely completed any thoughts lately. Caught in the same loop over and over again.

His mind was a mess.

"Your shoes are outside, follow the head attendant," the man behind him ordered and yanked him back to reality.

Hughes moved towards the brightly lit door and Sherlock did as told, somehow hoping this might be his way back to the real world.

But he was disappointed.

When he leaned forward to look through the door, he was blinded by the dazzling light. For some reason he hesitated to leave the padded floor. The world outside seemed suddenly even more dangerous. It was absurd and in contradiction to what he so direly needed – to leave that dreadful room.

Through narrowed eyes, he tried to catalogue his surroundings.

He was in a long hallway that was equipped by an equally long row of large windows.

It took a moment until his eyes adjusted and when they did, he saw that it was not bright at all. Quite the opposite. It was raining and dusk had begun. Outside, a park or something could be seen, covered in a few last bits of snow and a lot of mud. He was probably on the second or third floor. The grounds seemed to be quite large, as were the buildings.

Still blinking, he was shown a pair of used slippers waiting next to the door. Sherlock wondered if they had been cleaned after the last patient had used them. The thought of having them on his feet disgusted him and shook his head. It was probably more hygienic to walk bare feet.

The bulky man seemed to think about forcing him but then shook his head and gestured him to follow.

Sherlock did. The moment he stepped over the threshold and his sole hit the cold marble floor he changed his mind. Because a) cold feet were very uncomfortable and b) he was sure they wouldn't provide him with another pair if he left this one behind. So he slipped into them, wondering where his socks had gone.

 

His room was as sparse and unwelcoming as a prison cell, not the kind of room a person needed to recuperate.

Bare whitewashed walls, an over used hair mattress on a heavy wooden bed. There was neither a lamp on the nightstand nor on the ceiling.

Apparently, no one had bothered to bring any of his personal items. One more reason Sherlock was sure he was not brought or sent here by Watson.

"Where are my clothes?" he asked.

He must have worn something.

"In store, together will all the belongings you had with you upon arrival. You won't need them here. You might be allowed to have a favourite item in a few weeks, if you proof yourself to be trustworthy."

"Weeks?" Sherlock echoed, a bit panicked by all the circumstances. This had more similarities with a prison than with a hospital.

"Surely my wound won't need weeks to heal," he stated. He needed to check his leg the moment he was alone.

"We'll see," Hughes said dismissively.

"How did I get here?" he tried to get more information.

"Your doctor admitted you."

"Who? When?"

"Don't make a fool of yourself. The whole process can't have escaped you."

"I remember nothing, that is why I am asking," Sherlock replied and saw the two attendants exchange grim looks.

There was something they weren't telling him.

Amnesia? Caused by trauma?

The back of his head hurt fiercely, so there was a chance. But amnesia was overall a quite rare consequence of a blow to the head.

Then the older man stepped over to the window, closed the strong wooden shutters that covered it. It became suddenly a lot darker in the room, the only light shining in from the open door and the corridor.

"We were informed you pretend to not remember anything that doesn't fit into your delusions. So you either remember by yourself or you live without the facts. Decision is yours," the man informed him while he secured the window.

Sherlock stiffened, shocked by the comment.

Then suddenly all the odd pieces fell into place.

This wasn't a normal hospital.

It was an insane asylum.

He fought for breath.

The revelation felt like a kick to the stomach.

A wave of dizziness and nausea engulfed him.

Too shocked to interact or ask anything else, he just stood there, staring into nothingness.

He didn't hear what they said to him.

He didn't notice when they left.

He didn't move, just stood there frozen in place in the middle of the room, shivering and lost.

There was no logical reason why this was happening. He couldn't grasp it, was trapped in asking himself why and how.

There must a reason.

He needed to find it to get out.

But all he found were dead ends.

Lost.

He was lost in his own mind.

 

 

 


 

 

1 Don't bother to look that up. After doing a lot of research which asylum was where, what it looked like, when it was opened and closed, which treatments they did at the time of my story and many more aspects, I decided to use a fictional one.

The main reason for that is that some are still in use today and I didn't want to use those for reasons of respect for patients and staff.

For this story the location needed to be near London and the hospital needed to be a large institution, additionally I needed one that was already in full working condition in 1867. Those specifics narrowed down the number to Zero, so I invented one, which I thought was better than bending actual facts too much to make them fit.

 

 

Notes:

Sorry again for the mistakes, hope you liked it nevertheless.

Chapter 19: Disruption - Part 3

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Sherlock was rudely pulled out of sleep and with adrenaline pumping he tried to sit up. The pain in various parts of his body made him gasp.

He found himself in a semi dark room, not knowing where he was for a moment.

When the panic settled and the awareness of where he was came back, he closed his eyes in disbelief.

Still in this institution.

Outside his door, someone was walking down the corridors with a stick bell and another person seemed to follow and unlock doors.

Sherlock had no idea what time it was, but it was still dark outside. His usually very accurate internal clock had seized functioning the moment he had started to take massive amounts of drugs again a few weeks ago. He knew it would happen, it always happened. And it would take some time until it would return to working reliably.

Logic dictated though, that it was somewhere between five and eight in the morning.

He was utterly cold and remembered he had weird dreams of sleeping outside while hunting down Moriarty's web. The dreams had been an unsettling mixture of events that hadn't happened with snippets of true memories.

Although he was slightly shaking from the chills, he was glad to be awake now. His current situation was still better than the vivid nightmares.

He wrapped the blanket tightly around his shoulders, crossed his legs and leaned against the wall.

The fact that he didn't have a lamp was getting more and more annoying. The light shining in from the corridor was enough to manoeuvre through the room but that was it. Not that he had anything particular to do, but if he had it would most likely fail due to the dim light. The reason was probably that suicidal patient's rooms couldn't be illuminated with an open flame. Nevertheless, it was very inconvenient to rely on daylight.

Someone unlocked his door but left it closed; Sherlock couldn't muster the energy to get up and peek into the hall.

De facto, he wanted the world to stay outside. Wanted them to leave him alone. He had no eagerness left to find out what was out there.

"After you completed your morning routine, Miller will bring you down to the dining hall," a booming voice interrupted his thoughts.

A slightly overweight man with a soft face was standing in the now open doorway. He too was wearing a large key ring on his belt.

On one hand, he wanted to be left alone, on the other he needed to find out if Watson was here, too.

Learning about his situation was paramount, he reminded himself.

Contact to other inmates would probably be more helpful than asking an employee.

After a short silence - which the man waited through patiently - he tried to react.

"Thank you."

"Alright. Miller will be here in a minute and show you the facilities."

Sherlock had hoped he'd be allowed to go there himself.

"I don't mean to be demanding, but since I have no clothes, are there any dressing gowns or robes I could borrow? I am really cold," he said in his best imitation of a gentleman in an unfavourable situation.

The man frowned, "You should have arrived with your hospital wardrobe. It was given to you upon arrival - a week ago." He looked though the empty room as if looking for it. "I see. Let me see what I can do."

The man vanished again and Sherlock frowned.

A week ago?

A week he completely failed to remember?

Yesterday, the other man - Hughes - had said something about he had arrived at the ward only a short time ago, hadn't he?

There seemed to be a lot of staff in the asylum but none of them was wearing nametags.

A bit later nurse Miller appeared with a bathrobe, something that appeared to be a toilet bag, and a lavatory table on wheels. He was a young lad and the enthusiasm of youth was conspicuous.

Sherlock was not too enthusiastic to get clean though when he found that the water was cold a few minutes later.

"I expect you to wash," Miller told him when he sheepishly stood there and stared at the basin in front of him.

"I know. I am just not a fan of cold water," he tried to say lightly.

"It is supposed to wake you up."

"I am not sure I want to be more awake than I already am," Sherlock said in a pleasant tone.

Miller smiled carefully.

He dipped both palms into the water one after the other and then rubbed his face with the wetness that clung to his palms.

The other man raised his eyebrows, then held out a face cloth, which made Sherlock realise he had to get out of the shirt to wash his upper body. He wanted to because his own smell annoyed him, but on the other hand, it was way too cold.

He steeled himself for the discomfort and unbuttoned the shirt.

When he was done, Miller offered a shaving kit.

"You want to shave?"

Sherlock brushed his hand over his chin. The stubble was minimal. Which meant he had shaven within the last sixteen hours.

The memory of washing his hair and shaving in the tub, assisted by John, came to the forefront of his mind.

How long ago had that happened?

If he was in his mind palace, that could be from an hour to months ago. The mind palace changed reception of time.

"No. I like this kind of stubble when I'm on vacation," he tried to joke, but his expression must have broadcasting his frustration. Miller had clearly seen it because of his understanding smile. He accepted Sherlock's wish, took the towel back and brought the basin back to the lavatory cart waiting outside.

"Get dressed, evacuation is next," he declared and handed him a heap of day clothes he had also brought.

It turned out that meant a visit to the loo.

Getting there was informative.

The building seemed even bigger than yesterday and they passed twenty-four more rooms that were like his. Apparently, they were all inhibited, some even by two people.

At the end of the hall, there were twelve double doors, all wide open.

He and Miller were walking rather slowly. Besides that, he hurt all over, every step caused quite a bit of pain on his lower left leg. He was shocked to find he still hadn't taken a look at the wound.

He had forgotten. And now he was busy trying to take it all in - as accurate as possible.

When they passed the first large open door, the sight of the rooms behind them horrified him.

The large dormitory was lit by a fair amount of gas-fuelled lamps high on the walls, but that was the only luxury. The room was filled with so many beds there was barely room to walk in between.

Inside, people were in the process of getting up, some sitting on their beds. The distance between them was only an arm's reach. Total strangers sharing the space of his entire bed at 221b, the only thing separating them a two-inch gap between the mattresses.

There were over one hundred beds in the room that looked as if designed as an open ward for about thirty to thirty-five beds. It was so overcrowded there was not even space for personal things. It seemed some kept them under their beds, which made the dorm look even more cluttered.

The second room they passed was equally full, but here three nurses helped people wash and brush their teeth. Some seemed to be severely mentally impaired, others completely passive, just enduring the procedure. Sherlock was sure he spotted at least two people who were sitting in their beds trying to comfort themselves by rocking.

He was painfully aware he had done that as a child, and it had been hard to break himself of the habit. Later, he had found other ways to stim, ways that weren't that obvious. Though John had made him aware that he sometimes still did it when he believed he was alone. Although Sherlock hoped John was not aware it was in fact stimming what he was doing.

He decided to keep his stimming as hidden as possible as long as he was here. It had happened now and then during withdrawal when it all got too much.

Just a few days ago, he had banged his head against a wall. Something like that he should avoid at all costs while here.

Whoever had checked him in here, had paid for the private room, for which he was grateful.

In one of the dormitory rooms he'd really get insane within forty-eight hours or less. The physical closeness was unbearable.

After he had used the facilities they didn't head back to his room, instead, Miller told him they were heading to the dining hall.

After a few more metres, Sherlock finally understood the real reason why he was going so slow and trying to check every face he saw.

He was unconsciously looking for John.

His friend must be somewhere in here, too. However, in such a large complex they could probably stay for years without ever meeting each other.

The hallways seemed to stretch for kilometres. One could see down them for a very long distance. This building was designed to house many people, and obviously it was nevertheless overcrowded.

Was his friend in a similar situation he was in, just in another ward?

He tried to hide his curious gazes from Miller, started to ask for details about the institution after a few more metres.

"We grow our own vegetables on the grounds," Miller explained. "In a few days, you'll have the chance to do some productive things that will speed up your recovery, it is part of the treatment plan. Feeling useful and involved is good, as is the fresh air."

Sherlock wisely kept his mouth shut about what he thought about the 'treatment' a patient would receive in this era. Since he also thought very little of what a patient of a modern facility received, it could only be worse. His memories of his first rehab were bad. So bad, he went through the second detox one on his own.

Then the thought occurred that he might suffer through more issues than the treatment they'd inflict on him, just because he was on his own.

No Watson.

No John.

No way out.

There was little chance he'd receive any help with his real issues here - detox.

His breathing must have sped up because the nurse was suddenly in front of him, blocking his way.

"We will return to your room so you can rest until I pick you up to bring you down to the dining hall."

When he didn't react, Miller asked, "What is the matter?"

"I just…" Miller was a figment of his imagination, but he hesitated to tell him the truth nevertheless. "I have trouble breathing sometimes," he offered. It was not a lie.

"I can see that," the other man deadpanned.

"And spells of joint pains," he added.

"That is not in your file."

"Doesn't surprise me," Sherlock grunted, out of breath. "Only my doctor knows about it. Maybe I can contact him later and ask him to send additional files," Sherlock probed gently.

"That is not the regular procedure. All your files should be here already," Miller frowned.

"The building is huge. How many patient's are here?" Sherlock tried to change topics once more.

"Many," Miller evaded the question.

A moment later Sherlock had to lean against the wall, dizziness and another wave of chills making it hard to walk.

"You need to get back to your bed."

"NO!" Sherlock protested, although every nerve in his body seemed to scream for rest. But the thought of being locked in the dark room was horrifying him.

"Don't get loud. If you get angry they'll put you back in the quiet room," Miller warned.

"I won't," Sherlock said feebly, though for his taste he overacted a bit. "But I really need some company. I feel so lonely and... I just really need some company," he lied.

The real reason he wanted to be in a room full of patients was that he wanted to check every one of them to see if Watson was here, too.

Miller gave him a moment to catch his breath and a few minutes later they continued their way down the hall.

People dressed in bathrobes passed, who seemed to be on their way to public lavatories, carrying toilet supplies and towels.

They had to walk down two flights of stairs and then down another hallway until Sherlock heard the typical ambient noise of a refectory.

The smell hit him like a wall a few moments later. It was unnerving, but finding Watson had priority.

The moment they entered the room the stench intensified and the nausea returned.

Breathing carefully, he let his gaze run over the people in the room. It must be at least 130 men in here - only men. Most of them already seated on benches and long rows of tables.

Sherlock started to check their faces one by one. After a few seconds, he was interrupted by Miller, who gently nudged him to make him go in.

The sudden loud noises and the bustle increased the dizziness again. He had mixed feelings if he wanted to go in or not.

"Go on, you need to have a decent breakfast after the last night."

"I am not sure I can eat."

Miller pointed at a free place on the end of a bench where the room was less busy.

"You better try. You won't like what happens if you don't eat."

With an unpleasant churn in his stomach, Sherlock remembered how force feeding was done in this era. Miller was probably right, he didn't want to try it.

The nurse slowly guided him to the bench and he sat down. The sight of all those people made him feel even more damaged than he already did. With his worn out closes and unhealthy complexion, he probably looked like all the other seedy looking guises around him. Many of them looked as if this was their permanent living place. All of them were wearing hospital issued clothes, though here and there Sherlock spotted a scarf or a hat that obviously weren't.

Nevertheless, the entire situation had more similarities with a prison than with a hospital.

Almost nobody seemed well groomed. Of course, people in hospitals usually looked dishevelled and sick, but this was different.

The tone of the voices was overall depressed and low, there wasn't even a bit of laughter or enthusiastic conversation.

This was a dull place, stuffed with suffering people who were slowly losing their hope to get better or return to their homes… or had already lost it. Asylums in this era were housing all those who couldn't live on their own, whose families couldn't take care of them, even those who were old and had typical issues like dementia, and also those who suffered severe problems.  People with all sorts of problems were just stored away in institutions like this; even the 1845 lunacy act had not changed that.

Miller tore him out of his thoughts, "Breakfast time is from 7 to 8. You'll be accompanied here for the first few days, then go down with the others from our ward. Sit down, and stay seated until I come to pick you up again after the meal." Miller waited for his affirmative nod and then left.

This gave him time to continue the scan of the room. When he had checked the last row of benches, without spotting his friend, he restarted at the door.

Sherlock wondered if he had just missed to spot Watson. Outer appearances could be altered fast, he reminded himself. If Watson's moustache was shaved off and he was dressed in the same rags he was, it would be much harder to recognise him, especially with Sherlock's constantly hazy eyesight.  

The detective noted that several people looked as if they had recently been given a head shave, probably to prevent a lice epidemic.

Would he recognise John without hair?

He tried to imagine him bald... and failed.

By the time it was almost seven - a large clock on the wall told him the time - most seats where occupied. To his dismay, Sherlock realised that so was the one next to him. By then, he was also sure John was not in the room. But he continued to watch the door anxiously, hoping against hope the doctor would just walk in.

The only familiar face that did walk in was Hughes, the head attendant he had met yesterday. The man immediately started to do rounds of the large hall and talked to people here and there. Other attendants could be spotted to do the same, probably making sure things went smoothly.

To his dismay, Sherlock realised they waited until everyone was seated and ready before beginning. The first step was that grace was spoken. The second that some kind of servers started to use wagons to serve the food.  

Sherlock's nervous energy and the waiting made him fidgety and he started to feel slightly sick again. Without being aware of it, his toes where tapping the ground and his fingertips stroking the white tablecloth. Waiting until someone placed the food in front of him was so very inefficient and time wasting he struggled with the concept.

When finally a plate was set before him, it contained four slices of whole wheat bread already coated with butter. After staring at it for a while, he got was nudged by the man who sat beside him.

"Better eat, my friend."

Right, consequences for not eating: bad.

He inspected the bread carefully. The bread looked fresh and smelled eatable, as did the butter. But he didn't have the least desire to try it; still he took a careful bite. At least it didn't taste horrible.

The tea however smelled odd and looked very thin.

No sugar, no milk. It was also not hot enough, probably because it took so long to serve it.

Would they do the same with warm meals? He would make sure to sit in the front if they did.

Overall, it was a paltry breakfast, but at least not adulterated. 

"I had hoped to see a friend who was brought here earlier," Sherlock addressed the man beside him.

"What is his name?" the man asked with a Scottish accent.

Sherlock hesitated. Answering 'John Watson' would not help him, he was known here as Greenbaum apparently.

"John," he then said.

The man laughed, "There are probably a few dozen people with the name in here."

Sherlock tried to describe John but the man said he didn't know anyone fitting that description.

The meal ended and Nurse Miller showed up immediately. He brought Sherlock back to his room.

Sherlock realised that he wouldn't have found his way back it on his own, on the way down he had focussed so much on looking for John, he had completely missed to memorise the way. His lacking mental abilities unsettled him and he ran up and down his no longer dark room for half an hour, trying to figure out what was happening.

The fact that his brain was no longer filing every input for him to just recall when he needed it irked him profoundly. There were just snapshots of blurred situations and persons, nothing that was useful.

He had barely been alone for five minutes when Miller returned and explained he was not cleared to take part in work or occupation, which was not just a way of spending the time but a vital part of his treatment.

Miller also told him that once he was fully healed he was expected to contribute to the daily workload and asked him what he would like to do.

The question left Sherlock a bit overwhelmed and unexpected. He was neither happy about working in a kitchen nor as a cleaner, or in the laundry. Not because he was flinching from doing manual labour but because the boredom it would come with would do more harm than good.

"I am a chemist. My experience in manual labour is small," he tried to avoid answering.

"Don't worry. Most work performed by patients is unskilled. It is important labour but doesn't require a lot of talent. Inactivity is a disagreeable habit. But for now, you need a bit of exercise and therefore you will be taken to a tour of the hospitals and the airing courts. Come with me."

Miller brought him to a small group waiting outside one of the larger dormitories and introduced him to another attendant. The man's name was Bennett and he seemed a lot stricter than the younger Miller.

What then followed was kind of an introduction to asylum life for novices.

The small group walked through parts of the buildings, was shown treatment rooms, dayrooms, recreational facilities and in the end they had a stroll through an enclosed airing court. It was not as bad as the one of a modern prison but made Sherlock feel incarcerated. They were explained it was the safer means to enjoy the outside, but once they had proven to be trustworthy they might be allowed to go taking the air around the estate, accompanied by an attendant of course.

Everything Sherlock had seen by then made it quite clear this place was designed to keep people inside, even creative people. There was probably a way out but it would take time to work it out, a lot of time. The insight left him discouraged and tired.

At 12:30, the group was back in the dining hall and dinner was served. The routine didn't differ much from the one presented at breakfast. Just that this time his enamel tin plate was filled with unpeeled potatoes, a bit of cooked meat and cabbage.

To his frustration, his cutlery consisted of a table knife and a spoon – no fork. He assumed it was for security reasons, as so many other things he had seen during the morning. Overall, it was not that different from a modern day closed ward.

Once again, Miller picked him up after the meal and brought him back up to his ward, where he was introduced to the many pleasant activities a patient could enjoy in the dayroom. Sherlock was not that there was anything in this entire institution he would find enjoyable.

The dayroom featured newspapers, periodicals, books, board games, and a lot of comfortable furniture. There were only three other patients in the room, accompanied by another carer. Miller told him he was now under that person's supervision and could address him if he had any questions, otherwise he would be picked up again in time for supper. Before Miller left, he also informed Sherlock that he was not supposed to leave the new attendant's sight.  

Suddenly, he was left relatively alone and found himself quite dazed. He briefly wondered if the food had been tempered with, laced with something to keep the patient's pliant.

He hurried over to a large armchair. There were three of them, grouped around a fire stove, it was the centre of the room and surrounded by a wooden mantelpiece.

Happy to sit somewhere soft and warm, Sherlock tried to collect his thoughts. The past hours had been debilitating. The walking left him beaten, his stamina seemed to have completely abandoned him since he had been in Culverton's hospital.

Without wanting to, he drifted off immediately.

 

 

Notes:

All facts about daily routine and all the tiny details about asylums mentioned in this chapter were carefully researched, none was made up. I read three books about Victorian asylums and most information is from 'Life in the Victorian Asylum: The World of Nineteenth Century Mental Health Care'.

Chapter 20: Day 6 (2016)

Summary:

John is woken by an alarmed Mrs Hudson.

Chapter Text

 

 

"John?"

A knock on his door.

"Yeah?" John blinked, woken by a familiar voice calling his name.

The door opened a bit and Mrs Hudson peeked into his bedroom.

"I can't rouse our patient," she said in a low voice.

Greg had stayed with Sherlock through the night and the landlady had taken over as planned in the morning, giving Greg the chance to go home and sleep before work.

"What?" John asked still half asleep.

"I tried to rouse him. To make him take his meds and drink a bit. But I couldn't wake him. I thought he needed the rest, or maybe he just ignored me, so I let him sleep. Now... I still can't wake him."

"When was that?"

"Two hours ago."

It was almost nine o'clock.

Without conscious thought, John climbed out of his bed and put on his sweat pants and a jumper before he followed her to Sherlock's room. He had done too many night shifts to need to be really awake for that.

"Oh dear, look at him. He's such a mess," Mrs Hudson lamented when they reached the downstairs bedroom. "What does it mean?"

"What does what mean?" John asked stupidly.

Gee, he was tired.

"That he won't wake, John!" she stated.

"I don't know," the doctor stated and swiftly took Sherlock's temperature and checked his pulse. Both seemed perfectly normal considering what he was going through.

"Oh, dear," she sat on the bed next to Sherlock's tightly curled up body while John tried his best to rouse his friend.

But Sherlock remained unresponsive, even when John shook his shoulder harder.

"Is this bad?" the landlady asked, poking Sherlock's leg repeatedly as if to produce an unnerved reaction.

"Could be harmless, could be dangerous, and anything in between. For the moment, I'll examine him in every way I can. If he seems well, we'll wait another hour before taking action. In the meantime I'll call the withdrawal specialist Mycroft has on call to consult with him - as a precaution."

As John struggled to roll his friend onto his back, the landlady stepped in and helped. They carefully moved him into a supine position and stretched out his limbs, so the doctor could wrap a blood pressure cuff around Sherlock's arm.  

The battery operated sphygmomanometer inflated and a few moments later, it light up and showed the results in green bright letters. They seemed even brighter due to the semi dark room.

Sherlock's BP was a bit higher than the doctor liked, but not alarmingly so.

After that, John went to the kitchen to get the bulky medical bag.

"So, what now?" she asked when he returned.

"Well, right now I plan to insert an IV and see if that wakes him up," John told the landlady.

She looked a bit scandalised, which made John frown.

"You think pain will bring him out of it? Might make him go deeper, especially if it is inflicted by you."

John froze momentarily and stared at her. The directness and the slight accusation hitting him hard. She was a bit crisp with him these days, and he was very aware that he deserved it.

"I am not... This is not about hurting him. Patients do sometimes wake up or respond when you poke them. He needs liquids… We can't risk him falling into a coma due to dehydration," he explained, heaving the heavy bag onto the armchair they used when they sat with Sherlock during the nights.

"Right. I am worried, too. He is so thin!" she said in a much more understanding voice.

"I don't like hurting him as much as you do, but he has barely eaten anything in the past days. Although I expected his appetite to increase during this stage of withdrawal. It is the normal thing to happen."

"Of course dear, you are right. If he needs it, this is probably the only way at the moment."

As John opened the curtains and switched on all the lamps in the room to see better,

Mrs Hudson left and started busying herself in the kitchen.

The bright light revealed fine lines of pain on his friend's face. Sherlock looked a bit cachectic as well as older, the wrinkles in his face were more visible due to the lack of fluids.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John leaned over him and tried to rouse him once more.

The doctor waited and paid close attention to spot any movement that might indicate Sherlock was just asleep or faking it.

Usually, it was not easy to distinguish between the mind palace and sleep, except when Sherlock was using the memory technique actively, moving his body to navigate the mental environment. But John had learned it over time that it wasn't necessary.

Most of the time, while in the mind palace Sherlock's body remained in position and kept up a certain degree of muscle tension.

Like someone deep in meditation.

The breathing slowed down to a regular but constant rhythm. Eye movement under the closed lids happened, but usually looked different from the one during REM sleep, which John would describe as jerkier and faster.

For some reason this distinction not that clear when drugs were involved.

Now the eye movement was there, but it was kind of lethargic and hesitating. Sherlock's features were not as relaxed as they would be in sleep, but his breathing sounded as if he was.

The only thing that was obvious was that he was in pain.

Overall John wouldn't describe Sherlock as a happy drunk. From all that John had witnessed in the past, what Sherlock experienced during a high seemed not to give him a good time. And he knew that wasn't why Sherlock turned to drugs.

The detective did it to mute his restless thoughts, or to enhance his already ridiculously fast thinking, to channel his focus, improve creativity. But it also made him unconfident and vulnerable, which he tried to overplay with over-confidence that made it even worse.  

When high, Sherlock also tried to make jokes that didn't really work, which was probably related to his social insecurities that surfaced.

Another interesting thing was that he uttered his abstract, unfiltered feelings and bared more of his inner core. But he always seemed jittery and unsettled under the influence.

A few days ago, Mrs Hudson had told him details about Sherlock's habit that made it very clear that although it overlayed his mental and physical agony with euphoria, he suffered. Her depictions had made him wonder if it was more about self-injuring than anything else.

"Hey mate, I know you are in pain. It is time for another dose of painkiller. I'd like you to take it…. Sherlock… Come on, wake up."

The detective's unresponsiveness started to unnerve him.

Maybe Sherlock was just so annoyed with everything he ignored them all?

It made John nervous though, because some time ago, Sherlock had told him John had kind of a personal direct speaking tube into the mind palace.* It was supposed to enable Sherlock to hear John clearly, only John. If Sherlock wanted it or not.

Apparently, it didn't work any longer or Sherlock couldn't answer for some reason.

"Sherlock, it is time to wake for a bit. I really need you to talk to me... just for a minute."

John waited for a few more moments, in which he continued to observe Sherlock's body closely, but nothing changed.

"I need to examine you and get an IV in. I am sorry, but there is no other way if you don't react to me. I hope this is caused by the lack of fluids, though I know it would be an unusual intense reaction. If you can hear me, please respond."

He just spoke to talk, not to say anything meaningful, though he found it necessary to talk his friend through what he was planning to do.

On one hand, he was hoping Sherlock would wake in time to protest. On the other he doubted that the amount of fluids Sherlock needed right now could be compensated by drinking, especially since Sherlock had refused to swallow large amounts of anything in the past weeks. His repulsion of having things in his mouth - not only certain textures like normally, but anything - had made it even harder.

"Alright. I'm gonna insert in the cannula... Clean your skin first," John announced and wiped the back of his hand with alcohol.

Inserting the needle into the vein proved to be quite difficult. The level of dehydration made it hard to pierce the blood vessel and John needed several tries until he finally was in.

But even that neither made his patient twitch nor grunt, the other man remained indifferent.

Mycroft had prepared the flat for Sherlock's care and several robust hooks for various equipment had been installed. Other larger medical equipment was waiting in one of the storage rooms. There was an IV stand, John knew, but he'd prefer not confronting Sherlock with more medical equipment than necessary. Sherlock associated hospitals with his needs being stamped on and walking a fine line between necessity and constantly risking a sensory overload. Besides the bad memories of being wronged and in horrible pain of course.

With a sigh, John connected a bag that contained fluids and electrolytes to the IV port and hung it onto one of the hooks, then adjusted it to a relatively fast flow rate.

For a moment, he sat in the comfortable armchair they had used for their vigils the nights before, and continued to watch his friend. But the longer he watched him the more unsettling he found the entire situation.

There were more drastic actions to try to rouse an unresponsive person, like pain stimuli in the tenderest places. However, he hesitated to use them after what Mrs Hudson had said, at least as a friend. The doctor in him argued it was necessary.

He had barely sat there a minute when he stood up again and clipped a wireless pulse-ox to Sherlock's finger.

Sherlock remained unmoving and dead to the world.

If Sherlock's body needed the break, fine. But...

The doctor finally realised he needed to make sure it really was that and not an underlying condition. Sherlock had done lasting damage to his body and going cold turkey at home was not the optimal course of action – from a stricly medical point of view. They needed to be extra careful to spot underlying issues as fast as possible, delayed reactions might show at any moment.

In addition, it was possible that Sherlock had secretly managed to take drugs, no matter how carefully they watched him, this needed to be checked, too.

John returned to the living room and dialled the specialist supervising the entire 'get Sherlock off the sweeties' operation.

Before he had even dialled, he heard someone on the stairs and a moment later Mycroft came in.

"What happened?" the older Holmes asked without greeting.

"I don't know, yet, Mycroft. Give me some time to figure it out."

Mycroft made a testy movement with his umbrella, before he headed for Sherlock's room. While walking, he slipped out of his winter coat and threw it and the brolly onto the kitchen table.

"Update?" he urged the doctor, who hurried after him.

"We can't rouse him. I was about to call the consultant to confer about the next step. But maybe I should try to assess his level of consciousness first..." John thought aloud.

"That is no use if he is ignoring us willingly," Mycroft tiled his head in that typical smartarse way that irked Sherlock so often.

"Sherlock! I demand you open your eyes right now," Mycroft barked at his brother, "Otherwise I will do as Mummy asked and give you a hug and a kiss from her."

All John could do was stand there, gaping at the odd one-sided conversation.

Mycroft then sat on the bed and unceremoniously shoved his hands under Sherlock's shoulders. When nothing happened, he and lifted him a bit.

The movements were tender and careful, a stark contrast to Mycroft's tone. He gave his sibling a moment to react to the shift in position and then kissed his brother on his forehead.

Sherlock did not even move a single muscle.

At first, John had to hold back a giggle, then he realised what it meant.

"Shit," Mycroft cursed, out of character.

"Yeah," John agreed. "This puts things into perspective."

Mycroft looked up at him with a frown, "The threat usually works on its own... most of the time."

Mycroft was pragmatic, even when not liking the option, that much was clear.

"Prep him for transport, take some blood to shorten the proceedings," Mycroft ordered, stood up and returned to the kitchen.

The doctor hadn't even really recovered from the surprising action when he heard Mycroft talk to someone on the phone.

He checked Sherlock over again and this time tried pain stimuli. He wasn't careful, but the total lack of reaction remained - and most of these tests were mean.

Trying to quell his suddenly arising panic, John closed his eyes for a moment, realising he should do a proper coma scale evaluation, mind palace or not. He was torn between keeping Sherlock comfortable and making sure he was medically okay.

Mycroft re-entered the room.

"Maybe we should wait another hour," John addressed him. "Maybe he really just needs rest. All his vitals are okay and he is getting fluids now. It might just be the dehydration and the fact that he is really exhausted. Last night was bad."

"What happened?" Mycroft typed on his phone, appeared to follow the conversation only partially.

"He hallucinated. Thought there was a fire in his room."

"A fire," Mycroft's gaze shot up and he stepped closer to John, gazing at him with narrowed eyes. "What else?" he demanded in a tense voice.

"Nothing else," John stammered, the scrutiny was unnerving.

"Details!" Mycroft ordered in a tone that underlined how unsettled he was.

"We had to physically keep him in the house. He tried to make us all leave the building. At first I thought he was just trying to get out to acquire drugs."

"He probably wasn't," Mycroft said in a sinister tone.

"What makes you say that?" John wanted to know, but the older Holmes ignored the question.

"What else?"

"He was quite shaken by it all. We checked every room to make sure there was nothing going on. It was hard to reassure him that nothing was burning. I decided to help him bathe after that, to take his mind of things."

"Transport will arrive in about six minutes, we should get ready."

"What? Why?" John babbled.

"You probably failed to notice, but my brother is acutely suicidal and withdrawal is known to cause suicidal tendencies, so how is this not an emergency?"

"What?"

"You do realise he went into St. Caedwalla's Hospital and allowed Smith to choke him to death – fully conscious and on purpose!" Mycroft explained with a hard expression on his face. "I sometimes fail to understand what my brother sees in you. You can't really be that blind sighted not to have noticed."

Apparently, Mycroft's patience had run out.

Dumbfounded John stood there and listened.

"This is not the first time his depression has caught up with him. And it is certainly not the first time he almost died because he failed to avoid deadly circumstances," Mycroft continued. "Yes. Usually it's that subtle. He just doesn't fight death when it approaches. This time however, he actively sought out a danger he was sure would kill him. He hasn't actively tried in years... until a few months ago."

"What the hell?" John asked.

"He overdosed. On purpose. Before you two met...."

"Shit," John huffed, horrified.

"... and on the plane, leaving for a suicide mission. Because he clearly wasn't eager to being tortured to death. Instead preferred it fast and..."

"I got it," John chocked. No one had said it this directly, although Mary had hinted at it. It was still a shock.

"I doubt that," Mycroft was on a roll expressing his worries, it seemed. "Shooting Magnussen re-awoke trauma he had just barely managed to overcome. You know how much hunting down Moriarty's web affected him. You went through EMDR therapy with him. Nevertheless, he felt he had to kill Magnussen, to protect you. And the price he paid for that was enormous. It re-awoke his issues. He was not only in solitary confinement because they deemed him a danger to others, but first of all: a danger to himself. Unfortunately, it worsened his state because it left him alone with all his demons. And no one was there to help him cope. Not even I could help at that point."

"Mycroft... I am sorry."

"Not enough," Mycroft hissed. "I asked you to watch out for him because I knew you were the only person he would allow to do so. He was devastated about Mary's death. On top of that, he was also cut off from the only thing that might have helped him to cope. He suffered double, because he also lost you... and you blamed him."

John was a bit shocked about the outburst and the obvious distress Mycroft was not bothering to hold back.

Someone wearing heels came up the stairs and crossed the kitchen, a moment later Anthea entered the room.

After she gave Sherlock a worried glance, she handed Mycroft a tablet computer.

"I checked the surveillance," she started without a greeting. "After having the bath he stayed in bed. No odd movements or actions."

She then addressed John, "Did you leave him alone while he was in the bathroom?"

"Of course," John replied, "We agreed that we want to trust him so far. Though we made sure to check on him every few minutes and not give him unlimited time alone in there. There is a glass door, you know."

"I never should have left this to you," Mycroft said ruefully. "He is a master in deceiving you. And you are not fit to take care of him. We are lucky Lestrade is always ready to jump in."

"I don't think he has taken anything, Mycroft!" John said, suppressing his anger.

"Gentlemen, transport is here," Anthea interrupted them.

"Get your shoes," Mycroft hissed and headed back to his coat.

Only three minutes later, the three of them were in Mycroft's black car following the private ambulance.

John was a bit abashed about having been told he was not capable of taking care of his friend, but realised his crash two days ago had made things worse and Mycroft had every right to be mad at him.

He was mad at himself.

 

 


 

 

*

The thing about the direct speaking tube into Sherlock's mind palace developed in Ch. 30 of my story 'Define Vulnerability'. When Sherlock is struggling with PTSD and they both work hard on restoring Sherlock's mind palace, which has taken serious damage.

Chapter 21: Disruption - Part 4

Summary:

Sherlock's issues overwhelm him.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Something intense pulled Sherlock out of sleep.

When he opened his eyes for a moment to scan his surroundings – the Victorian asylum's dayroom – he realised that nothing was out of the ordinary. He closed them again and tried to chase what caused the intense disquieting feeling.

There was something deep rooted and heavy that seemed to weight him down, mentally and physically.

Emptiness and sorrow was pooling somewhere in his mind and the black mass wasn't just there, it had run wild in a reoccurring disturbing dream.

It was vague, but not foreign. He had had it for weeks.

The only thing he really remembered about it when awake was the echoes of the horrible sounds John had made right after Mary's death. He kept hearing them even when awake.

With his eyes closed, he tried to extinguish the unsettling feeling he had identified as loss.

It dimmed a bit but didn't leave.

It never left these days.

Mrs Hudson had made him understand that at some point that losing Mary had been traumatic for him, too. Not only the events surrounding her death but the gaping hole that was in her place nowadays felt like a raw wound.

Although he had failed to understand what was happening to him, 'it' made him physically sick on two occasions. Mrs Hudson's thesis was that it was probably from the shock and the grief - and the fact that he didn't process feelings like normal people did. They might therefore seek a physical outlet.

At first, he hadn't believed her, had only shaken his head while she held a bucket for him.* He was sure it was more likely guilt.

It was his fault after all. He had failed to protect Mary.

She had protected his life instead and he felt nothing but guilt for that.

Over time – and after googling how grief was perceived by normal people – he came to the understanding that Mrs Hudson might be right, at least partially.

He was grieving.

Sherlock tried to accept that knowledge, breathe deeply, clear his mind.

The heavy sadness was messy and confusing and following him everywhere. There was no escape.

In addition, it was worsening the headache he was suffering since he woke up in the asylum.

He kept his eyes closed. No matter where he was, he knew why he felt so bad and that he just had to endure it until it was over.

Then a wave of intense cravings crashed into him, he should have seen it coming. The cravings were a permanent companion, too. Maybe they were linked, because in the weeks of John's absence he had buried his grief under a drug frenzy.

Both issues at once were like a physical blow to the stomach, though.

Resignation followed close behind.

His will to persevere was breaking. It was a slow and painful process and he had fought so hard to keep it from happening. But now he just had no strength left to adhere to a positive attitude.

When he squeezed his eyes shut to push away the mental agony, he felt wetness on his face.

Shit.

His fingers twitched involuntary and he felt the velvety padding of the unfamiliar armchair under his hand.

He bent forward, curled in on himself, rubbed his hot face with his cold hands. Tried to block out his surroundings, while he kept his eyes firmly closed.

"Mr Greenbaum?"

"Leave me alone," he grouched.

"It is time for the evening meal. We need to go down to the dining hall."

"I don't care. Go away."

Sherlock felt shaky and sensed how odd his breath tasted. He felt as if he had run a marathon, overexerted himself.

Why didn't they just leave him alone?

A few moments later the man did exactly that - he left.

Once more, Sherlock tried to leave his mind palace, but it brought no result, he remained in the Victorian era. 

The omni-present fatigue had made him sleep in a sitting position - through the entire afternoon.

He was desperate to stay in the darkness and be unaware of the situation around him.

The headache was still there. The pain was originated in the back of his head. He lifted his right to rub the area with his fingertips, hoping it might bring some relief.

With horror, he found his fingers met wetness and hard edges.

His heart seemed to skip a few beats and his thoughts went into a perturbed overdrive.

Had he shot himself?

Had he a hole in his head like Moriarty?

For a moment, he thought he felt the edges of protruding bone and suddenly his pulse was so fast and loud it floored all other input.

Some aspect of him was too afraid to investigate further, afraid he might find he had killed himself.

He knew that suicidal tendencies were a side effect of withdrawal from more than one of the drugs he had taken en masse.

Then his sanity stepped in and reminded him how very stupid all those thoughts were. Of course, he wasn't dead.

This must be a nightmare.

Was he still asleep?

He tried to ground himself by exhaling slowly.

If he had shot himself, he wouldn't be here to think about it, because that was the point of shooting oneself!

Except... something had gone wrong and he was in a coma, vegetating in some Intensive care unit.

What was meant as logical reasoning did the opposite.

The rational thoughts were supposed to ground him, ease the distress. Instead, it renewed anxiety that once more threatened to overwhelm him.

The panic shifted up a gear.

Irrational apprehension and horror scenarios that always hinted at the worst possible outcome seemed to be allured by his current state.

But that knowledge and the energy to keep those thoughts in check were abandoning him.

Dark thoughts and feelings he couldn't even name were closing in.

He forced himself to sit upright, try to breathe normally.

Another unsettling thing was, that he had gone through withdrawal several times, but it had never felt as bad as this.

The reason for that might be that he had taken another combination of drugs this time. More than just cocaine and morphine. He had taken a drug he had never used in the past.

Meth.

Before deciding to produce and use it, he had read into it of course. The theory of withdrawal side effects from this particular substance were described similar to those of cocaine.

His current state made him realized they were a lot worse, especially or because of the combination with simultaneous cocaine abstinence.

He had been aware of the risks of meth, and in the beginning had recoiled from taking it, too many undesirable side effects. The reason why he had never taken it before, too. He was a chemist after all, aware of the effects on the human body.

In the end, the easy production process as well as the visible ramifications of its consumption had changed his mind. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have reverted to it, but he had been desperate to get 'results' fast – meaning: looking haggard and close to death.

It was a choice he regretted.

Were his exacerbated mental issues the result of meth use?*

Cocaine had never messed him up like this. In different ways, yes, but not like this.

Predictably enough, he remembered something he had read, but conveniently ignored during the decision making process. The fact that 'some users exhibit cognitive deficits in the areas of planning, attention, mental processing speed, and memory, which don't fully resolve within six months of abstinence'. Lasting effects were possible, because methamphetamine can damage dopamine and serotonin neurons in the central nervous system, which means: brain damage.

But that was only true for long term use, wasn't it?

'Long term use' was such an imprecise phrase.

Had he overdone it?

What if his mental capacities would never return to normal?

What if there was permanent damage?

STOP.

For a very long time just sat there and breathed, trying to keep the depressing truths at bay,

overwhelmed with the irrational shock he felt. The storm of feelings he had woken up to and the abstruse paths his own thoughts were going were increasing.

It was a rollercoaster – chased by episodes of pure horror.

Brief episodes of rationality occurred, in which he asked himself if this was part of the hopelessness and the tendency to jump on the worst possible scenario because of the depression.

In the background, his body kept screaming for relief, or was it his mind?

Whatever was causing the intense distress, he wouldn't be able much longer to keep it at bay.

Something was about to explode.

He was going mad.

He could feel his mind crumple.

Distress rose and he frantically searched for a way to stop it.

More wetness on his face.

Dizzy and breathing heavily he felt the chills return.

Completely depleted of any will to go on he just sat there, tried to shut himself down.

All he wanted was oblivion.

He did manage to drift off into the black emptiness of lethargy, but it was a short-lived relief.

 

Without a warning, cold fingers wrapped around his hand.

So much for blocking out his surroundings.

He was about to shake the touch off when a subtle whiff of Claire de la Lune entered his nostrils.

His eyes jerked open, craving to see something familiar.

Anything.

The sight that met his eyes shocked him.

For a moment, he thought he was confronted with a version of Mary wearing an odd dark wig, and with some kind of cameo on her face but then he realised that what he saw was somehow distorted.

Various things around him had changed colours, but not all of them.

Some elements in the day room had taken on a complementary colour as well. Mary's features where tinted in turquoise and black. The curtains in the room were bright orange, although they were supposed to be in a soothing blue.

Sherlock backed out of the armchair in alarm, trying to get some distance between himself and the apparition of his dead friend.

He couldn't interpret her expression, but noticed dark circles under her eyes. She looked dead.

Had he dragged something out of his nightmares into the mind palace?

To force his brain into re-emerging reality he squeezed his eyes shut.

"This is not real," he whispered.

Or was she another hallucination?

Instead of an answer, a cold hand cupped his cheek, causing him to recoil – and his eyes jerked open. But she followed his movement

It was a gesture of care and worry, but Mary's expression was as if carved in stone.

"This is not real," he repeated.

In typical Mary fashion, she reached out her other hand and pinched him – hard.

He hissed, more in surprise than from the pain.

The hand on his cheek burned ice cold and he met her sad gaze.

"I miss you," he finally stammered. It was the only thing he had not managed to say to her when he had hallucinated her before.

A sudden impact in his chest surprised him.

Puzzled, his regard went down. A moment later he realised it felt similar to the initial moments of being shot.

At first, something like a soft knock against his chest, then pressure.

And more pressure.

Anxiety bubbled up.

Crippling pain followed... and a bright red liquid started to spread over his shirt. Had he been shot again?

With wide eyes, he lifted his gaze to Mary, expecting her to point a gun at him, but she was  looking down at her own chest, which was covered in shockingly red blood. As were her turquoise tinted hands, she then reached out with.

Horrified to see her dying again, covered in blood, Sherlock did a step back.

He was gasping, panicking.

Mary's face distorted in pain and horror and her movements sped up. She followed him, grabbed his arm too keep him in place.

She then pressed her bloody hand onto his wound.

Sherlock cried out in pain, tried to free himself, but she didn't let go.

His vision tunnelled, turned cyan, then bright red mingled in and he shook his head frantically to clear it.

Something sneaked into him, spread into his chest cavity, started to fill him.

The sensation was so ugly and yet so mesmerizing that he failed to breathe.

His heart had started to hurt. It struggled to keep beating.

He tried to fight it, tried to shove her away, but she then embraced him and held tight to keep contact. Pressed her hand into the wound that seemed to be a lot larger than the one he had obtained when she shot him.

He couldn't fight her off, she was too strong.

All of a sudden, the touch changed. Multiple pairs of hands were clasping his arms and shoulders, dragging him down and the eerie silence erupted into a storm of loud voices.

He went down, unable to resist the enormous force.

Surrounded by a room full of people, pinned to the ground.

Unrecognisable silhouettes leaning over him.

Gasping for air with a violent urge, he tried to understand the sudden change.

He wanted to scream, break free, demand to be left alone.

However, all that happened was that something was shoved in between his teeth and deeper into his mouth.

He tried to move his head away, but found it held in a vice like grip. Something had grabbed his jaw hard and kept it open.

He tried to kick away hands and legs surrounding him.

This was not real.

They were in his mind, he couldn't hurt anyone, there was no one here but himself he could harm.

A very foul tasting liquid hit his soft palate and tongue.

The try to spit it out was futile, he was completely helpless, more liquid followed. His nose was blocked somehow and the only way to keep breathing was to swallow. He tried to keep it from happening, but it was a fight he would lose sooner or later.

Adrenaline kicked in and enabled him to struggle harder but the strength of the brutal hands overpowered him easily nevertheless.

To his astonishment, he felt something else mixing into his anxiety, attenuating it.

It took him a moment to understand what it was.

He wanted it.

All he needed to do was to let it happen and they would drug him.

He closed his eyes again.

Whatever medication there was in this ward, any would either give him the high or the oblivion he craved.

The raw need was so sudden and so intense it was hard to remind himself to fight what they were doing.

His body betrayed him and gulped, without his permission.

More liquid in his mouth.

He gulped again.

All those bodies this close by caused intense fear and black spots started to spawn in his field of vision. He was completely at their mercy.

Without conscious thought, he stopped fighting them. His body went limp.

They tilted his head back, fed him more of the drug.

Sherlock begged the medicine to work fast.

Their loud movements, their breathing, their feet close to his head, their agitated voice he couldn't understand, it all was too much.

He needed to get out.

Desperately, he tried to block out his surroundings.

It didn't take long until he started to feel heaviness weight him down.

A cosy rush went through his body, he welcomed it.

He allowed his mind to fully fall into the warm haze.

The brutal hands gently lifted him from the ground and carried him somewhere.

He ignored them.

It felt good.

So good.

Safe and warm and fuzzy.

And the worry and tenseness just evaporated.

For the first time in days, he felt all his pain and distress ebb away.

Bliss.

He let the voices wash over him, they didn't mean anything.

Much sooner than expected, he was dragged into the nothingness between consciousness and sleep. He felt himself drift and a strong lure to give into sleep followed.

He allowed it to happen, surrendered to it.

Welcomed oblivion.

It was dark there and no one could follow him there, not even ghosts from his mind palace.

 

 

Notes:

* Originally, I hadn't planned to name the drugs Sherlock might have taken in TLD (other than cocaine and morphine, which are canon) since they were not really mentioned in the series.
However, even without naming them, my research was about cocaine and meth withdrawal.
I thought it better to leave the choice of drugs as open as the show did, afraid I might do it wrong.
But the more research I did the clearer it became that not naming them might confuse readers and make the symptoms seem random. Additionally, Mycroft does mention the 'meth lab'. When I saw the episode for the first time, I assumed he meant it figuratively. When I recently thought about Mycroft's precise speech and the chemical on the table (Hydrochloric acid, which is needed for meth production) and I finally decided to use the name of the drugs.
.
The drug Sherlock was given in the end of this chapter is chloral hydrate, which was mentioned in an earlier chapter already.
Though invented in 1832, chloral hydrate wasn't promoted for medicinal purposes until 1869. It calms anxiety and sedates patients quickly. It became widely used rather fast because it was cheap and had little side-effects (that's what people thought back then). It was used a lot in asylums in the last decades of the 19th century.
I took a bit of liberty with the years in this case, obviously.

Chapter 22: Disruption – Part 5

Summary:

Sherlock starts to gather information.

Chapter Text

 

 

Sherlock woke to semi darkness and sounds nearby.

Despite the initial disorientation, his memories of what had happened came back the moment he spotted a young attendant sitting on a chair beside his bed.

He was in his cell in the asylum.

To enlarge the distance to the man, he sat up and scooted back on the bed, driven by the horror of what he remembered of his earlier distress.

The sudden movements caused black dots to appear in his vision and he fought to blink them away.

A few feet away, the slim man raised his hands in the universal gesture of surrender and Sherlock relaxed a bit. He was more a boy than a man, barely sixteen from what Sherlock estimated.

"I am only here because you had an episode and your breathing needed to be monitored."

"What year is it?" Sherlock asked.

"1867," the man answered, frowning.

Sherlock was relieved to actually hear it being said. The asylum was full of newspapers from various dates, he had spotted them in the dayroom, but they could be years old.

Until now, he hadn't asked, feared they might tell him again he didn't want to remember the date.

"I am fine now, you can leave," Sherlock said, his need to sort out what had happened in privacy overwhelming, hut he regretted it a moment later.

The boy seemed so young he probably was inexperienced and not as indifferent as the rest of the staff. He might get answers from him others wouldn't give him.

Luckily, he seemed to have orders to stay.

"I will monitor your sleep. Feel free to continue to rest."

If Sherlock wanted to gain his trust, he needed to try conversation.

"Did I hit my head? It hurts," Sherlock stated carefully, trying out how much of a little helper the man was.

"Let me see," the other man offered.

Sherlock turned his head a bit but it was obviously not enough to examine it.

"Stay seated, face the wall," the man demanded.

To show his harmlessness and ground himself from the touch he knew was coming, Sherlock followed the instructions and additionally placed his hands besides his buttocks on the mattress so the carer could see them.

Carefully, the attendant parted his hair and lifted the lamp from the table to see.

Then he heard him suck in air and for a moment he feared the man might be seeing what he had felt earlier, a gaping hole in his skull.

"You have a large gash there, nothing too serious. When did this happen?"

"I don't know," Sherlock stammered, flabbergasted by the fact that he hadn't noticed it earlier.

He had been so caught up with trying to leave his mind palace and ignoring the input it gave him that he had ignored it.

"It doesn't look fresh, but there is a lot of scab. This should have been noticed earlier, but it wasn't in your file. It is a bit of a mess. We should take care of that... and your leg while we are at it. Let me get some supplies."

The boy bustled away but didn't forget to take the lamp and lock the door.

Sherlock was left in darkness.

He used the few minutes of loneliness to use a Buddhist technique to calm down, he had learned during his time in Nepal.

He had not blown out his brains. What a ridiculous thought!

Slowly exhaling, he reminded himself that episodes of severe anxiety and/or irrational agitation were part of the withdrawal process, as were vivid nightmares. Maybe this was just a nightmare, maybe he was just in a very long and complex dream.

Then he scolded himself for actually being so naive to consider that.

He stupidly stared at the wall, feeling desolate, still unable to think clearly.

A moment later, the young nurse from before and one of the attendants he had seen earlier came back.

"Mr Greenbaum, my name is Walker. We will see to your injuries."

"Oh, I forgot," the young man added, "my name is Cooper."

The older man gave the other a reproachful look for forgetting to introduce himself to the patient.

They first cleaned the head wound, which meant a lot of eschar came off and it started to bleed again. Then they wrapped a bandage around his head to keep the compress in place.

They were not trying to make small talk, Sherlock noticed.

Maybe the young man didn't have too much of the older nurse's approval, but Cooper didn't seem to care much.

When they unwrapped the wound on his leg, he clenched his teeth.

There was a long gash that had required stitches.

In this decade, catgut sutures were widely used, and although absorbed by the human body, the detective was not happy to see them in his own leg. They were only just starting to try to sterilize things like suture material.

The wound was red around the edges, but it didn't look inflamed. However, it felt taut and hurt. When asked, they told him the gauze was in fact sterilized - with carbolic acid.

Sherlock flinched a bit when he suddenly remembered the events of recent history he hadn't had one single thought about since his arrival.

The case was still unsolved.

It is the dose that makes the poison, he reminded himself and watched them work with a mixture of fascination and disgust.

Once more, he wished John was here – or Watson. He would so much prefer to be touched by his friend.

They cleaned the wound with a diluted solution of iodine and rebandaged it while Sherlock's focus shifted to their tool kit. It contained forceps, tweezers, scissors and several other slightly curved or sharp instruments. He was careful not to let them see his attention.

When they were finished and turned to go, he was relieved that they both showed signs of leaving.

They offered him another dose of the sleeping draft and Sherlock asked if he could have, but decide later if to take it - only if he couldn't sleep. He was not ready to face any more of his demons tonight.

They hesitated and Cooper was sent to ask a doctor if Sherlock's request could be granted.

Walker was carefully packing away their utensils and Sherlock decided he needed to pinch one right now or the chance would be gone.

"Could you get me another blanket? I had trouble sleeping last night because it was so cold," he asked, well aware they were stored in a cabinet a few metres down the hall. He had seen another nurse fetch one yesterday.

"I will get one in a moment," Walker responded and continued to pack away the kit.

Sherlock realised he was instructed to never leave a patient alone with sharp tools and hope to get his hands on one dwindled.

Walker carefully closed the kit and carried it to the cart waiting outside.

When Sherlock heard his steps fade, he hurried towards the door and saw the kit on the cart and the attendant moving down the hall towards the cabinet.

He had only a few seconds and taking the entire kit was not an option, they would notice that immediately.

It was risky to try to open it while out in the hall, but the only chance he had. He made sure the corridor was otherwise clear and slipped into the hallway.

He estimated that he had fifteen seconds until Walker reached the closet, he would turn sideways then and spot him.

He reached for the kit.

Only to flinch back a second later when he heard someone coming up the stairs that were a few metres ahead of Walker to the left.

Sherlock hurried back into his room, listening carefully.

Cooper's voice could be heard a few moments later.

"Dr Winter needs assistance, Rupert is having another seizure," the young man panted.

"Alright. Go lock Greenbaum's door and bring the cart back, then come help us."

A key ring was handed over.

Sherlock sat on the bed.

When Cooper entered, checking if anything was left to clear out of the room, Sherlock decided to give it another try. He asked Cooper instead to get a blanket. But the young man hesitated to do anything that might delay him.

So Sherlock had to pull at his heartstrings to make him comply, told him how bad the other night had been because he couldn't sleep due to the bitterly cold.

Cooper went to fetch the blanket and this time Sherlock was prepared, he was in the corridor only moments later, opened the kit, fetched two pairs of a pair of tweezers and a slim curette, then closed the kit - all before Cooper had even reached the closet.

He returned to his room and hid both items under his mattress but then immediately retrieved them because it was the worst hiding place ever, and placed them on the high sill of the door over the window. Even with his height, it was hard to reach it without a chair or a stepladder.

A few moments later Cooper returned and brought the blanket, which he took with gushing gratitude. Then he asked for the time, which Cooper also provided, it was a quarter to midnight.

The young man had him locked in and was gone a few seconds later.

 

Within the next two hours, the building calmed down considerately. Sherlock listened to every tiny detail he could spot. His sharp hearing was useful for a change, not just a nuisance threatening to overwhelm him.

There were agitated voices in the distance sometimes, now and then even screams.

Sherlock wondered how many severely disabled persons had been incarcerated here for ages without getting proper treatment.

Step by step, he opened up his other senses, tried to relax, feel the building and what was going on. This had helped him during the hunt for Moriarty; he hoped it would help again.

The lack of a clock was unfortunate, it was difficult to catalogue the night routine of staff without it.

His ability to estimate how much time had passed was useful.

Although he tried not to, his thoughts returned to the events of the afternoon, to Mary. The hallucination had been vivid and had horrified an aspect of him he couldn't really grasp. Even trying to analyse what he had seen unsettled him. He realised that trying to think about it now made things even worse.

He wouldn't be able to sleep any time soon, he needed to do something.

Be active.

Try to solve this. Figure out how to get out.

Around two o'clock, someone passed his door, probably making rounds. That meant it was the best moment to take action now. No one would do another round soon.

For a moment, he wondered if this was mindless activism, but then he retrieved the medical tools and set to work.

It took him a few tries but he finally managed to open the heavy lock.

The large key rings of the staff were to his advantage now. Their clinging could be heard from afar. In addition, the era typical architecture provided a lot of niches to hide in, or pillars.

The hallways were only dimly lit by lamps far in between and staff sometimes carried a lamp with them, which made them even easier to spot.

Sherlock sneaked through the entire level he was on, cataloguing everything in his path - until he was stopped by a heavy iron gate blocking his way.

Trying to open it was probably possible but unwise at this point. So he headed back past the row of single rooms that were probably like his. 

A few doors before his, he heard someone hum in the dark, it sounded a bit frantic and distressed.

After passing his room, he headed down the hallway in the other direction.

He was especially careful when he passed the dormitories. Some of them were frequently checked by bulky carers and others seemed to have an integrated bureau that was permanently manned.

Behind the dormitories were more staff rooms, but they were empty it seemed – then the padded cell, lavatories, and around the corner to the right, the stairway that lead down to the dining hall.

The building was designed to provide stairs at both ends of a ward and after carefully tiptoeing down the stairs he finally reached the ground level, which was his real goal.

It turned out things were much more active downstairs, manned staff rooms and people passing regularly.

He didn't head for the dining hall and the day room; he had already seen their surroundings but went the other direction. He knew the day room had doors to the enclosed airing court but he was looking for other ways out.

Finally, he found a window that looked out the other side of the building, but to his frustration, he saw that it was 'decorated' with cast iron window trellis.

When he rounded a corner to another part of the building, which was perpendicular to the ward building, he was almost spotted. Only his good hearing and fast reflexes saved him, enabled him to hide behind a pillar. The resulting adrenaline rush was - in contrast to what he was used to - hard to endure. It didn't feel exhilarating, only uneasy and maybe a bit distressing.

He found something useful though, doors that lead a part of the building that probably was not a ward.

He silently went down the hallway that connected the ward wing with another part of the building.  

At the point where the hallway opened up into a large open area, he could see another iron gate. It was open, but guarded by a man sitting next to a sentry box. No doubt other guards where relaxing in the room behind it.

This hinted at the fact that there might be a direct exit close by.

For some time, he observed the man reading a paper by the poor light of the gas lamp on the wall above him.

Before he had the chance to think of a way to get past him, a door further down the hallway opened and golden light illuminated the ground in front of it.

Out came the familiar silhouette of Cooper, the young man's hunched statue was easy to spot. He was carrying a tray and Sherlock suddenly remembered that someone might try to bring him another dose of the sleeping draft as he had requested.

Stupid!

Why hadn't he thought of that?

He hurried back to his room, panicked that someone reached it before he did.

On the other hand, if he had been missed, it wouldn't be this calm.

It was essential to get back in and look the door before Cooper was there; if they caught him even once, they would heighten security and make it even harder to escape.

He reached his cell without further incidents, but he was shaking, well aware he had thrown a lot of caution overboard hurrying back like this. It had been pure luck that no one had spotted him.

Look the door was difficult due to his trembling hands. He had barely done so when he heard Cooper approach, which forced him to hide the tools in his bed this time.

Trying to get his breathing in check, he climbed into bed.

 

Of course, Cooper addressed his sweating, agitation and fast respiration, but Sherlock explained that he had just woken from a nightmare and was then offered another dose of the sleeping draft, but he had to take it right now while the carer watched.

Sherlock accepted and Cooper used porcelain measuring spoon and a dropper to mix the medicine.

After he had downed it, Sherlock was urged to lie down flat and not to get up again.

Then he was left alone.

Still unsettled, he regretted his choice to take the easy way out. It was the opposite of abstinence to give in this easily. On the other hand, he was too exhausted and this was not really a relapse. It was all in his head.

Within minutes, the drug emptied his mind and washed awareness away.

 

 

 

Chapter 23: Day 6 (2016) - At the hospital - Part 1

Summary:

Mycroft, John and Sherlock arrive at the hospital.

Notes:

This is a short chapter and a not thoroughly re-read one.
I had a rough few weeks and a lot of health problems since mid December and was unable to type and even to concentrate due to the meds I had to take. I'm slowly getting better now.
I am very sorry that you had to wait so long for an update. I hope to return to regular updates soon.
Thank you for all who have waited patiently and who are still with me.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

John walked up and down the rather large space of Sherlock's temporary room.

They were in the emergency department of the hospital were Sherlock had been treated just over a week ago. After Smith had tried to choke Sherlock, Mycroft arranged treatment in another – more trustworthy – facility.*

The initial assessment had been finished just a few seconds ago.

It had been a brief affair that included John handing over the already prepped blood samples and giving a short report.

They were now waiting for the consultant. Meanwhile, two nurses were working on Sherlock, getting rid of his inside out pyjamas and preparing him for the examination.

Anthea was somewhere off doing the paperwork and Mycroft was stoically sitting in a chair nearby, both his hands resting on his umbrella. His stiff posture and his blank face were an indication for the same tension John was trying to work off by walking.

Mycroft hadn't spoken much since they arrived but the discountenance about John's hesitation to cart Sherlock to a hospital seemed to have worn off.

It was barely three minutes later when a doctor arrived with two more members of staff in tow, he introduced himself as Mr Walsh.

John hurried to describe the events of the previous night in detail, pulled into the assessment routine out of habit.

Short precise words flew through the room while Walsh and a nurse did a thorough exam. They made sure there were no undiscovered easily visible problems.

They also tried to rouse Sherlock and did a coma scale assessment, which left them none the wiser.

Sherlock didn't reply to their presence, pain stimuli or any other try to make him react. He just lay there. Limb and oblivious to the world.

The male nurse scribbled down a lot of notes and they exchanged a lot of medical jargon with John - so much that Mycroft started to tap his foot impatiently.

Walsh ignored him, but one of the younger nurses noticed it and tried to explain while Walsh continued to examine his patient.

"Although you have surveillance footage, we can't rule out anything at this point. He's currently looking for signs of physical trauma – Mr Holmes could have fallen without anyone noticing, could have had a seizure, used drugs, or had a stroke," the nurse informed the older Holmes. John couldn't shake the feeling they knew each other.

"Suicide attempt," Mycroft added to the list in a resigned tone.

Walsh stopped his movements and looked up, his gaze meeting Mycroft's.

"That makes the entire thing a whole lot more complicated – and more urgent. You should have told us before," Walsh stated.

"Bloodwork is already in the lab," the nurse offered.

"Good," Walsh murmured while he continued to soundly check the inside of Sherlock's mouth for damage that might hint towards an earlier seizure.

"I was with him the past days; there was nothing that hints at suicidal thoughts. We made sure our living quarters were free of any dangerous substances. Overall, Sherlock was suffering severely due to the withdrawal but he was neither displaying severe depression nor self-harming behaviour that aimed at ending his suffering.

"He did self-harm in another way then?" Walsh asked, noticing John's reluctance.

"He sometimes overdoes it with self-stimulation – stimming. But that is nothing to worry about and should not be mistaken for intended self-harm," Mycroft explained and now John raised his eyebrows.

"Look, I opt for making sure it wasn't a suicide attempt, but think it is very unlikely," John explained, not aware why he felt the needed to, it was nonsense at this point, it needed to be checked.

"You are absolutely sure he did not eat or drink anything?"

"We are. But my PA can provide you with surveillance video if you want to check for yourself," Mycroft answered.

"If he did take something, Oral ingestion is unlikely," John agreed.

"Alright," Walsh nodded. "When did you start the intravenous fluids?" he then asked.

They meticulously catalogued the timeline of events and medications of the past days after that.

Only once Mycroft interrupted them, wanting to know if Sherlock's issues were dehydration related.

"His level of dehydration is severe, but not severe enough to cause seizures or a coma. Dr Watson reacted fast and gave intravenous fluids," Dr Walsh explained.

Ten minutes later Walsh sent one of the nurses off to check when the next free slots for a cranial MRI and a PET scan would be available.

"We need to find out if there is a physical problem, for example tissue damage in the brain. I'll be back as soon as we have results," Walsh addressed Mycroft on his way out.

A few seconds later more nurses entered and asked both John and Mycroft to wait outside.

As a doctor, John knew what would follow next and indicated to the older Holmes to do as they asked. They would put in more catheters and take urine samples and John was sure Sherlock didn't want his brother to be present for that.

John's initial nervousness about having discovered Sherlock's issues too late hadn't worn off, yet, but Sherlock was in good hands. Nevertheless, he had not revealed anything related to the mind palace to any medical professional treating Sherlock. Part of him was afraid Sherlock might be categorized too early as suffering from mental health issues.

John was well aware about the depression and the withdrawal induced psychological problems, but he would not allow under any circumstances that Sherlock was not properly examined with all they had before they focussed on that idea.

In the past, Sherlock had suffered enough from doctors who had not treated simple and easy to diagnose physical issues because they first jumped to 'it must be psychological' before even trying to find other reasons. It was a sad truth that this happened regularly to neuroatypical people and those with sensory perception issues.

While they were waiting outside, John shared these thoughts with Mycroft who agreed. He probably remembered the undiagnosed – and for days untreated - broken bones in Sherlock's childhood John had only read about.*

When they wheeled Sherlock out of the emergency bay, John followed them to radiology. The nurses and techs were already aware that loud noises might distress Sherlock and that as his doctor, John was to be allowed in in case it reached a level that would interrupt the scan.

 

A bit over an hour later, they all were back in the room.

The scans had shown nothing out of order, which was a great relief for John.

The lab results were also there.

No drugs in Sherlock's system and most of the numbers were okay for the detective's current state. The ones that were off were already known.

The detective was still dehydrated and getting fluids, but overall nothing had shown up that would raise any red flags.

After going through all the results, more tests were ordered. Once more, John and Mycroft waited with an unconscious Sherlock for the next round of poking and prodding.

After it was clear that nothing life threatening was happening things slowed down.

Much to the older Holmes' annoyance, it took almost half an hour until an EEG tech arrived with a cart full of equipment.

That was when Mycroft finally lost his patience.

"I will be back in a few hours, call me if something happens," he stood up, slipped into his coat and was out of the door before John had time to say something.

Meanwhile, the technician prepared the EEG.

John sat down into the comfortable chair Mycroft had occupied earlier, somewhat relieved to be alone with Sherlock now. Mycroft's presence had made him uneasy.

He watched the tech measure Sherlock's skull and paint on the markings for the placement of the electrodes with a special red pen, moving Sherlock's head this way, then the other.

His friend's lack of reaction was starting to get to John at that point, because during the proceedings, his friend seemed completely limp and John had now time to actually watch.

Earlier, Sherlock had displayed a certain kind of muscle tension, but now he just seemed unconscious. Seeing the tech touch him while he was so vulnerable did something to John he couldn't name.

Then the electrodes where glued to Sherlock's skull with a thick white plaster like substance, that was when things started to change.

John observed Sherlock's right twitch now and then.

Additionally, Sherlock's blood pressure started to slowly climb during the procedure, as was his pulse. Not significantly but the stats stayed that way.

The tech – completely unaware of this – finished his work by wrapping Sherlock's head in gauze to keep the equipment and the bunch of wires in place. 

A few minutes later, the lights were dimmed and a period of waiting started, in order to give the patient time to relax. After the time for that was up, Sherlock was subjected to various kinds of stimuli.

On one hand, John was glad to finally see a reaction, on the other it was so subtle he wondered if it really could even be considered as one.

Sherlock seemed to try to turn his head away repeatedly, but the movements were tiny. Additionally, the pain lines in his face deepened.

 

Almost an hour later Walsh was called in to see the results – mid process. They agreed that there seemed to be no easy to spot seizure activity, but the recordings were confusing and could be interpreted in a number of ways, that was where things got complicated. Some aspects indicated sleep and dreaming, others increased activity as if Sherlock was awake. The only other thing that was clear was that Sherlock seemed to be in pain and distress. John could have told anyone that just by looking at his friend.

Two more specialists were called who made things even more complicated. In the end, they all agreed to continue the EEG through the night and postponed more tests that might be insightful to the next day.

After all except Walsh had left, John addressed the issue of Sherlock's food intake and they decided to administer parenteral nutrition to counteract the lack of food. This meant that after Walsh had left another nurse appeared and inserted another IV line, hooked the detective up to one more tube.

John was intimately familiar with all the proceedings, but it was something different to see a loved one in such a state.

That was when he finally decided to stay the night, Mycroft had offered it, mentioned that if he wanted to things were already arranged. So John called the babysitter and asked her to bring Rosie over to Mrs Hudson.

If Sherlock woke, he would certainly be not happy about his whereabouts.

If he returned to consciousness, slowly it could mean quite a bit of distress for all involved and John knew from experience that it was better for all involved if he handled things should it come to that.
 

It was almost 19:00 when John's boredom was interrupted by his phone buzzing. The caller ID said 'Mrs H'. He had briefly spoken with her earlier, while Sherlock was getting the PET scan, to tell her how things were going. That was when she had offered to babysit Rosie.

He picked up, not bothering to step outside. Even an annoyed reaction from Sherlock was welcome right now.

"John, you forgot Sherlock's phone. It's been ringing repeatedly since about four," the landlady greeted him.

"Any idea who it is? Someone we know?"

"How am I supposed to know? No name, just the number. I can read it to you," she offered.

"Yeah, please."

She did, and John scribbled it down into the small note pad he fumbled out of his jacket with one hand.

A few minutes later, he dialled the number and when a voice on the other end picked up, he was thoroughly confused.

"Hi John. What can I do for you?"

"Ella?"

"Yes?"

"Did you try to reach Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Why?" John asked in confusion.

"I think that is between him and me. Is he there?"

"Uh, well... We are at the hospital. He is going through withdrawal and asleep currently. Thing is we have problems waking him," John slipped back into explaining things to her as he had done during their sessions. When he realised that, he bit his lip, understanding it was probably not the best course of action, he was not her patient any longer.

"So are you two on speaking terms again?" she asked bluntly.

An awkward silence followed. John's brain rattled with what the question implied. It meant Sherlock had had contact with Ella and she had been informed about John not speaking to his friend - and probably the background of the entire debacle.

"Yeah," John answered finally, insecure now.

"Are you there as his doctor or his friend?"

"Both. When did you and Sherlock last speak?"

"Three weeks ago," she provided and John felt a wave of relief wash over him. She didn't know about him beating Sherlock into a pulp. A second later, though he felt pathetic and shameful for this reaction.

"Is there anything you could tell me about his state of mind? Has he shown severe signs of depression lately?" John hurried to ask.

The idea that Sherlock had managed to do something to himself no one had discovered yet in order to commit suicide was bugging the doctor subconsciously.

What if Sherlock had used some little known and hard to (find) toxin on himself to make absolutely sure no one could revive him?

He had to remind himself that he knew this was rubbish. The EEG showed that Sherlock was in there and thinking. If he had decided to commit suicide, Sherlock would never be so stupid to take something that might not kill him but mentally impair him. As a chemist, he was more than capable to use something that would work fast and reliable.

If Sherlock wanted to kill himself they would be in the morgue right now.

When John noticed that the line had been quiet for several seconds, he asked her name to make sure she was still there.

Apparently, this time she was the one who hesitated.

"John, I am not sure you are the right person to discuss this with. What he told me is confidential and telling me on the phone that you're his doctor is not sufficient for me to reveal things."

John briefly thought about it.

At this point, they had to consider psychological issues. It would be one of the main topics the next day. If more of the tests for physical issues came back negative it would be the course of action to turn that way. Only a matter of time.

"Right. Talk to Dr Walsh then," John sighed and gave Ella the contact information.

When John rang off, the conversation left a very awkward aftertaste.

What had Sherlock discussed with Ella? What had he revealed?

Had he been so very desperate that he had turned to her?

The detective never seemed to particularly trust her, had only repeatedly uttered she got things wrong.

So why turn to her?

John sat there, in the semi dark, poring over the conversation while he watched his best friend lying unresponsive in the hospital bed.

 

 

Notes:

*This happened in my story 'Pain Management 2' in case anyone wants to read that.

Chapter 24: Day 6 (2016) - At the hospital - Part 2

Summary:

John has another bad night.

Notes:

To make up for the long hiatus in December and January, here is a long chapter. Hope you enjoy.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

The following two hours John spent walking up and down the room and trying to rouse his friend. Now and then he just talked to him.

As time went by, the former army doctor became more and more desperate. He obsessed about that Mrs Hudson might be right and that me might lose Sherlock, too. John tried to reason with himself, convincing himself that this was not a suicide attempt.

On the other hand, he had just learned that Sherlock's overdose on the airplane a few months ago was considered an active suicide attempt by Mycroft.

John was not yet ready to believe that. However, he had no real information about the events Sherlock had been quite close-lipped about what had happened exactly.

Although the detective had noted the drugs he took and which quantity, he never revealed what he had taken before Mycroft's call.

Nevertheless, Sherlock would probably have died if not for John's swift care and the meds Mycroft had at their disposal to counteract the overdose. The vivid memories of Sherlock crashing and John's dire panic to lose him where still sharp in his memories.*

The memories renewed the desperation to lose his best friend, overwhelmed John's already aching heart. He was aware he was in a state of instability, knew nothing anymore. His entire existence had turned into agony. There was no aspect left to ground him, nothing reassuring.

All those horrible feelings were so close to the surface these days and the grief work he had thought he would do in therapy was simply not happening – or not working.

Recently, he felt that all that was happening was that things were building up.

Guilt, shame, regret - not only concerning Mary, but also concerning Sherlock. He had ruined it all. His life was in shards.

Desperation was all that was left.

"So, you're finally realizing how selfish and egoistic your actions were. How misguided your anger?" Mary suddenly spat behind him.

John tilted his head back in despair; he so did not need another dress down by his dead wife. He did not turn around.

"You know, I was aware it would get rough when I asked him to start a fight with an enemy, still, I certainly didn't expect you to treat him this way. I am so disappointed in you, John," she continued.

Those words hit John harder than expected. Because, of course, he was so disappointed with himself, he understood where she came from.

"John, look at me... He did not deserve this!"

"No, he didn't," John whispered, his head down, still not looking at her.

"Your negligence almost killed him. That is worse than shooting him to protect you."

"No, it's not!" John spat back – suddenly furious – and turned around "I am fucking grieving!"

"Yeah, guess what, you're not the only one. He has not only lost one person, he lost us both."

The anger vanished from John's mind as fast as it had risen.

"You can't honestly think this was not a suicide attempt. Allowing Smith to choke him to death was definitely one," she continued, "Why do you think he would not try again? You expected that now that you are on friendly terms again, Sherlock's notions would vanish? Ridiculous."

With quite a bit of shame, John realised that he somehow indeed expected that – in a way.

"He went away to kill Moriarty's men to save you. Then he let you go, because you mean more to him than his own life... And now that I am gone you made him believe you are better off without him."

John stood up, unsettled by the words the ghost of his wife was uttering.

"Well, being hit by you was probably traumatic, but expected."

"Now wait a minute..." John finally spoke up.

"No, you wait. How often have you seen him actually cry?" she interrupted.

Lost for words, John remained silent.

"He cried when you beat him... Christ, John! You didn't just break a few ribs. You broke something else. Something deep in his self. It hit him unexpectedly and one could actually see 'it' break. He understood that moment that he had miscalculated, that you would not come to save him. I think he knew that his chances of being successful with his plans were very slim."

John felt tears well up in his eyes, tried to breathe them away.

"He didn't even fight you. He thought he deserved it! YOU made him think he deserved it!" she was now yelling at him.

The image of an actually crying Sherlock was not something that was easy to forget. John  found it immensely unsettling. The detective certainly had displayed a lot of discipline, not showing his emotions. Nevertheless, those tears had escaped Sherlock, shown his desperation and the agony caused by John's transgression.

"If that wasn't self-harm, I don't know what is," Mary huffed with a sarcastic laugh.

She was probably right. Sherlock had expected physical violence, though not the amount John had unleashed.

John was horrified about himself. He had never thought himself capable of kicking a man already on the ground, or one that was not fighting back at all. Remembering this felt so ugly and disgusting, something he had not felt back then.

Besides the fact that he had tried to shove all memories of the event as far away as he could, additionally, his memories were a bit hazy, clouded by his rage.

Mary's explanations brought details all back clearly and the fact that Sherlock couldn't hold tears back unsettled John profoundly in hindsight.

His friend had been a shivering, crying mess on the ground and he had not desisted from hurting him even more. He was an arsehole.

"Yeah," she agreed to his thoughts. "And shortly after that Sherlock allowed himself to be slowly chocked to death, fully conscious and aware what was happening. That is not just self-harm any longer! That's a suicide attempt. For once I have to agree with Mycroft. He is fucking suicidal, John!"

John closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"This was the second trauma, and this one he did to himself. He punished himself for things that had gone wrong, things he had little influence on. He probably didn't even think beyond either saving you or die trying."

"Mary, please..." John choked, sinking back into the chair on the far end of the room he had occupied until a few minutes ago.

"God, he's showing textbook signs of psychological trauma. How can you not see it?!"

John just had no idea what to say to this.

"Eating disturbances, low energy, depression," she listed.

While she talked, John considered each point, checking them all off as withdrawal or 'normal for Sherlock'.

"Anxiety, numbness, irritability, anger, avoidance, bad at concentrating and making decisions," she continued.

He nodded.

"Substance-abuse, self-destructive behaviour," she finished.

Mary interrupted him before he could say something.

"I know that what you are about to say, he is not normal. Anyway, you can't not consider it!"

"Yes, and what about me? You died in my arms, what do you think this did to me?!" John yelled back, suddenly angry.

"The same might be true for you, John. I do see that. The thing is, you are so not ready to talk about it I didn't want to breach the subject."

John closed his eyes again, trying to get a grip on the chaos in his head.

Was this really another round of Sherlock's PTSD?*

"And what about flashbacks and nightmares? You know the thing about the fire... I am not sure what it was but it was certainly one of the two. Those are not random hallucinations. Things are surfacing and he needs help with that."

With that, John had to agree. Sherlock's hallucinations had a touch that profoundly worried him, too.

Was it really possible those were actually memories paired with hallucinations?

"He needs help, John," she repeated, in a gentler tone.

"I know," John whispered. He felt absolutely helpless.

Whatever options he had available felt wrong or he was afraid it might make things worse. Those past days he had hovered in indecisiveness, keeping his distance while simultaneously pushing Sherlock to some aim he didn't even know.

Had he pushed Sherlock too much?

Was Sherlock's unresponsiveness the result of Sherlock trying to escape his aimless efforts and his still lingering anger?

"You are still angry about the drugs... and although you try to hide it – which is good – he senses it nevertheless."

The sentence left John out of words. He had no answers to that, couldn't deny it.

"You rejecting him is the reason for all this shit. And your drinking makes it no better. In fact, John, you have no right to criticise his relapse. Your drinking is actually no better. You both just try to numb the pain. "

The last actually made John bury his face in his hands. He felt the debilitating mixture of agony and desperation rise and fought to keep his tears in check.

He had broken down way to often in the past weeks. Sometimes he felt as if he couldn't cry anymore, was just numb. On other occasions, it just broke out of him. At least he had managed to do the latter in private - without exception.

"You know the drugs probably heightened his experiencing, made everything more intense. That mixed with the grief makes one dangerous emotional cocktail. He probably doesn't even remember how 'good' or 'safe' feels any longer. You were his respite; his save place, and you took that away from him."

The sentence was the last blow John didn't need.

Tears started to flow and he turned away from Mary who was now standing next to the bed, he faced the dark window.

Roughly rubbing his hands over his face, he tried to get his composure back. This was not privacy. Someone could come in any moment and he just couldn't stand anything getting any worse. And it would if anyone realised he was as unstable as he was.

"Yep, you're good at hiding it," Mary commented sharply. "Even so, that might be the problem. He doesn't need an emotionless doctor, he needs a loving friend."

"I'm trying," his voice broke.

"Oh yeah? Not enough. Not the right way," she had no sympathy with him.

After a long silence, in which she seemed to wait for him to stand up and show anger or the willingness to fight or whatever, she started to explain when it didn't come.

"You have stopped touching him. Why?"

"What? I... I don't touch him."

"Yes, you did, John. You know how few people he actually allowed to touch him or how few he touched out of free will. Well, you can count them with one hand."

"What are you getting at?"

"After his time away, it got worse. He was hurt. He was traumatised by the hands of others. You know he never got back to his old normal more than I do. It might not be easily visible from the outside, but all those awful memories are in his head, pressing to burst to the surface. You of all people should know PTSD never 'heals', it's all about learning to live with it."

"I know."

"You need to get back to your old behaviours, John. To the easy and trivial little intimacies you shared before. You need to touch him. He is touched starved as it is, even without the most important person in his life backing away from the little caring contacts that used to happen."

"He flinches. He recoils when I...?"

"Seriously, John? Trauma. Remember," she interrupted. "You did this. You probably opened the old wound, ignited the issues that he had a hard time to keep in a smouldering state. Maybe you hitting him brought all those horrific memories of being tortured back to the surface. You are the one who needs to fix it. Touch him."

John shook his head repeatedly, not sure it was the right way to handle this. If she was right touching him might make it a lot worse.

"Show you care by going back to normal and casually contiguity. You did this since you knew each other, return to it. Don't be his doctor, instead take care of his transport's needs in an affectionate way. Bring home the message that you care by actually taking care. Maybe better overdo it than be too careful so that Sherlock gets it. "

The gap you created needs to be closed, not only the mental one, the physical one, too."

"I am not sure this is a good idea."

"You don't know until you try it. Give him some TLC. Use another than speech to underline that you want him in your life and that you care for him. The once thing Sherlock Holmes can not handle is you not being there. He needs to know that you are with him. Make it clear. Every single day. Give him a reason to stay! Make it unmistakably clear that you want him in your life. If you don't we might lose him."

John felt more tears collect in his eyes and he once more rubbed his hands over his face to wipe them away before they had a chance to fall.

The doctor didn't have the strength to turn around and look at his friend or his wife; he just stared blindly into the dark.

It took quite some time until he regained control, almost fifteen minutes passed.

The only sound in the room was the now and then inflating and deflating blood pressure cuff.

When he finally turned around he kind of hoped Mary would have vanished. Predictably enough, she was sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed, resting her hand over the electrodes glued to his forehead. Now and again she stroked back his hair.

The picture brought back new painful emotions and John briefly closed his eyes.

He missed her so much.

Her care, her feedback, her love.

He bit his lips but failed holding in the new wetness on his face. A few seconds after that, it got even worse, his face actually crumpled when another wave of grieve and loss caught up with him.

He lowered his head, trying to keep himself together.

A moment later, he heard the sheets move a bit.

Sherlock hadn't moved on his own for hours, which meant the nurses had to turn him in regular intervals.

In surprise, John stared at his friend, trying to figure out what had caused the noise.

Then a small involuntary grunt followed, as if Sherlock was doing something straining, struggling.

With a few quick steps John was over at the bed.

"Mnn..." Sherlock made another little distressed noise and this time his hand twitched.

Immediately John's eyes flew to the cardiac monitor display.

Sherlock's blood pressure had risen, as had his heart rate.

The doctor rounded the bed and switched on the LCD display of the electroencephalogram machine that had been turned off to keep the lights in the room low.

The screen lit up and showed the rows of curves. There was suddenly a lot of different activity going on.

John leaned down and eyed every one carefully. He was glad that he couldn't spot anything that seemed related to seizures. Nevertheless, he couldn't make any sense of what he saw either. On the other hand, he was no specialist in reading these.

He turned back towards the bed, rested one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gently tapped it.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

With his other hand he wiped his face of the last remnants of his earlier desperation.

"Sherlock, come on. Talk to me."

Instead of an answer, Sherlock started to slightly move his head from one side to the other, it was only a few centimetres but it was a lot more movement than expected.

"Sherlock? Wake up!... Are you dreaming?"

John's question was answered with a small whining noise as Sherlock's face started to work.

"Hey, mate. You're all right. You can just wake up and it will be fine. Come on."

Once more, John rubbed his friends shoulder.

Sherlock's only reaction was that he started to become more agitated, his movements remained small and simultaneously became more erratic.

The detective's arms and legs started to twitch and when his hand flailed, it tautened the IV tube. John had to catch his limb to prevent injuries.

Before John could reach for the call button the door flew open and a nurse hurried in.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know. He's distressed. Came out of the blue. It's probably not a seizure but I am not sure what it actually is. Get someone who can properly read the EEG. It's getting worse."

The nurse didn't hesitate, turned around and yelled something down the corridor.

A reaction to the noise followed suit. Sherlock tried to move away from it and roll onto his side, away from John. By doing so, he dislodged the pulse ox and the cardiac monitor started to blare.

As fast as he could, John reached over and pushed the mute button, but the alarm had obviously made things worse.

"Sherlock? Wake up and look at me, please? Tell me what's going on?" John addressed his friend and gently squeezed his hand he was still holding.

Sherlock's only reaction was to weakly try to get his hand free and turn his head away.

Unfortunately, the sphygmomanometer started to noisily inflate and thereby squeeze Sherlock's upper arm a moment later.

It noticeable stressed the detective and while John gently tried to keep his friend on his back, he was indecisive what would be the lesser evil, to open the noisy Velcro or to just wait until the device was deflating the bladder.

Even before it was finished inflating, Sherlock became downright panicky and tried to fight off the pressure, his hands aimlessly fumbling with the cuff.

"Alright, alright. I'll take it off," John ripped the cuff open and - careful not to scratch Sherlock with the spiky side - removed it from the arm.

If Sherlock's senses were spiking and he was overwhelmed by the sensory input this could make things a lot worse.

Or maybe they were already mid sensory overload and heading towards a meltdown.

John's brain started to list all the things he could do to minimize input and lessen the issues.

Suddenly, Sherlock's lips parted. "This is not real," he whispered. His voice was so hoarse John needed several seconds to register it was actual speech.

"Huh? You are in hospital, open your eyes for me," John rubbed his thumb over the back of his friend's hand.

Sherlock's hands started to open and close as if he tried to feel them and John let go.

A doctor hurried in, followed by the nurse.

"What's happening?" he asked – way too loud for John's taste.

John shushed him, pointed at the EEG monitor.

When the nurse stepped over to the other side of the bed and pulled a penlight out of her pocket John raised his hand over Sherlock's chest, wordlessly prompting her to give it to him.

She did.

"Sherlock, I am going to shine a light into your eyes. I am really sorry, I'll keep it as brief as I can," he spoke in a low voice and gave the other man a few moments to process the words.

He then lifted Sherlock's right eyelid and swiftly moved the light over the iris. To his great relief, the pupil reacted normal and immediately, but a few seconds later, Sherlock freaked out.

He started to make loud pain filled noises, tried to shove away John's hand and curl up on his side repeatedly.

The nurse reached out to gently pin him down, keep him from rolling off the bed.

"Don't touch him any more than absolutely necessary," the other doctor had finished inspecting the EEG curves. "Raise the bedrails. Give him some space, as long as he does no harm. Keep the tubes save," he addressed the nurse in an equally low voice. John was eased by that behaviour. It meant the man was informed about Sherlock's sensory issues and willing to respect them.

"Mr Holmes? If you hear me, please open your eyes or raise your hand."

Sherlock didn't react to them in a meaningful way. The few things that caused a reaction had no pattern, they seemed to be random. The BP cuff, the noise, the light had provoked reactions, but neither their voices nor the stimuli the doctor or the nurse tried in the following minutes brought any result.

Sherlock just continued to weakly struggle, as if he couldn't lie still because he was in severe pain. For a moment, they were just watching him, trying to figure out what to do next, when suddenly, Sherlock's hand went to his chest, pressed down on his own sternum hard, then started rubbing an area right to it with surprising violence.

Gently, John tried to stop it, well aware the scar from the gunshot surgery was hidden under the hospital gown.

Due to John's not very firm grip, Sherlock managed to rip his now shaking hand out of John's grip and he continued to frantically chafe the spot.

"Sherlock, don't. Come on. The wound has healed. You're okay, mate."

When John once more tried to prevent more harm Sherlock cried out in pain – or frustration.

Seconds later he started to frantically shake his head, gasping for air.

"Diazepam?" the nurse offered.

"No!" John immediately refused. "No drugs until we have no other choice."

Her questioning gaze went over to the other doctor, who nodded.

At that point, Sherlock started to fight them in earnest. They had only two options, drug him or hold him in place.

For the moment, they went with the latter and it was only possible to do so because Sherlock was so weak.

The nurse temporarily disconnected the IVs and other tubes as a precaution and they just waited, tried to keep the EEG lines out of the harm's way and monitored him.

By the time Sherlock started to gasp for air John decided it was enough.

"He's not getting out of it, it's getting worse," the other doctor turned towards the EEG, re-inspecting the readouts.

Sherlock was starting to struggle harder, his features contorted by distress.

"He's having a panic attack or something," the nurse uttered what John suspected, too.

There was a brief silence in the room before Sherlock started to kick and before anyone could stop him, his hands went to his head, his fingernails scratched over his scalp with such force that he ripped off the gauze protecting the EEG leads.

Three of the electrodes glued to his forehead were torn off immediately.

"Jesus, Sherlock, stop it!" John cursed.

The night doctor grabbed one of Sherlock's hands, tried to keep it at distance. John did the same with the other but it only enraged Sherlock.

John sighed, "Right. Maybe we should get whatever anxiolytic you have that has the lowest sedating side-effects," he looked at the other doctor, who nodded.

"Get it," he asked the nurse who bustled off.

"We'll only administer half a dose first, then see what happens," he said to John while dodging Sherlock's knee that was coming up.

"Overall, he has quite a high tolerance. His reactions to medication are jumbled up, better be careful," John added.

"I know. It's in his file."

Sherlock started to try to rub his head against the rails and the doctor hurried to pull the crumpled blanked up and place it in between Sherlock's skull and the side of the bed. To his horror, John spotted wetness on Sherlock's face.

"Let's switch places, I need to see his face," John suggested and they did. The moment they briefly let go, Sherlock's hands returned to his head and he completely shoved off the gauze that had only been dislodged earlier. Some of the cables went with it. The detective started to go for the electrodes still in place.

The other doctor caught both his hands again.

The places on his brow, where he had ripped off the other ones, had turned to an angry red colour.

"Shh... you're okay. There you go, Sherlock. Calm down," John soothed when he reached the other side of the bed. Sherlock's face was distorted from some invisible horror he was living through.

With one hand John reached in between his friend's head and the rails, with the other he did what Mary had done earlier, he placed his hand the side of Sherlock's head, tried to soothe him with a caring touch.

"Easy. Just take it easy."

For a while, they waited for him to come out of it.

Yet, Sherlock continued to struggle.

As the nurse came back in, John felt the wetness from Sherlock's face run down over his own hands. He leaned down and saw that Sherlock was crying.  

The nurse slowly injected the first half of the syringe into Sherlock's bloodstream.

Within a few minutes, the small dose had the desired effect.

First, Sherlock's features evened out, then, in a matter of seconds he went slack within their grips.

"There you go. Relax. It's all right," John made sure to keep his hand on Sherlock's head while he let go with his other.

He gently stroked back Sherlock's hair, while carefully avoided the remaining electrodes.

Sherlock was curled up against the side of the bed, towards John.

John found it hard to see his friend like this, out of his mind, anxious and vulnerable.

Whatever he was dreaming or experiencing - it was bad, really really bad.

Again John had to bite his lip to keep his own emotions in check that threatened to overwhelm him. He was still shocked from the revelations the conversation he had with Mary had brought but now he was inwardly shaking from the additional strain of the last minutes.

 

 

 

Notes:

* I didn't write this but other writers did. When writing this, I had the story The ride home by Sparkypip in my mind. Because I am very sure Sherlock did not just walk off an overdose.

Chapter 25: Disruption - Part 6

Summary:

Sherlock has a very difficult conversation with a doctor.

Chapter Text

 

 

The next morning, Sherlock woke with an unusually dry mouth and an unnerving headache even before the wake up call. He tried to get back to sleep, feeling unrested and exhausted, but to his annoyance his scalp itched and he couldn't find sleep again due to that.

The distant noises of the carers getting reading for the morning routine added to that. He stayed in bed since the room was unpleasantly cold. After a few minutes of lying awake the ghosts of some weird dreams drifted into his mind. No matter how much he tried to remember details of the nightmares, they lingering just beyond his reach.

During the getting up routine, he tried to hide his mood, aware he was observed by more than one carer today. It was quite exhausting, but not very successful.

All he wanted was to lie in bed with his eyes closed. Everything else was just too much to handle.

Whenever he was left to his own devices for a few minutes he found himself lost, staring into nothingness. He was overwhelmed with just existing. Felt so depressed and down he actually noticed it himself, had to kick himself hard to execute any action – mental as well as physical. This made breakfast quite an ordeal.

It had happened before, in hospital, when he seemed to be done with saving John. When the days of drug induced euphoria and madness were finally over and he felt suddenly overwhelmingly empty, as if all purpose was gone. The feeling had returned with a vengeance.

While he stared at the bread on the plate in front of him, he tried to remind himself that saving John wasn't over. Greg had reminded him of that, had told him that John still needed saving. He had to return to real life to actually do it.

But that life seemed so far away, was so hard to focus on now.

Was it true? Had he just stopped to try to save John? Given up before the finish line?

The thought made him feel even more out of his turf and lost than already.

Doing things right with John seemed an unreachable goal.

Additionally, he had started to ask himself it the goal was even real.

What he had perceived as reality was slipping further and further away from him.

Which of his realities was even real?

The asylum was all he had experienced in days and everything else seemed to drift away from him. His bleak reality was this institution now.

To his frustration, the staff didn't give him a break.

The carers tried to make him socialise the moment breakfast was over, even asked him to go outside. On one hand, he was glad they weren't sending him off to work, on the other, he felt even unable to face the unfamiliar space of the inner courtyard.

When he didn't go by himself, they tried to 'encourage' him by bringing him to dayroom, but he must have looked so horrified about being there again, they finally allowed him to just sit in one of the armchairs in the hallway where they could have an eye on him.

.

Mid-morning, he was told that he would be seen by his doctor in half an hour. He was relieved, because he expected to get a chance to explain that it was all a mistake.

However, Dr Rubenstein didn't give him much opportunity to talk and informed him no nonsense that he had been committed due to an acute endangerment of self and others because he had attacked his friend as well as passersby.

Of course, the first thing Sherlock asked was if 'his friend' was all right, assuming it was Watson. The question was ignored even after he urged for an answer, which unsettled him. He then explained that he couldn't remember how he got here, but Rubenstein made it clear he didn't believe him.

The fact that an against-his-will institutionalisation had – even in this era – to be signed by a physician suddenly jumped into the forefront of his mind and he asked who had provided the document.

"Two independently from each other doctors have agreed on your condition. Their signatures are in the file," Rubenstein stated slowly.  

Sherlock demanded to see them but the other man refused, pointing out that he was known to turn every fact into a truth of his own to fit his deceptions.

Sherlock couldn't believe Watson would ever sign a paper like that, which meant he either hadn't been present or had been incapacitated somehow. Or maybe someone had done it simply without asking Watson.

The second message – that he turned every fact to his own liking, derailed his thoughts even more.

"I was informed your wounds are slow to heal. I expect you to eat properly and behave from now on."

When had he misbehaved?

Did they deem last night 'misbehaviour'?

It was surely failure on his part that he hadn't been able to hide his distress, but...

"You are suffering from acute mania, Mr Greenberg," the doctor interrupted his thoughts.

The words had the mental impact of a verbal missile.

Sherlock felt his body start to tingle and a few moments later cold sweat added to his discomfort.

"Of course this very state makes you oblivious to your condition," the man continued. "Mania is easy to diagnose because it contrasts strongly with other mental illnesses."

"And how did you gather those information?" Sherlock asked carefully, seeking for a way to argue against it and to find out more about his admission.

"Besides our own educated opinion we doctors rely on the opinions of family and friends. Their reports are in the files, too, carefully collected by your doctor."

"I want to speak with to him," Sherlock demanded.

"There is no need for that. But I see that you need to have this explained to you so you can understand," he made a short pause after this belittling remark, "People close to you reported that you suffer from uncontrollable, prolonged passion as well as a turbulent mind. You barely sleep, which we had the chance to observe here already. Your family states that you speak frantically and often it is accompanied by wild gesturing. You are a torrent of ideas and actions, which is expressed by free-flowing language. You have issues with beddings or clothes and tend to... not use them."

Sherlock's mind grinded to a halt.

He did all of that – of course he did.

However, it wasn't a symptom. And mania was just a melting pot for all that was misunderstood about mental illness in the 19th century. It was far from being a proper diagnosis in his understanding, just nonsense, a word with little valid content.

When Sherlock kept quiet, the doctor continued.

"The state of excitement characterises the disease."

From Sherlock's point of view, this man was not a trained psychologist, he just used the Victorian Era defined sense of behaviour standards to fit him into the limited range of diagnoses the scientists of the time had come up with, which were mostly odd and ridiculous. Although horrifyingly, still the basis for too many believes present in the 21st century. It was alarming how many Victorian things were after all the foundation of how people thought. The era had influenced more things the average modern being ever realised.

"I'm nothing of that," Sherlock protested, well aware that his behaviour did match the description - a lot more than he liked. But he had displayed them in modern times, at home. The only one aware of them in this era would be John, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft, who he trusted not to have leaked any of this.

"Not at this very moment, but you were before you were brought here. What your doctor and friends described fits exactly the typical signs for mania," the man repeated, as if to hammer it home.

"Once mania has settled and turned chronic, the acute symptoms are joined by others: the patient may try to dissolve the accrued energies any way he deems necessary. For example by  fighting, singing or moving. Eventually, the maniac is so exhausted that he is only a ghost of his former self, which is your current state, Mr Greenberg. You are very exhausted and in a poor state as a result."

"I would describe my issues as melancholia," Sherlock stated, looking the man in the eyes, which took a lot of effort. In his opinion, that described his current issues way better than anything else. He was aware that he was depressed. Keeping the dark thoughts at bay was something he had to work on every minute of every day. That was why he was so exhausted – in addition to the withdrawal of course.

"No," the doctor disagreed. "Sufferers of melancholia are able to describe both, the causes and the symptoms of their disease. Most of them regularly articulate how unworthy their lives are."

"I am just not very capable of expressing my emotions," Sherlock contradicted, "and was raised not to wallow in self-pity."

"It is true that the melancholic can successfully disguise their insanity, but that is not the case with you. If at all, you are a manic with melancholic tendencies."

The expression and tone of the doctor clearly indicated that Sherlock had stepped over a boundary by expressing his own opinion. Rubenstein was probably thinking of himself as unerring. Sherlock had already observed the strikingly obvious hierarchy this institution was governed by.

"Recent events hint that there might also be monomania present, which is characterised by one solitary falsehood that is taken as a truth. You seem to be living under the illusion to be a famous detective. Your file hints at this problem, though monomania was not yet diagnosed. We will rectify that omission in the upcoming weeks."

Sherlock's heart sank.

"Monomania can include full sensory hallucinations. The illness can fixate on real beings or delusions. To the layman, the monomaniac appears normal at first sight. He talks about his delusions in a most orderly and mannered way, which perfectly fits your behaviour. Since intellect and reasoning are not affected by the disease, many months of careful observation might be necessary to prove its presence," the man lectured Sherlock, "Monomania is a rather new diagnosis, and it might be that you were suffering from mania before and recovered but are now suffering from monomania... or that your doctor was simply unaware of monomania and misdiagnosed therefore."

Shocked into silence, Sherlock said nothing. From an odd ivory tower perspective this made sense. Just that with his background knowledge this was complete nonsense.

"I am glad to tell you this can be cured. Assumed you work with us and take an active part in your recovery." Rubenstein picked up his monocle and pinned it onto his nose, then moved around a few of the handwritten notes, studying them. "It says here, your sophomoric fantasies have badly affected - even ruined - several lives. Family and friends are suffering greatly from your lack of employment and pretence to work for the police."

Another remark that hit Sherlock with unexpected force.

"You will understand therefore, that we cannot permit family and friends to suffer even more from your delusions... or allow them to hamper your recovery, especially not this early in your treatment. You can correspond with them if you wish. Maybe we will allow carefully checked visitors later."

"Will you also check my correspondence carefully?" Sherlock asked, frustrated now.

"Of course."

The blatant honesty surprised Sherlock. His motivation to seek a dialogue about his admission being a mistake was completely gone. If everything he uttered or did was turned against him, it would serve him better to remain silent.

"You are lucky to have people who care for you this deeply. Your friend brought you here and arranged care for your other friend after your attack."

Had he really hurt someone?

Who?

With growing desperation, he tried to remember. But the memories were still very vague, there had been a fight… loud voices... hands on him. The few details that had come back earlier were not making a lot of sense and still the only ones.

What he clearly remembered, though, was that something had been pressed over his mouth, which consequently sent him into panic mode. The horrible memories of slowly losing consciousness when Culverton Smith chocked him were alarmingly intense the moment anything reminded him of the event. He was aware that this was a mental scar of his own making, it was unsettling nevertheless.

"You are in a single room because we feared that we need to protect the other patients from your outbursts. A fear that was confirmed yesterday evening. Your episode was quite violent."

"It had nothing to do with mania..." Sherlock protested, almost saying it was just a withdrawal-induced hallucination, but that was the wrong word to say and he changed course. "Nothing! It was a panic attack. I suffer from those because my thoughts drift back to bad experiences from my recent past."

It was a half-truth he offered, nevertheless, he was flabbergasted about his own honesty.

"Of course," the doctor agreed. "You were moaning one word, asking for one person in your delirium, again and again. John. What John might that be?"

"My best friend. His wife died. I am very grieved," Sherlock offered, feeling oddly vulnerable to admit it. "It is one of the reasons for my melancholia," he added, making one last try to convince the man's to reconsider his opinion.

"What business is his wife to you?" the doctor frowned.

"She too was a friend," Sherlock tried carefully.

"And why were you asking for him?"

Sherlock couldn't remember at all having done that.

"He has often helped me in the past when I was poorly," he stated, careful not to mention the name Watson or that he was a doctor.

"Our hospital is a modern institution. Here, you will be treated with kindness and care," Rubenstein suddenly changed the course of the conversation. "The moral regime is the bedrock of our asylum life. Our first goal is to remove the patient from the immediate cause of illness. This is a refuge from the evils of society. We subject patients only to uplifting, healthy forces, which are palliative and curative. The cornerstones of recovery are physical activity, routine, daily occupation, regular meals, and plenty of fresh air," the doctor explained and it sounded like a memorized text he had cited countless times before.

Although Sherlock was sure that the intention to help was probably an honest one, he was convinced that the reality of life in an institution like this was a different thing.

He was aware that the times in which inmates had been chained to walls without clothing or any facilities, rotting away in their own dirt were in the past. Things like these had happened in the early 19th century. Back then, the insane were considered wild animals and not held morally responsible, kept in madhouses in appalling conditions, neglected and beaten.

The 'moral treatment movement' changed that. In the beginning, it was opposed by members of the mental health profession. The 1840s non-restraint-movement changed how asylums were run. By the mid-19th century many psychologists had adopted the strategy. The 1845 lunatic asylum act made it law to treat people like human beings. Lunatics were no longer seen as prisoners but as patients and treated with more respect. At that time, a great belief of the curability of mental disorders was present.

The newly invented treatments were supposed to influence or alternate a patient's behaviour patterns by occupation, leisure, and interaction, something modern psychology still used in a way.

As always in life, Sherlock knew that things hadn't changed immediately even after they were made law. It was not all black and white, humane and inhumane treatment of patients continued to exist side by side.

He had landed himself in an era in which science was only starting to try to understand mental illness and find treatments. The moral treatment certainly was a step in the right direction but was designed for small country retreats, neither for overcrowded nor industrial-like institutions, which caused a lot of problems. This meant that mental health patients were still just taken off the streets and stored under bad circumstances in overflowing institutions. The logistics and realities of providing custody and care would sooner or later defeat the attempt, it was only a matter of time, the detective knew from history books.

The lack of real treatments would sooner or later lead to growing pessimism about the possibility to successfully heal the insane. An issue that was still fiercely debated in the 21st century.

"Your family and friends tried to provide care and help as best as they could," the doctor interrupted the stream of facts that his mind regurgitated, "but your issues finally became so intense, it made you an unbearable burden. We want to help you to be a valuable member of society again."

In a normal state this would have just bounced off Sherlock, but in his current depressed and hopeless mood the remark cut deep.

Had even mind palace John needed a break from him and his antics, and had therefore given up on him?

Was it just his wishful thinking that he tried to find a case where there was none?

Were all the deaths he had investigated not related, just a coincidence?

Used by him to keep himself from living through his failed existence?

To keep himself distracted?

Running away?

He knew he needed John in his life, now that he had tasted companionship.

The recent events confronted him with the nagging fear that the desire for a companionship on John's side was gone.

He was a burden to his friend.

Although he had done so much, had archived so much information about what John needed, he could never be what the man really wanted.

John desired a family, a wife, love and being loved - by them.

That goal had been destroyed, and it was Sherlock's fault.

Only the drugs in his system had enabled him to make cocky remarks and get through with his plan to ask him to solve the Culverton Smith case with him. It was a very pathetic and stupid way to try to force John into it, he was ashamed of it in hindsight.

Had he been less stoned, he might have managed to do it in a way that John might actually have excepted.

But he had only been a dumb arse, fallen back into the old patterns.

He was unable to communicate like others, feel like others, and interact with others in a way that didn't damage them. He was not capable of providing something positive. His ever so brilliant mind was no help. In fact, he had recently - finally - understood that there was no benefit from being brilliant. It was nothing but a burden.

Anyway, he wasn't brilliant any longer. So it didn't matter that John was not fond of it any more.

Details evaded him, conclusions hid from his mind, logical exclusion failed, and he was even slower when it came to thinking than the average human being. His reaction time was beyond hope, as was his workmanship.

He was useless.

Life without John wasn't the same. Solving cases without him was boring and unsatisfying.

Obviously, John didn't feel the same.

Maybe the reason why he was here was that his subconsciousness wanted to punish him for all the flaws in his character, his failures and his miscalculations.

"Mr Greenberg!"

He flinched, the booming voice echoed through the high ceiling room and reverberated in his every bone.

"Finally back with me?" the doctor asked impatiently when Sherlock's frown met his gaze.

The detective gulped, dazed by his realisations. He turned his head away in a desperate try to quell the onslaught of emotions that followed the insights.

"You seem to have problems focussing on tasks, as you have just demonstrated. There's also lethargy that ails you. But do not worry, our excellent treatment will cast that out. We will do the same with your tendency to be irritable and aggressive. Do you wish to add anything to this list of issues that we might have overlooked?" the man added in an arrogant tone. 

Sherlock shook his head, having lost all his energy to speak. He knew enough about psychology to gather that Rubenstein was way too arrogant to consider anything Sherlock might suggest. The only thing that would happen was that he was punished by even more bashing.

Many things the man had listed were the immediate effects of his meth withdrawal and Sherlock was very aware of them, just the conclusions were obviously wrong, but as a stupid patient, he had no footing trying to explain to a taught scholar what was really happening. Whatever John might say about this, he had actually learned from his mistakes during Moriarty's trial. He remembered the judge who had not been pleasantly surprised by the disclosures Sherlock had offered. The result was a night in a cell in the same building as Moriarty, he had been degraded to the level of an annoying criminal.

That had been quite a reality check. Although it had felt like being scolded like a stupid child, it had also shown him more of those disturbingly unexplained invisible lines adults were not supposed to cross, no matter how important the outcome.

What he had already learned in his youth was that most people in high and powerful positions were so engrossed in their own ego they had low tolerance of others being more intelligent or of being proven wrong. For some silly reason, he tried to prove them wrong nevertheless, somehow ignoring that knowledge, hoping against hope that they were intelligent enough to value the facts more than their own opinion. Some aspect of him remained ignorant of the fact that he wouldn't change anything, no matter how true the facts he represented were.

Rubenstein loudly cleared his throat and Sherlock flinched, realising he had lost himself in his own musings once more.  

A moment later, he was ushered out of the room, and being advised to show his best behaviour if he wanted to be treated well.

He found himself standing alone in the corridor, staring at the wall, trying to understand the meaning of what had just happened.

He felt even worse than before.

All his hopes to find help to right this were gone. He would rot here until they had brainwashed him and he had completely lost himself.

 

 

Chapter 26: Disruption - Part 7

Summary:

Sherlock learns some interesting facts.

Notes:

I am not a native speaker and if any native speaker is out there eager to be my beta, please contact me.
Beta-ing is a lot of work so please consider carefully before offering anything.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Later, Sherlock could neither remember how he got back to his room nor if anyone had picked him up and brought him there. His memory ended shortly after he had staggered out of the doctor's office, his mind fragmented into a weird mixture of panic, hopelessness and devastation.

The next thing he knew, he found himself staring outside his room's window, down into the wide area of the outer airing courts, those that apparently had no access from his ward.

The first thing he registered after that he was suddenly back in his room was that his headache had worsened. The annoyance of his itchy scalp finally dragged him completely out of his stupor. He must have stood there for quite some time, he deduced when he finally moved, his protesting feet and knees a strong hint.

He winced and sat on the bed, trying to remember what exactly had happened in the past minutes. He must have been on autopilot for some time, felt the befogged after effect it left in its wake.

With stiff fingers, he started to massage his pericranium, shoved his hair back and forth to loosen it up. He hadn't had a chance to wash it properly since he had arrived and the remaining grease was making things worse. His hands came back oily and his hair was a complete mess. He felt it stand in all directions and cling to his head in spots.

He felt the sudden urge to wash it.

Now.

He grabbed his bar of soap and a towel and headed for the lavatories.

Halfway down the hall, he found he couldn't stand it any longer, started to run, afraid someone might interfere and make him go somewhere else. There were fewer people than usual in the hallway, some men moving cleaning - men in patient's uniforms. He was glad that they seemed to be in a hurry and ignored him.

With a humourless huffing giggle, he wondered if this too was occupational therapy.

In the bathroom, he threw the towel onto the basin the furthest away from the door, hidden by a separating wall. Then turned on the tap in the sink next to it, roughly pulled of his shirt. A button was ripped off due to his haste. The shirt landed on the floor.

He immediately pushed his head under the flow.

Panting, he just stood there, sensing the cold water on his scalp, his hands gripping the rim of the basin tight.

When the water finally turned warm, he flinched, quite surprised by something he knew would happen.

It was quite a luxury; running warm water was an exception in this decade. Only an institution as big as this could afford to have hot water cisterns. Sherlock assumed they were housed in the towers that overlooked the grounds. Somewhere, in one of the buildings, a lot of people were sweating firing the boilers. The wards were also heated by hot water radiators with ornamental gratings.

When the water became too warm, he adjusted the temperature and reached for the soap.

Even after washing and rinsing twice, he still felt the grease. He was tempted to do it a third time, but resisted the urge, aware that untangling it afterwards would be nasty – the more he scrubbed it ordinary soap, the worse combing will get.

Before he turned off the tab, he took a moment to just let the water run over his skull. Allow it to take away the discomfort. He took a few deep breaths, turned the water of and realised only then that his heart had been pounding intensely all the time and was now starting to calm down.

He blindly reached for the towel, wondering what had left him so agitated. Sure, the conversation with the doctor had made something snap, but that feeling was familiar.

While still trying to figure out the source of his distress, he wrapped the towel around his head.

Had he experienced an episode of dissociation earlier?

Was the need to get water over his head his body's try to drag him out of it?

Out of habit, he started to rub down his hair, then paused to think.

Not a good idea.

Without any products to make combing easier at hand, he should probably not do that.

The moment he rewrapped the towel around his head, he heard the door open behind the separating wall.

Hastily, he unwrapped his head again, not wanting anyone to see him like this.

Not here. John at home, fine - but not here.

He turned his back to the entrance and reached for the soap, pretending to wash his hands.

"Woah, Greenbaum, what are you doing?"

It was the person with the Scottish accent, who sat next to him during meals, the one who had briefly talked to him, advised him to eat.

"Washing my hands," Sherlock stated the obvious.

"It's mealtime, better get down there – now! I was already way too late... We'll get in trouble. And better let no one see you treat the fine garments lent to you this way." The man pointed at his blue uniform shirt on the ground.

Still a bit slow and not really getting it, Sherlock reached for it, shook it out and pulled it over his head without opening the buttons.

The Scot hastily washed his hands and headed back to the door.

When Sherlock didn't follow, he halted.

"Come on, what the hell are you waiting for? You don't want to get scourged, do you?"

"What?" Sherlock's eyes widened.

Was that supposed to be a joke?

"Hide the soap and make haste! It's 12:35," the man explained.

When Sherlock stood there dumbfounded, missing the point, the man rushed towards him, grabbed the wet bar of soap and the towel, bundled them up and stuffed them behind a small wooden supply cabinet in the corner.

Then he came back and grabbed Sherlock's arm, who still failed to understand what was going on, but he followed the man who let go of him the moment he started to move.

They hurried down empty stairs and into the dining room. Apparently, the grace had already been spoken and the stewards had started to serve the meal.

Hughes was standing in the doorway, staring at them angrily when they entered.

"I beg your pardon, sir. The new guy was lost and couldn't find his way down here," his saviour loudly whispered to Hughes. "Stumbled into him and helped him find his way. You know how it is; the new ones get lost all the time, all those corridors looking the same. You should paint them in different colours if you want people to be in time."

Sherlock tried to look even more confused than he still was, trying to look as if he had been helplessly lost.

"Sorry, Sir," he added ruefully. "I'll try to do better now."

"Alright, sit down and be quiet," Hughes hissed while briefly staring up at Sherlock's messy head. He didn't comment on it, he had probably already seen everything lunatics could come up with.

They hurried down the aisle towards their row and sat down.

"Wuh, that was lucky," the scot whispered when they were served their lunch.  Unpeeled Potatoes and bread.

"If you are late they'll give you all sorts of nasty jobs to do. But that's the harmless punishment, there is worse," the man continued the moment the steward was out of range.

"Worse?" Sherlock echoed in a low voice.

"Yeah, you know, if you attack someone, you'll be chained to a wall or bathed in cold water or something..."

"I thought that were things of the past."

The Scottish man huffed. "They have all sorts of nasty 'treatments' that will 'help' you to behave 'normal'. Of course it's not 'punishment', it's treatment. But it will make you think twice before you let any issues show again."

.

Sherlock had barely finished his meal when nurse Miller walked towards him. He expected questions about his odd appearance, but instead of that he uttered approval for Sherlock's first tries at socialising. Sherlock failed to respond, speechless from the surprise.

All he wanted to do was to go to his room, comb, and have a nap.

He soon found out his opinion was not in demand. Miller informed him that he was expected to go outside for taking some air.

Before Sherlock had the chance to even try to come up with a reason why he couldn't, Paterson offered to take him for a walk and show him around a bit.

They went upstairs to collect their jackets and when Sherlock tried to convince Paterson to leave him alone so that he could comb his hair, Paterson refused, assuring him they'd be punished for that, too.

For a moment Sherlock wondered if the man was in the asylum because of paranoia, but then decided to learn from him what he could but use that knowledge with caution until he had prove it was correct.

.

Overall, the man had not been garrulous as long as they were inside, but the moment they were out of hearing range, he started talking a mile a minute – in a low voice.

It was mostly nonsense, rambling about the unseasoned food and the accommodation. Sherlock became irritated by the lack of context, felt as if he was coming late to a conversation that had been going on for hours.

"Excuse me," Sherlock interrupted, "Could we start again... from the beginning? I don't even know your name."

"Oh, so sorry my friend, I tend to get a bit excited sometimes. Paterson, the name is Paterson. I got yours already, Greenbaum."

Sherlock frowned. Something felt even more off about the name than before. He marked the diffuse inkling with a question mark, unable to grasp the facts, connect the dots. Most dots seemed to still run through his mental fingers like sand. He had been unnerved by it when Faith visited him in the flat, so much that he had even bothered to utter it. Although he was not consuming drugs any longer, the problem lingered.

When a group of three men walked by Sherlock tried to consciously receive anything without looking at their faces.

It took a moment, but to his relief he managed to perceive that one of them was suffering from nervous ticks and another from a stroke or some kind of head trauma in the recent past.

The facts were there – if he paid attention.

Why did he have the constant impression he was blinded because deductions weren't coming in on their own any longer?

Were they and his subconsciousness was just blocking them out? 

After stopping the stimulants, it felt as if he had become unable to 'see', but at the moment it felt as if sensing was just muted but could be done if he really focussed.

Well, concentration was an issue...

Was that why he couldn't make sense of anything?

"... Greenbaum?"

Sherlock's mind tumbled back into the present. He was still walking.

People did that a lot recently, ripping him out of his thoughts. It was getting annoying.

Or maybe the better question was why did he space out like that so often?

"Could you..." the detective hesitated, "Could you call me William... or Will?... That is my first name."

"Sure, my dear fellow," Paterson said in a fatherly tone, beaming with pride. He was indeed at least fifteen years older than the detective. It took Sherlock a moment to remember that using a given name was only common for family or very close friends. He didn't care.

The inner courtyard was not as bleak as expected.

A wide circular path allowed patients to keep going and it would take probably almost an hour to do one round. On the sides of the paved trail there were ornamented benches and something that were probably flowerbeds in the summer. The squares were currently covered with evergreen branches to protect something underneath from the cold.

They slowly walked down the path and Paterson kept babbling about his next-door neighbour, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He was engaged in cataloguing his surroundings, look for anything that might hint at loopholes. But the area was designed to keep people in. No trees or anything high enough to climb on, no doors, just high brick walls around an enclosed area. Additionally, there were no objects big enough so a person could hide.

His gaze fell upon an area under some small bushes, where snowdrops were in full bloom. He frowned.

"What date is it? Do you know?" he asked his companion.

"Well of course I do. I'm not one of the numb nuts that just exist here beyond time and place. They don't want people to be too aware, so they don't advertise the date. Half of the inmates in here aren't able to keep track anyway, or just don't care."

"So what date is it?" Sherlock urged.

"Wednesday, March 20th 1867. I am looking forward to Saturday; there will be meat suet pudding for dinner and later: evening entertainment."

The last date Sherlock remembered was from when he had read the newspaper on March 14th. It had been a Thursday. That had been the day when he and Watson had interviewed the landlord of the missing woman's mother and found out the mother was missing, too.

Sherlock staggered to a halt, confused.

Hadn't someone said he had been here for weeks?

From his point of view, this was his second full day at the asylum. Before the first day, he had been in the padded cell and his memories of that were quite messed up. In order to sort it out, he labelled that day 'Day Zero', unsure how much time had passed and how long he had been in there. He had been brought to his room in the evening of Day Zero.

It was only two full days, but it surely felt as if he had been in here for weeks.

He had not only difficulties calculating but also sorting out what had happened on which day.

It must have been only two days, he only had breakfast in the hall twice, yet. He was very sure of that.

But that was the odd thing. If the date Paterson had in his head was right, he was only missing three days.

He felt suddenly lightheaded.

Something was happening.

Something wasn't adding up.

A clue.

The thing was he couldn't figure out what it meant.

He stumbled towards one of the benches and sat down heavily, shaking slightly and weak in the knees.

"Whoa... Do you need help? Should I get a doctor?"

"No no! I'm fine. Just a dizzy spell. It will pass. I'm fine." Sherlock didn't look up but was aware Paterson was staring.

His thoughts were tumbling.

Someone had told him he had been here for weeks, who was it?

Maybe Paterson was wrong.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure... My wife comes to visit me and she always makes sure to tell me the date. I would go mad without it. But that's it about this place, if one wasn't insane going in, chances are high one is after a short time." With that, Paterson let himself fall into the seat next to Sherlock. The impact made Sherlock's teeth clash gently, his headache was getting worse.

"They said I was in the admissions ward before I came to our ward..."

"Aye, everyone stays there for a few weeks in the beginning, until they do a detailed interview and finish their observations, you know, so they know in which permanent ward they want to put you. Wouldn't make much sense putting an epileptic with the mania patients, would it?"

Sherlock flinched when the other man uttered the word 'mania'.

"I can't remember the admissions ward. I woke up in 'our' ward."

"Maybe you hit your head or something? Usually, the first thing when you arrive is the receiving room. You are disrobed, bathed, checked for lice and scarlet fever there... and you have your height and weight checked and all. Maybe you were injured and therefore they didn't do that... There are several people here with memory loss, all had accidents or something, some came straight from hospital."

"I can't remember..." Sherlock trailed off.

This didn't make sense.

"You will soon, I am sure," Paterson said in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring tone. "What work are you supposed to join?" he then changed topics.

"I don't know," Sherlock muttered, deep in trying to puzzle the facts together.

"Yeah, well they will tell you soon. No lazy thumb twiddling here. It would compromise your recovery! Inactivity is a disagreeable habit," he said in a mock authoritative tone. "They will hopefully give you some more time to allow you to rest and socialise... You really look like you're about to keel over, Will. Sure you don't need a doctor?"

"I don't think none of the doctors will have any understanding of my issues," Sherlock huffed in a frustrated tone.

"Oh, you're one of those?"

"Those?" Sherlock echoed.

"Not trusting them, those capable doctors. Think psychologists are all quacks?"

"No. Not really. I just don't trust people who think they are impeccable or that they know best although their field of work is still in its infancy."

"Yeah well, they are gods in white. Decide about your life, no matter what you know about it, they think they know better after knowing you for half an hour. Take the superintendant for example."

"Who's that?"

"Oh, he is the one who rules this facility. What he orders happens. The staff is obedient and excessively loyal. The word of the superintendant is law!" Paterson explained. "He's like a general, directs everything that is going on. He's the head of medicine and staff management, controls every aspect of life in this wonderful institution. Decides who is getting which diet or treatment, controls the letters going in and out, he even does the post mortems."

"Have you met him?"

"Of course, he is the link between us patients and the outside world, does daily rounds. He even lives here on the estate. Also, you can ask for an appointment if you have something really serious to complain about or something. It's every inmate's... eh... patient's right to do so."

Sherlock's hopes rose.

Could this be a way to request a release?

"Thing is, I know some people who tried that, did them no good."

Sherlock internally faltered again.

In other words: it was just like in modern times. Of course, you had the right to propound your case – just because it was your right. But that didn't mean anyone would bother to care.

"The only way to endure this," Paterson made a gesture that showed he meant the asylum, "is to show perfect manners and don't make any problems. Only this will get you any sympathies or friendly reactions here.

Sherlock grimaced when he remembered that the doctor had advised him to behave from now on.

"If you don't comply nasty 'treatments' will be the result," Paterson added.

"What do you mean?"

"The treatments you will be given will make you think twice before showing that particular symptom of your illness again. Reginald over there for example," he pointed at a tall slim man in the distance, "He was angry that they told his wife not to come visit, he yelled at staff repeatedly. Therefore, they treated his agitation with a medication that made him vomit and have the shits for a week, until all fight went out of him. I mean, they can give you nasty meds that result in an immediate improvement of your attitude – due to suffering."

Sherlock sighed. It was a form of power game, of making someone comply. It was certainly more subtle than chaining a patient to a wall, but this the same keynote.

Additionally, there was the problem that asylums were not only a home for people who couldn't live on their own, but also a people dump for all those society or other people wanted to get rid of. The unwanted citizens that were completely healthy, dumped here by relatives, unloving husbands or the community, just because someone wanted to get rid of them, not due to their mental state.

"If they can't convince you to eat they will restrain you and force-feed you through a tube. Someone died a few years ago because the food got into the lungs."

"How long have you been here?" Sherlock asked.

"Three years."

Sherlock felt his eyes widen involuntarily in horror. The man appeared quite normal, had not shown any severe signs of mental illness yet, but Sherlock was aware that might mean nothing.

"Melancholia," Paterson stated. It was obviously his diagnosis. "My daughter and then my wife died and I..." he stuttered. "I am not handling it very well."

 

Paterson made sure they were back in side in time for dinner. The Scot was allowed a personal item as a reward for good behaviour and had chosen his pocket watch, which he frequently pulled out to check the time. Sherlock wondered if it was just a habit because of a former occupation or a compulsion.

It was his first dinner at the asylum; he had slept through yesterday's evening meal. The potatoes were again unpeeled and sparingly salted. The meat was overcooked and bland, but at least there was meat.

Sherlock did not enjoy the meal and started to feel sick halfway through. He couldn't finish the potatoes. Paterson – who had an unusually good appetite for someone with depressions and asked if he could finish them for him.

After tea, Sherlock was once more picked up by Miller. This time he wondered how close he was observed at all times. He had thought that they had relaxed control on his second day, but when the nurse showed up he wasn't sure any longer.

Miller escorted him to his room and when he showed signs of locking him in, Sherlock asked for a bathroom break.

Maybe they had relaxed the control but when he vanished today to wash his hair had made them change their minds.

"Alright. You should take a comb and brush your hair. You look very dishevelled," Miller advised.

Sherlock fetched the comb and a second towel to hide the fact that he would bring back the other one.

When he stood in front of the bathroom mirror he was horrified, he really looked tattered, his hair wild around his head. His paleness made the black circles under his eyes very prominent.

He found he couldn't look at his reflection, turned away in aversion.

Therefore, he combed through his tauted curls with his back to the mirror. He hadn't cut his hair since before Mary's death and it had grown quite a bit, which was now making things worse.

Wetting it again helped a bit. The good thing was the facilities were empty and he had at least a bit of privacy that way.

It took so long that Miller came in to see what the problem was. He then went to get a hairbrush because the comb was just useless.

An hour and a lot of tweaking later, Sherlock's hair was free of knots, wet and combed back. He looked exactly as if he had greased them back again, but it feel better.

Cleaner.

Miller brought him back to his room and locked him in.

He started to dread the sound of the key turning the lock, but for now, he was glad about having a bit of privacy.

 

Sherlock had planned to explore the place as best as he could within the day and continue during the night. The first he had achieved. Nevertheless, over three hours in the 'garden' had left him drained. Although they had sat on benches more than half the time it was way more exercise than his body was ready to perform.

Paterson had provided so much useful intel he had just listened, eager to learn more and ignoring his body's complaints about the cold and the strain.

The wound in his leg had gone from occasional itching to throbbing at some point. Now it was radiating more pain than his still present headache.

Additionally, he found he was so exhausted from the blow of the devastating conversation with the doctor, he lacked all motivation to do anything.

The hypothesis that he might be incarcerated in the asylum mainly by his mind, not by the physical circumstances surrounding him undermined his motivation further.

Until he found a solution for that, he wasn't sure it was of any use to do physical exploration.

So he cancelled last night's plan, to do more reconnaissance during this night.

It was all the same.

When he sat on the edge of the bed, trying to fight his fatigue and wonder what the hell for he was trying that, he felt that itch on his scalp again.

Combing through his wet hair with his fingers, he had the sudden impulse to shake his curls loose.

And he did.

Little droplets of water hit the stone floor in front of the bed and even the window when he violently shook the water out.

The intense movement made him feel dizzy.

But it felt good.

As if unleashing his curls had reminded him who he was.

That he was Sherlock Holmes and he had curls.

Reconnecting to his real self.

It was liberating.

 

 

Notes:

Since it seems the passing of time might be a bit confusing, I want to point out that the timeline of the asylum and 2016 happen parallel to each other, but as in TAB, time in the mind palace is passing faster.
2016 Sherlock being distressed in the hospital is the mirror action of Sherlock freaking out in the asylum dayroom in chapter 21. It is sometimes necessary to finish an action in the victorian era before switching to 2016, therefore things can happen with a bit of chapters in between. I tried to point out the landmarks that happen in both timelines but maybe I am not doing a good job.
If this is too confusing, tell me.

Chapter 27: Disruption - Part 8 - Dreams - Thursday, March 21th 1867

Summary:

Sherlock gathers information.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Sherlock's night was not an easy one.

He woke up multiple times. The pain from his head and his leg had receded but during the night, it returned vigorously, which made it difficult for him to fall asleep.

The gash had started to hurt after the long walk with Patterson. Contrary to expectation, resting was not making it better, but worse.

Even more difficult than the moderate pain were the nightmares, though.

Shortly after midnight, he woke up bathed in sweat, remembering exactly what he had dreamt about.

At first, there had only been vague images of Mycroft and him as children, but then it became more detailed. He remembered there was a girl, who climbed a tree and teased them to follow her up.

Mycroft refused, but little Sherlock tried. He hadn't even reached one of the thick lower branches when the girl started to kick him from above. It didn't take long until he fell down, hurting his leg on impact.

Sherlock assumed his real pain had influenced the dream, integrated itself in it.

The dream itself was not unsettling to a level that kept him from falling asleep again, but something he couldn't decipher was. Additionally, his senses started to act up a bit while he tried.

The little noises in the building were getting to him, especially the distressed ones from further away. The rough fabric of his pyjamas and the bed were hard to ignore. The discomfort worsened the pain reception and although he was aware of the vicious cycle and tried to ignore it, it felt like hours until he managed to drift off again.

 

After barely an hour of undisturbed sleep, he woke to his leg pounding with pain.

The strong urge to unwrap the dressing and inspect the wound resulted in him shoving away the blanket and sitting up.

His entire calf was burning and the moment he moved, a stabbing pain made him hiss. The dim light was not helpful when he tried to peel away the bandages.

Looking around the room, he noticed that something was bright outside, although it felt way too early for sunrise.

He limped over and opened the window blinds.

A full moon was shining outside* lighting up the room. He leaned against the windowsill and put his foot up for better access. 

To his surprise, he found the wound looked fine, neither infected, reddened nor swollen. It seemed to heal nicely.

Wondering if there might be an infection under the skin, he prodded it gently. As expected, the pain intensified and he cursed. He focussed on the wound itself, tried to deduce what might have caused it.

It was a not a clean cut, the margins of the wound were slightly jagged.

Half of the cut itself was a gentle curve that started on the side of the calf, but then it took a sharp turn, deepened and ended in a twist. It was an odd shape. Which meant whatever had caused it was sharp but had happened rather slowly, maybe his leg had moved, which caused the shape.

Another possibility was that he had been dragged, probably face up - while his foot was slack and tilted sideways?

He leaned back, tried to focus on how it must have felt when it happened to jumpstart his memories, although he tried for several minutes, nothing new came back.

The cluelessness left him frustrated and he messily wrapped the wound up again, not caring to do it right.

If John were present, he'd tell him he needed to speak to a doctor about it tomorrow.

That was when he realised that not even a virtual version of John had paid him a visit since he was in this institution.

Sometimes, when he was in dire need of his friend, the mind palace had provided him with a virtual version that confronted him with wanted or unwanted intel about what he thought about Sherlock's behaviour, needs, case or whatever.

Why wasn't it working this time?

He was longing for John's presence.

Maybe he just didn't deserve john.

Greg and several other people had tried to hammer it home that Mary's death was not his fault, but he couldn't eliminate the guilt he felt, wondered if she would still be alive if he hadn't asked her to come back to London. She'd probably be safer on her own, on the run but alive. Her abilities and ruthlessness might have saved her.

Looking out of the cold window into the darkness of the gardens, he felt all the grief and deep sadness weight him down.

The sudden onslaught of emotions made him lean against the wall for support. It was so intense; he had to fight a stinging sensation in his throat that indicated tears might follow close.

Trying to overpower the unwanted sentiment, he gulped repeatedly and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

He had rarely felt this alone and lost in his life.

Before he had known John, he didn't know what he was missing, but now he did.

Just as he thought he had shoved the emotions away, desperation and hopelessness pressed down harder. He knew that he could manage to ignore them for a long time, but at some point, they would catch up with him, causing a shutdown at best or a full-blown meltdown at worst.

The room contained nothing to keep him occupied and he needed a distraction very badly at the moment.

Out of other options, he started to walk, tried the walking meditation technique he had learned during his time in Nepal. The problem was he couldn't clear his mind enough to do it. In addition, it was harder inside a building – and a room that was so small he had to watch where he was going all the time.

The only thing he could think doing was to try to analyse his problems, think about them properly.

He stood by the window again, tried to see anything that would help him escape in the dark, but the view was bleak and not helpful.

Up to now, he felt, he hadn't managed to really focus on escaping and therefore not found the solution. He didn't necessarily want to go back to reality, but he needed to get out of this hellish place that destroyed people even more than they already were.

 

Sherlock woke when the wakeup call came, slightly surprised that he had managed to fall asleep sitting on his bed.

He even dozed off again after the call.

In semi-sleep, he felt something sneak around his wrist. The touch was gentle and immediately spawned intense disgust. For some reason he couldn't move, was caught in the drifting state.

The hand lingered, probed. Very gently, but clearly a man's hand.

For a moment, he hoped it was John, but it was far too unfamiliar. When he realised that, he reflexively tried to wind away from the touch. But - as it was so often in dreams - he couldn't. A moment later, he felt Magnussen's breath on his face.

He struggled and within a second, disgust turned into panic.

His breath caught, then someone shook his shoulder.

"Mr Greenbaum, wake up!" a loud voice boomed through the room.

He was shaken harder, the touch on his hand and wrist gone.

Even before he was fully awake, he rolled away from his assailant in distress. But the wall stopped him. Before he could move down the bed to jump out of it, Hughes's voice boomed again.

"Hey, it's me! Wake up! We will do you no harm."

Sherlock blinked, disoriented, the loud voice brought him back to reality – the new reality, the one in the Victorian era.

"What...?"

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to frighten him. He was dreaming and in distress... and I tried to feel his pulse, but he became agitated and..."

"It's alright, Cooper. You did nothing wrong. He just had a bad dream," Hughes explained to the young lad.

"I'm fine. Just a bad dream," Sherlock panted, desperately trying to hide his distress. He was still wondering why this kid was going for a job in this institution. Sherlock was sure Cooper would be happier with another profession.

"Also... I don't like to be touched," Sherlock continued, "I have been...." he stopped. This was none of their business; they didn't need to know the touch had triggered a memory of Magnussen molesting him in the hospital.

"I am alright. I was plagued by nightmares tonight," Sherlock reassured him while taking stock.

He felt dazed, his heart was pounding uncomfortably fast, his leg hurt, and he felt cold.

"Get dressed, you need to hurry. It's late. Breakfast in sixteen minutes."

"You want me to help you with your hair?" the young man asked and Sherlock shook his head, horrified by the idea.

"My leg pains me a lot, may a doctor take a look at it later today?" Sherlock asked politely.

"I will put it in today's list," Hughes mumbled and left, Cooper followed him.

Sherlock was glad to be left alone. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to fully wake up.

Much to Sherlock's dismay, he found Miller waiting outside his room when he headed for the lavatories. He was accompanied by the nurse, who kept a close eye on him the entire time until he delivered him to the dining hall.

 

While waiting for the meal to be served, he realised he had gone through the morning routine like zombie.

His mind felt as if it was enveloped in cotton, as if he couldn't shake sleep off completely. It felt odd but not unfamiliar.

He tried to determine the cause and was fairly certain that no one would have managed to administer any medication while he was asleep. The thick needles of this era as well as the key in the lock would have woken him. The idea that the food might be drugged was discarded immediately, too. He would have noticed earlier if it had been.

It took until after Patterson addressed his absentmindedness that he realised that although it felt like being stoned - without the high - that it was probably an episode of mild dissociation.

It had happened before, back in the months after he returned from Serbia. His episodes back then were more intense but felt similar to this.

When triggered, his mind kicked him into a haze that prevented him from experiencing the memories fully to protect him from the horrors.

Apparently, he was wandering in that mist again. The moment he realised it, it was also clear that the trigger had been the touch on his hands.

Being molested by Magnussen had left imprints in his mind. The assault had happened while he couldn't move, was too out of it. It left him fighting with issues like helpless and vulnerability again. The real trigger was being unable to take a stand against a threat, this was just a sub-variant.  

The fear that his PTSD might renew itself due to the more recent assault he had lived through in Culverton's hospital. It had been a long hard fight to get back on his feet the first time and he would not have managed it without John's constant support. He was not sure he would ever find the strength to go through that again, especially not on his own.

He consciously pictured a vault in his mind palace and tried to lock the trigger away, together with the sensation of feeling helpless.

 

The morning passed slowly, but was not too demanding.

At some point, Miller escorted him to the dayroom, which Sherlock was not too fond of. Luckily, Patterson was there with a chessboard looking for an opponent.

Before, Miller told him he was expected to socialise and he neither wanted to nor had he any idea how to do it without rubbing people off the wrong way.

John was usually the one who'd undertake the part of first contact in social interaction, his absence was like a sore spot that was agitated whenever he interacted with someone.

With John, everything was so easy.

So familiar.

The more time passed in this reality, the more difficult he found it to handle even the vaguest reminders of his friend.

Maybe his absence was not just a sore, but a wound created when Mary died and during the time Sherlock had taken drugs, it festered.

Wasn't it supposed to have started healing when John saved him from Culverton?

Maybe it had started to heal, but now the wound seemed to have reopened – or gotten infected.

All the doubts and self-hatred Sherlock had felt while brooding alone in Baker Street were slowly rising up to the surface again. He felt the need to block it out, couldn't afford his depression to show more than it already did – or any of the symptoms of posttraumatic stress. Any deterioration of his fettle would make things worse, but it was a herculean effort.

Hunting down Moritarty's web had almost ended in disaster because of John's absence. It had disabled him, made it harder to concentrate so much it became life threatening. Mycroft even advised him to take antidepressants to enable him to survive his 'hunt'.

Waiting for Patterson to make moves provided him with way more time to let his thoughts roam than he liked.

Not for the first time he wondered how much time had passed in real life. Usually, time passed faster in the mind palace, enabling him to do more work in less time. In this case, though, it would be a disadvantage. It might mean that he'd be in here for weeks while in real life only a day passed. Which meant that if he wanted to not experience two days of intense, dreadful withdrawal he might have to stay in the Victorian era for months.

The only thing he was not really worried about was his transport. Two competent doctors were monitoring him and no one would really miss the obnoxious junkie who needed medical care after overdoing it.

If he was honest with himself, he knew he could have done with half of the drugs, feigning the rest.

In hindsight that made him feel additionally guilty, because he knew his abilities had faltered under too much being-under-the-influence.

Mrs Hudson had told him repeatedly how stupid it was to take that much. He was unable to listen to her unnerved and worried efforts.

He missed her, too.

She had been his rock after Mary's death.

Had kept him alive by now and then taking care of him. For days, she had been the only person he saw. Although she had complained and interfered, she had understood his sorrow. Her patience and tender loving care had not bounced off him. Maybe the worst thing about this relapse was that it was all so different from before. Although her affection had done nothing to soothe his grieve, he had been able to trust her care, had submitted to her efforts because he knew he was completely out of his turf and lost in his failures.

 

After lunch, when Sherlock was on his way back to his room, his leg hurt so much, he had to lean against the wall to catch his breath.

"Mr Greenbaum?"

Someone was there, but he didn't realise they were addressing him, failed to recognise the imposed name.

"Mr Greenbaum?" something touched his shoulder.

When he stumbled in his haste to seek solitude, someone held him upright.

"Let me help you," a male voice said, keeping him steady.

He did not try to shake off the hand, afraid it might be seen as a provocation, but the urge was strong. He bit his lip to keep the disgust hidden.

With clenched teeth and narrowed eyes, he looked up at the stranger.

The man was dressed like a doctor and Sherlock was quite sure he had never met him before.

"Oh, of course, you don't remember me. I am the ward's physician. I examined you the day you arrived, but you were unconscious. You don't look good," the man said in a friendly and careful tone. "I read you suffer from severe exhaustion?"

It was at least a diagnosis Sherlock did agreed with. Moments later he realised this was a possible source of information.

"When?"

"What when?"

"When did you examine me?" The detective hoped to get some more clues to his puzzle.

"Four days ago, when you were brought here from the admissions ward."

No new information then, Sherlock concluded. That much he knew already.

When he didn't say anything, the doctor continued, "Well, we will then nurse you back to good health."

The man was in his mid forties and Sherlock realised this was the first time an older member of the staff seemed hopeful to really do some good in the world working in the asylum, whereas most of the older ones had already abandoned all hope and were just trying to get through the insaneness of the day.

"My name is Dr Winter, by the way", he added when Sherlock continued his silence. "You look ready to keel over, my friend. Allow me to bring you back to your room."

Without waiting for an answer, he hooked his arm under Sherlock's.  The touch made him flinch.

This was excessively close and way too intimate.

Only John was allowed to do this, not this stranger.

Without a word, he tried to endure it, fearing the slightest slip of a rough word might make his life a lot worse.

It was pathetic really.

Since when did he care what people thought? Or feared things like cold water?

These days every little discomfort seemed to spawn real fear, which was quite annoying and made life a lot harder and more stressful. He knew that in his head, but the bedlam emotions were disabling nevertheless. No matter how much he tried to mark his internal troubles as 'ignore', it affected him.

Even after years of John trying to explain it to him, it still wasn't easy for him to decide when to wisely keep his mouth shut and just collect information. Being forced to refine this paltry ability during his time on the hunt had helped, but it was still far from satisfiable.

Dr Winters helped him to his room and informed him he would be back to examine his leg, which was obviously bothering him.

Sherlock had not mentioned it. He was so tired he sank into the bed and covered his eyes with his forearm, tried to shut out the world.

If they would just leave him alone!

That doctor being friendly was too much. He didn't want the man to be friendly. He was too much like John, caring and trying to help.

No one was allowed to do that, only John.

Far too soon, Winter came back with Miller and young Cooper in tow. They removed the bandages and inspected his leg.

It still looked good, although the pain was getting worse. Sherlock made an effort and described his ailments. He left out that in the past thirty hours things seemed to go downhill when it came to his physical health.

Winter frowned but didn't comment, just made a note in a small booklet he was carrying in his breast pocket. Then he left the carers to redress the wound.

The moment Miller and Cooper took over; they seemed to continue a conversation they had started earlier. Sherlock had witnessed that behaviour with medical professionals often in the past. It was as if the patient was not there, as if they were working on something that could neither hear them nor interact.

"I guess there are a lot of people like your aunt who are not too fond of it."

"She just doesn't understand," Cooper sighed.

"There really is a need to regulate the distribution of drugs and to make sure pharmacists know what they are doing. There are too many out there not taking the health of their clients seriously, only their own profits. We had a few cases in here that were the direct result this wrongdoing. Overall the pharmacy act will do good, keep people safe."

"I know! I agree. I tried to tell her that, but she really threw a wobbly when she read the paper. You know, she takes those pills – they are expensive. She spends a fortune on them... Those that are advertised to cure all sorts of ailments. A few weeks ago, she went to another than her usual pharmacy... and the apprentice told her they are rubbish and that she should take something that has scientifically been proven to help for her chronic cough, and that the act would come and change things. Since that day she is constantly ranting about the government trying to ruin her health."

Sherlock remembered from a lesson, which touched the history of chemistry, that in the end of the 1860s a new law had changed the way pharmacies were run.

"Yeah, the law will make it more difficult for quacks to sell their rubbish. I am happy it will finally come," Miller stated while he carefully spread antibiotic salve over Sherlock's healing wound.

"Take the salve for example. Twenty years ago, they didn't even know germs were there and that they caused health issues. However, the medicines that were invented without that knowledge are still sold... and they don't help at all. Pharmacists need to prove they are educated and that they know how to mix proper remedies."

Sherlock suppressed the strong urge to inform him that there were actually medications invented before the discovery of germs that had anti-bacterial properties.

"I understand," Cooper said.

Apparently, Miller was kind of a teacher for young Cooper.

The young man carefully redressed the wound – which took quite some time - and Miller made a few suggestions about what to improve.

When finished with his leg, they checked the wound on his head, which was also healing well, despite the intense rubbing and combing the day before.

They left him suggesting a midday nap and he was too tired to feel ashamed about the fact that his tiredness was that obvious.

 

Sherlock curled up on the hard cot and pulled the flimsy worn blanket over his head, in a desperate try to shut out the world.

He had no hope left to just call an exit from the mind palace by now, but he tried nevertheless – the usual disappointed followed immediately.

He tried to imagine he was home in 221b, tried to imagine John was doing something in the kitchen.

At least the cravings were tolerable or maybe just completely overlaid by the outer circumstances of this hellhole.

It took only a few minutes until he had drifted into sleep.

 

Once more, he dreamt about the unknown girl. This time, she tried to make them climb a mountain instead of a tree.

And this time she didn't kick him, this time she tried to shove him over a cliff.

He was surprised to find that he didn't fell; Mycroft was there and kept him from toppling over into the abyss.

Sherlock woke panting, experiencing being a child again was no fun, but being saved by his brother made it annoying. On the other hand, it made him remember something he had not thought of in a very long time.

How existence had felt as a child.

How he had relied on Mycroft understanding things, explaining things, and preventing bad things because he had much more experience with the world.

Back then, Sherlock had trusted Mycroft to do the right thing – as much as he trusted his parents.

They misunderstood a lot but he knew they did their best. He had been frustrated often because they were so slow and words were not precise enough and their thought processes were so alien, but he had never doubted that they loved him.

Blinking hard, Sherlock tried to concentrate on remembering what the girl from the dream had looked like.

Unfortunately, other than the fact that she was a girl there were almost no details in his dreams, no face, no hair colour, no clothing. The only thing he remembered clearly was her high voice, it felt dangerous and excessively sharp.

Sherlock couldn't figure who she might have been. There were neither neighbour girls nor relatives that had a daughter. 

Chances were high she was the result of his usual withdrawal nightmare nonsense, with a proper dose of rubbish and anxiety.

Trying to focus on something else – John – he hoped to dream something nice for a change when he drifted off once more. In his current state lucid dreaming was what he needed, but he never managed it when he felt poorly already, which was when he need it the most.

 

The girl and the tree and the mountain returned a third time.

This time he ran away from her.

She followed him, yelling 'It's not me you need to fear, it's the mountain!'.

Before she could catch up with him, someone unlocked the door of his room, waking him up.

"Time for the water treatment," Hughes greeted him, some large towels in his hands.

Sherlock froze. No one in this institution seemed to bother to inform patients about what would happen next and it left him jittery whenever something new came up he had little to say about.

 


*After I wrote this, I bothered to check the moon phases and there was a full moon on March 20th, 1867, lucky me. Source: http:// astropixels. com/ ephemeris/ phasescat/ phases1801. html

 

Notes:

Additional Bonus: More Art

Do not post my art on other sites/social media or use in any other way without my written permission.
 

Chapter 28: Day 7 (2016) - At the Hospital - Part 3

Summary:

John's night is getting worse.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

After Sherlock had succumbed to the effect of the drugs, the nurses helped John to reconnect the lines. John was glad when – finally – the hospital staff left them alone.

Sherlock looked relatively relaxed, though not as much as John would have liked.

The small dose of anxiolytic wouldn't last long, but the doctor hoped Sherlock would remain calm after it wore off.

Experiencing the presence of the nurses and the other doctor as intruding was new to John. They were colleagues. He was used to colleagues, used to working with nurses, used to being in a hospital. Those things were an important part of his existence.

Nevertheless, it felt as if they had invaded his private living space and he needed them out. They hadn't been gone for more than three minutes, when things took a 180 degree turn. He suddenly felt abandoned.

The silence was heavy and unbearable, the loneliness overwhelming. This entire situation was a task he was not ready for.  

In truth, maybe it was the other way round. John had abandoned Sherlock. If it was true what he had learned in the past few days then Sherlock would rather die than leave him – no matter how bad John treated him. It wasn't even the first time his friend had actually proven he would never desert him.

Sherlock had gone on several crusades just for John's sake. Moriarty, Magnussen and now Culverton Smith.

This time his friend had done lasting damage to his body.

John struggled to understand this level of self-abandonment.

How could Sherlock even muster the affection for him to go to these lengths?

He was just a stupid fool who drank too much, struggled with anger management and failed to function like a normal human being. The past months had clearly shown he was an inadequate father – just like his father had been. He understood he was not worth his daughter. She deserved better.

As did Sherlock.

Sherlock's affection seemed to lack any terms or conditions, which couldn't be healthy.

The realisation that this kind of devotion needed protection unsettled him. Not because he wanted to keep it, but because it was fairly self-destructive. Sherlock needed protection from himself.  
Was that what Mary had meant?

John bit his lip when once more was overwhelmed by his emotions. This entire thing was just so fucked up.

"Shit."

He was too tired and fed up to hold them back. He just hid his face in his hands and allowed them to silently flow.

 

It must have been over half an hour that John just sat there, lost in his helplessness when he heard the sheets move. He opened his swollen eyes and stood up.

"Sherlock?"

At first, there was no obvious movement, but after another moment he saw Sherlock's left arm tense, then his hand clutched the bed sheet in a tight grip.

"Sherlock?... You're alright," John cooed.

Sherlock's other hand came up and gripped the gown over his chest.

John feared Sherlock might freak out again and continued to talk.

It didn't help, though. Sherlock didn't react to his voice.

Probably, Mary was right and he needed to fix this by overwriting the hurtful touches he had caused with caring ones.

Sherlock's distress worsened, he started clutching the sheets hard and grinding his teeth. The sound was shockingly loud and violent - and thereby quite distressing. Seeing his friend suffer like this was becoming more and more excruciating for John.

If Sherlock had retreated due to his misery, he wouldn't be eager to return to more misery. John understood the need to touch him in a consciously caring - positive - way.

Although John was anxious to do it, he made an effort.

Firmly, but carefully, he pried Sherlock's right from where he clutched the hospital gown over the scar from the gunshot wound.

"Sherlock?... Your wound is healed. You are fine," John said – as calm as possible.

"Maybe you are aware that we are in the hospital but... you are okay. It is save to wake up, now."

John wrapped his own hand around Sherlock's and held it in a reassuring grip.

With bated breath, he paid careful attention to how Sherlock responded.

He didn't.

No twitch or change in tension.

Sherlock's face didn't tense up any more than it already was, though the doctor could spot the eyeballs rapidly moving under the closed lids.

"Hey mate, I get that you feel like shit. And you have every right to be... unnerved - and angry." The words were stupid, but he was lost for anything intelligent and he didn't want to use more medical terms.

He was here as a friend first and as a doctor second.

There was so much he should say, wanted to say, but he was unable to put it into meaningful sentences.

"If you want to stay in there for a bit longer to not have to see my face I am alright with that, too. I am with you, whatever you need," John promised and gently squeezed the hand he was holding.

Handling Rosie had changed John's understanding of touch –  as well as Sherlock's. The detective rarely touched people, which was very obvious to John right from the beginning. John was surprised to find out that the only people he ever initiated physical contact with were John himself and Mrs Hudson.

Over time, Molly and later Mary were slowly added to the list of touch-recipients. Sherlock didn't refuse being touched by his parents, but he never did the first step.

If physically attacked, Sherlock defended himself. He also didn't hesitate to detain people if he felt the need, but he evaded touch whenever possible. He wore his leather gloves far more often than the weather would call for.

Overall Sherlock's touches had always been considered and conscious.

When it came to Rosie, Sherlock had been anxious in the beginning, afraid to do anything wrong. But it had taken surprisingly little time until his touches switched from hesitant to natural. The normalcy of it had kind of broadened until it also included unconsciously touching John and sometimes Mary.

It had been a huge change and John and Mary made fond jokes about it.

John leaned a bit closer to his friend's face and used his fingertips to stroke back the hair that was clinging to Sherlock's forehead. He made sure it was not a tickling kind of touch, not too gentle. 

For a change, Sherlock was currently not sweating. His skin was rough and dry, and his lips looked as if they might crack any moment.

When the brief touch to Sherlock's brow didn't cause any reaction, John rested his entire hand on his hairline, to project familiarity and care.

"I am right here. I am not angry. I have no right to be angry, you did nothing wrong. I am the only one who committed misconduct... and I am very sorry."

Remembering that Sherlock might have actually tried to commit suicide brought back a feeling of fear and free fall.

"Sherlock, I need you. I know I don't deserve this, but please do not leave me alone. Please don't think it would be good to stay out of my life. You are one of the best things that ever happened to me. I need you. I need you in my life. Don't leave." John felt the tears rise in his eyes again and he bit his lips to keep them inside. "Please," he chocked and slowly moved his thumb back and forth over Sherlock's skull.

He felt pathetic and egoistic for uttering it, but maybe it was what Sherlock needed to hear.

 

 

The quiet lasted only half an hour, then Lestrade walked in. By then, John had found his composure again, but the expression on Greg's face not bode well.

Greg stopped at the opposite side of the bed, very close to Sherlock and his gaze switched from John's face to Sherlock's and back.

"No change," John just muttered. He sat a little further afar from the bed than before.

"How are you holding up?" Greg all but stared at John's face with a frown.

"I've been better," John murmured and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah. I can see that," Greg's tone was not overly sympathetic and John finally realised something was wrong. He lowered his hand.

"What is it?"

"Mycroft is this close to lose his shit," Greg lifted his fingers and showed him a very small distance between his fingers, "He's considering to throw you in some rehab centre at the end of nowhere,".

"Seriously? Why?"

"A bit before Sherlock had his epiphany last night, you were yelling in here – and your words weren't friendly! But we will not talk about it in here. The last thing he needs is being exposed to any form of aggression."

At first John didn't know what Greg was talking about, then he remembered the dress down he had received from Mary. He wasn't sure if these conversations with her were just in his head or if he was speaking out loud.

"Oh shit," the realisation hit him so hard he had to sit down. "Oh my god," he gasped, feeling nauseous.

"John? You better explain this or I swear I will haul your ass to rehab myself." Greg rounded the bed and started dragging John out of the chair not too gently.

"Greg, stop... I'm gonna puke," John whispered, afraid to make it worse if he spoke up. He actually wanted to get out of the room, but doubted he was able to walk out under his own power.

Greg let go of him and John shoved the chair even further away from the bed. His legs were shaking, but he needed to get some distance between himself and Sherlock. Then he leaned over to put his head between his knees. The idea that he had caused Sherlock's episode was turning his stomach.

A moment later his feet were shoved out of the way by a trashcan appearing between his legs.

"Thanks," he muttered, gulping frantically to spare them all from him being sick.

It was possible that Sherlock had freaked out as a result to his annoyed tone.

"So, what's going on?"

"God, I wasn't talking to him. I wasn't angry at him. I was talking to... myself," John huffed, desperate to let Greg know he had not relapsed into blaming his best friend.

"Didn't look like it," Greg's tone was sharp, which meant he must have seen the surveillance footage. "Actually,  it looked like you were seriously losing it and hallucinating."

"I wasn't..." John gulped, "Or maybe I was," he realised.

"John? You're not making it any better," Greg stood beside him and John could feel his hand at his nape. "I think you need a doctor."

"No, I don't," John sat up a bit, but didn't venture to look up at the DI. "I.. I was talking to Mary," he stammered.

He was surprised that he managed to finally revealed this to anyone. It had been a carefully hidden secret.

To his surprise, Greg took a knee in front of him, his expression changed to worry. "As far as I know things like that aren't unheard of. Have you told your therapist?"

John closed his eyes is despair and shook his head. He felt hot and cold and sick and...

"Why the hell not? This is the second time in a few days you told me you didn't tell her something I really think you need to discuss."

"She talks back to me," John admitted and he could feel Greg's worry raise a notch. "Mary, I mean. In fact, she gave me a hell of a dress down. She thinks I failed to notice certain issues Sherlock has - and my involvement in causing them."

To John's surprise, Greg laughed. Though there was no humour in the sound.

"Good, then I don't have to do it," he stated.

John sighed. "To be fair, she was right. I was just not ready to hear it. She sat at the edge of Sherlock's bed and..." John's voice died because he couldn't actually say it, the emotional turmoil was too much.

"Alright. If he can hear us it might have been actually necessary that he heard this, too. You heard that, Sherlock?" Greg addressed the detective who was dead to the world in the hospital bed.

"I bet if he can hear us he put it together the moment I said the first sentence to her," John uttered.

"Don't be so sure about that. The first thing I heard you yell was 'I am fucking grieving!' and you became more aggressive after that."

"It wasn't directed at him. It wasn't even directed at her. She represents my... I don't know – my  professionalism and conscience – who went both out the window some time ago. And I was not ready to hear it. But she was right. It was stupid of me to stay in here when... I should have gone outside. I didn't realise it was not just in my head..."

John hid his face in his hands again. "Oh God, I am losing my mind. He couldn't hold himself upright any longer. He slumped over.

"John?... Breathe!" Greg grasped his upper arm and squeezed. 

"I can't believe I was this stupid," John groaned. "I... I am..."

"Lost for words apparently," Greg injected. "Come on, you need a break. Can you walk?"

"Give me a minute," John managed to press out.

"Alright. I will get you some water and then you'll go get something to eat. I will do my best to clean up this mess with Mycroft," Greg announced and headed for the door.

John was glad that obviously Lestrade believed him enough to leave him alone with Sherlock.

After the door had closed behind Greg, John addressed his best friend.

"Sherlock? If you can hear me... Listen... If I caused this... I am very sorry. Mary was kicking my ass, telling we how much of an asshole I am... and that I need to show you how much I care and how sorry I am. She said stuff that was hard to hear... but she was right. I hope you didn't think I was angry with you. I am not. I am so sorry, Sherlock."

John felt so guilty it hurt – everywhere.

 

Half an hour later, Greg and John sat in the cafeteria. John had managed to drink some coffee and have half a sweet roll.

"So, what did she say?"

"Who?" John asked, a bit confused.

"Mary. What did she say that you were not ready to hear?"

"Oh... That my negligence almost killed him. That his PTSD is back and that he is self-harming... that he is suicidal..." The last words John could only whisper, they felt too overwhelming to be said louder.

"Yeah, well. He's been there before, so I think it is likely."

"Jesus, Greg!" John sat up. The information hit him hard and a sensation of cold dread spread in his chest. "When?"

Greg frowned and hesitated for a moment, taken aback by his shock.

"Sorry, I wasn't... I thought... you knew. He overdosed shortly after I first met him. I was the one who found him," Greg made a pause, visible fighting for control over his own bitter memories. "Went over because he was in a deep depression and had cut himself off from all communication, which worried me. He said later it was an accidental overdose but... I was never sure if I should believe him with things like this."

John lowered his head and felt his own stomach rebel about this bit of old news.

"Sorry, but I think 'Mary' is right. After her death Sherlock fell into that hole again. He got very depressed. Haven't seen him this bad since back then. I tried to stop his downward spiral but he wouldn't let me in."

Greg stared at the black liquid in his mug.

"He lost control. And he couldn't handle losing control. He needs to be in control."

"I noticed. I lived with him; he is a fucking control freak. I understood after a while it is not because he wants to dominate but because unpredictable things add stress. Its a method of... Compensation? The more anxious he is, the worse it will get."

"Yeah. Took me a while to get that, to. The worse he is, the more he tries to control things. Additionally, executive dysfunction adds to that. He wants to be in control but can't manage it."

"It's when he needs to be reminded to eat, drink and so on?" John asked, only vaguely familiar with the term but understanding what Greg was referring to. He had seen Sherlock having episodes of that - whatever it was called. During those Sherlock is overchallenged with simple things or even to get up from the sofa.  

"It is even worse when he is in a mood of dejection and during withdrawal.... I think we have to thank Mrs Hudson for taking good care of him. He probably would have collapsed weeks ago due to malnutrition. She was the only one he talked to, so I conspired with her. She was more than willing. He can be a handful."

"Yeah. I owe her... and I feel so fucking guilty. I don't know how to handle that."

"I know," Greg said, placing his hand on John's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. "And Sherlock knows, too. But I think the thing you need to show him at the moment is not your guilt, but your fondness."

John nodded," Mary said that, too," he admitted, his voice shaky.

 

 

Notes:

There will be fanart for this chapter soon.

Chapter 29: Day 7 (2016) - At the Hospital - Part 4

Summary:

This is the new chapter :)

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Day 7 - Late morning

 

Morning in the hospital was slow and John and Greg stayed with Sherlock for most of it. They were thrown out briefly for the morning rounds and routine examinations.

It was almost noon when Mycroft finally arrived. Without much introduction the older Holmes started to brief them on what he had learned from the doctors.

It took John a moment to realise Mycroft had just been in an in-depth meeting with the staff -  without John's presence. He felt overlooked and cut out. The anger that followed blurred his focus on Mycroft's layman tries to convey what he had learned.

"You decided to leave me out?" he interrupted, after he had managed to overpower the enmity.

"Obviously. You are in a state almost as compromised as my brother. You do realise his distress last night might be the direct result of the disturbance you caused? You came very close to being thrown out. Though I am not sure I find it reassuring that you were addressing an hallucination instead of him."

The remark was not unexpected, nevertheless, it hit John like a mental kick in the teeth. He sank into a chair and kept his mouth shut.

Mycroft puckered his lips and set aside his umbrella and the coat he had carried over his arm.

He didn't walk over to his brother's unconscious body, stayed near the entrance instead.  

"I value your input and your care for my brother but I required a neutral opinion on his state, first. I needed to gather as much information as possible. You will have the chance to discuss anything you wish with the specialists later. I have kept your indiscretion to myself for now, but if you display even a hint of any aggression in his presence, I will have you thrown out."

"Understood," John mumbled, still ashamed. Mycroft had every right to be pissed. Getting his anger under control was harder than it used to be.

"Ella Thomson tried to call, Sherlock's doctor will call her back soon." Mycroft continued.

"So, what did they say?" John tried to move the conversation forward.

"Basically, that he is neither in a coma nor awake," Mycroft sounded frustrated when he summarized the information he had been given.

"I came to the same conclusion," John said. Sherlock had uttered the words 'This is not real,' last night. Barely understandable, but it pointed in this direction, as did a fair amount of other details John had gathered.

"According to our timeline, Sherlock's meth withdrawal is either currently at peak or about to reach peak," John explained. "The initial crash phase is over, he is experiencing intense cravings. He even told Greg."

Lestrade had been quiet the entire time, sat next to Sherlock on the other side of the bed. With a tired sigh he stood up and stepped closer.

"Now that they have ruled out the most likely physical causes they are focussing on psychological ones," Mycroft explained while he stared at the linoleum, "I am not too fond that they do it this early and I certainly did not encourage them to do so or addressed the topic at all. They did, and knowing my brother, I have to admit it is a possibility."

"Shit," John shook his head. "How did you react when they mentioned it? What did you tell them?"

"Not much. But I will tell you," Mycroft pulled a chair out of the corner and sat down, at the opposite side and as far away from the bed as possible.

The silence lasted longer than John liked but before he could urge the older Holmes brother to continue, Mycroft spoke in a low voice.

"I told them that my brother has lived through some very dire weeks and that it is possible that he isolated himself. I did not tell them I thought it is probable but I am sure it is. He was so depressed and overwhelmed it wouldn't surprise me if he locked himself in - somewhere deep in his mind. He is emotionally unable to handle all that has happened in the past two months. Additionally, now there is your issues on top of his own problems."

John stared at Mycroft, a bit shocked to have Sherlock's emotional state addressed so bluntly. 

"The mind palace," John made an equally blunt try to change where the conversation was heading.

"As I have said before, the mind palace is a memory technique, it does not-"

"And as I have said before – you are wrong. I tried to explain it to you when we worked on the trauma he brought home from Serbia.* Of course it is a large storage for all kinds of remembrance, but that is only part of it. It is like a mental building and can be customized for experiments, problem solving and recreation. We used it as a safe environment to confront his triggers, quite successfully. It worked a lot better than expected. I thought you knew that. Haven't you violated his privacy and hacked into his medical files?"

Mycroft gave a resignedly sigh, "I only read the summaries. They didn't contain that much detail. I am not ready to address the mind palace topic with his doctors, they won't understand."

John raised his eyebrows. Mycroft rarely kept Sherlock's private things private, but he had his own experiences with things that had gone wrong in the past.

"They are focusing on 'dissociation'. I have to admit that when he suffered from it before, it  sometimes appeared similar to this," Mycroft's voice was cold now.  

When he paused briefly, John frowned, sensed the other man was holding something back.

"When exactly did you see him dissociate?" John tried to remember if Sherlock had ever mentioned that his brother had seen him have an episode.

The idea that this was dissociation was one more sign of post-traumatic stress that was laid out in front of John within a few hours.

Mycroft didn't answer but he seemed to have read John's mind.

"Actually, the idea that this is dissociation is intensely discussed by the staff," Mycroft revealed. "They are currently consulting a PTSD specialist."

John expressed his despair by falling into another chair and burying his face in his hands.

"The cookie cutter approach will do more harm than good. He needs someone who is familiar with his issues and special needs," John tried to summarize all the problems he felt threatening. They had been through this before.

"No need to tell me the obvious, doctor. I am well aware there is very little research on the combination of autism and post traumatic stress," Mycroft spat, uttering the actual words, which he rarely did. John knew his frustration was not directed at him or Sherlock's doctors, it was about what Mycroft had witnessed in the past. Things that that had gone wrong because doctors didn't bother to learn about neuroatypical individual's issues. Medical issues that had been overseen or treated poorly because no one bothered to find out what the problem was. The doctor in John had figured out years ago that this might be one of Mycroft's issues.

Overall, Mycroft seemed strained. John suddenly realised that seeing Sherlock unresponsive in a hospital bed was probably a reason for Mycroft freaking out internally. He started to eye the other man and seek out signs. Mycroft's profession was to hide things. After all, Sherlock had learned from a master.

"To be honest… some part of me came to a similar conclusion last night. I wasn't ready to face it but… I am aware the possibility exists and I see where they are coming from. Dissociation is an avoidance coping strategy, sufferers are often not even realising it is happening, it's not a conscious response. Being powerless and helpless results in disconnecting from harmful things that are happening. It basically is a protective mechanism, " John explained.

"Maybe we should contact Dr. Winkelbach*, then," Mycroft suggested.

"No. I am not ready for that," John admitted and his frown deepened when he understood something else.

"You know, the mind palace kind of developed a life of it's own after... Serbia. It kind of... It was damaged... like a real building after a bomb exploded. Mental issues caused virtual physical damage that he had to handle. What if the mind palace is not letting him out because he is a danger to himself?  His subconscious has shown some level of self-protection, even if Sherlock doesn't."

Mycroft stared at him if he had lost his mind, then he hid his face behind his hands. John saw him pale, although he tried to hide it.

"You know what you are saying?" he asked.

"Well...?" John wasn't sure.

"Does that mean that the only thing that can get him out of there is him actually wanting to leave?" Mycroft asked.

A long silence followed.

"Is there a way for us to get in?" Mycroft finally asked.

"Not if he doesn't allow us in," John mumbled. "He did tell me once that even if he doesn't allow stimuli from the outside world enter, my voice always came through."

"Apparently this is not the case at the moment - or Sherlock is ignoring you. But it is said that people in a coma can hear things. Maybe it does get through he just doesn't bother to answer. That would be at least better than him being in a constant state of dissociation," Mycroft said.

"To be honest, Mycroft. Maybe that is both the same."

Mycroft paled further.

"So what do we do if he decides the real world is too much trouble?" he whispered.

John couldn't help but sense that there was much more behind this than Mycroft was revealing.

"We wait, I suppose… and talk to him," John huffed and stood up. He stepped closer to Mycroft, eying him carefully. 

The older Holmes started fiddling with his phone and John suddenly realised the man's hands were shaking.

"Mycroft, what the hell is…" John started, but Mycroft stood up, picked up his coat and umbrella and left without another word.

When the door was banged shut, John turned towards Greg, who had silently listened to it all and was now standing in the corner next to Sherlock's bed.

"What did just happen?" John asked Lestrade.

"I don't know, mate. You know him better than me."

John rubbed his stubble, "Well, that looked as if he was fleeing."

"He was always distressed when Sherlock was unresponsive. Probably been confronted too often with him struck down by his drug of choice. It must be a sore spot seeing him this lifeless," Greg surmised.  

John furrowed his brows. Mycroft had never looked this unsettled about Sherlock being hurt before, not even when Mary shot him.

 

Greg had to go to work a bit later and John assumed Mycroft had left the hospital. The more surprised he was when about an hour later, the older Holmes reappeared.

"Mrs Thompson's report," he said and placed the file on a side table. Overall he seemed more collected than before. "You can ask the nurse for all his other medical files, they will provide a copy."

Chewing on his inner cheek, John went over, picked up the file and started to read.

The first thing Ella had mentioned - in a succession of medical terms of course - was that she deemed Sherlock in danger, thought she wasn't sure how and why. It was clear to her that Sherlock was worried and unsettled to an alarming degree.

It hadn't taken her long to understand that Sherlock's motive for seeing her was to spy on John. Ella had apparently tried to block the stalk-y aspects of their meetings but understood his misery and tried to help him nevertheless.

She described Sherlock as close-lipped, insecure, and avoiding her gaze. He hadn't opened up to her, except when he thought it would reveal more information about John.

John was surprised when she underlined how very different Sherlock was from how John had described him - self conscious and a mess.

They had met twice. The first session had been more or less normal under the circumstances. The second had raised an alarming amount of red flags. Sherlock seemed not himself. On both occasions he had shown signs of clinical depression and exhaustion.

Further, she described him as a highly sensible, grieving man who was desperate but not ready to speak about himself. She suspected substance abuse but Sherlock refused to address the topic.

The report concluded with the recommendation for intense behaviour therapy and an in-patient stay.

While John read the file, Mycroft nervously walked up and down the room but kept his distance to the bed Sherlock was resting in.

"Mycroft, this all is… daunting… but…"

"Well, doctor, I assume you want to discuss proceedings. I will not submit him to any treatment that disregards his neuroatypical issues. This hospital has a good reputation when it comes to physical issues, but they are not equipped to help patients with his background. They have a bunch of highly recommended psychologist and some therapists, but not what he needs."

Mycroft made a heavy with meaning pause that lasted a bit too long.

"So?" John urged.

"I want him out as soon as they are absolutely sure this has no physical causes," Mycroft stated.

"Alright."

"There are several options," Mycroft continued. "His sensory issues mean that a prolonged stay in a foreign environment is out of the question. A hospital will make him worse, no matter how high quality."

John raised his eyebrows. He had expected to fight to take Sherlock home. Agreeing on this made things a lot easier. John blew out air in relief.

"Either I take him home with me, we take him to our parents or we take him to Baker Street. I want him monitored 24/7 and not by just you. I want another doctor and a nurse present all times. You are in no state to take care of him alone and his needs just changed profoundly. He'll need repositioning and a feeding tube and… other things," Mycroft was not ready to say terms out loud, that were daily routine for John.

"Right. I am glad we agree on that," John relaxed a bit. "I think he should wake up in Baker Street. That's where he needs to be. The more unfamiliar the surroundings the more unlikely is a speedy recovery."

"I expect you to be there as his friend, not his doctor," Mycroft added in a slightly warning tone. Another blunt request John hadn't expected. He took breath to respond but didn't know what to say. It wasn’t the first time this was requested.

"Sherlock craves being understood, having a confidante. You denied him that. If you plan to remain in his life, you need to return to your former… association. My brother has no other means to convey fondness than the most extreme. His deplorable tendency to use self-sacrifice to express it is very disturbing. I hope you will refrain from creating situations that tempt him to use it again in the future."

John felt the revelation punch all air out of his lungs. Once more fell into one of the chairs, speechless.

Mycroft just turned and left, but not before John could catch another glimpse of the brittle shakiness he had seen first when they found Sherlock on the plane, under the influence and on the edge of an overdose.

John slowly walked over to Sherlock's bed and sat on it's edge.

"Hey, you heard all of that?" he tipped the back of Sherlock's slack hand with his fingertips to attack his attention, with his other hand he stroked back Sherlock's greasy hair, then allowed it to rest a bit on top of his head.

"We are going home, soon," John continued. "You're safe. We will take care of you. I will make sure you are safe."

 

 

Notes:

Additional Bonus: More Art

Do not post my art on other sites/social media or use in any other way without my written permission.

 

Chapter 30: Disruption - Part 9

Summary:

Sherlock receives treatment at the asylum.

Chapter Text

Sherlock bode ill and when he and Hughes headed towards their unknown destination.

He took the chance to ask the man to relay his request to meet the superintendent. Paterson had explained earlier that it was every patient's right to articulate concerns, first to the superintendent and when problems were not solvable to the meetings of committee. His concern was clear, didn't belong in the asylum and he was not what they thought he was. He had to try to address it, although after all he had heard chances that anyone in charge would believe his words very very slim.

Hughes agreed to relay the request with a grumpy expression.

Sherlock then asked what treatment was planned for him, but the answer was too cryptic for his liking.

"The treatment is for relaxation. We have noticed your affliction."

When they arrived, several members of the staff were present in the large hall. He was led past a row of bathtubs, in each was a person. The tubs were fully covered with some kind of rugged fabric that was fastened to the rim. The only thing visible of the person was the head, which was  sticking through a small opening in the fabric. It was immediately clear that once inside the contraption the dweller was not able to free himself.

Hughes ordered him to undress and Sherlock was a bit shocked about it.

In disbelief he shook his head, unsure what he was supposed to do and what this should be good for. He was at a loss how to do this. Nakedness was not really something Victorians were open about, although he had seen people being washed in the dorm rooms and showers in groups, no privacy screens or anything, which struck him as odd at first but by now he understood privacy was not something this institution cared much about. The rest of Victorian Britain was overly careful. The practice of men swimming in the nude was banned in 1860.*1 Overall the trend was going towards covering every part of the body as much as possible.

He had opted against wearing the underwear provided, it was causing him too much discomfort. He wore nothing under his old pyjamas. Shyness was not his problem, it was more the fear of blundering, which had sky risen since he arrived here. It felt foreign to be this insecure and he affiliated it with being vulnerable to the tortures his own mind could come up with to punish him.

"The swimsuit is over there. Take it on. Get in the bath," another nurse barked and pointed at an alcove nearby. When he walked towards it, he saw a one-piece swimsuit that covered arms to the elbows and legs to the knees.

When Hughes barked, "Now!" he hurried to change and step over to the last free claw foot tub.

Sherlock hesitated when he was about to put his foot into the water, fearing it might be cold. But the closer his toes came to the surface the clearer it became it was radiating warmth.

The only fear that remained was that he might freak out as a result of being tied in.

Apparently this reaction was common, because two bulky men were there, ready to forcefully help to get the cover over him.

"Today, please. And don't get the bandage wet," one of the bulky men barked.

He hesitated, how was he supposed to keep the bandage dry while in a filled bath?

On one leg, he slowly stepped in and sat down bracing himself on the rims. It was quite a balancing act. The water temperature was toasty and a welcome contrast to him feeling cold all the time.

A moment later someone shoved something under his leg to keep it above the water level, then the cover was roughly pulled over his head. He barely had time to sit up safely and get into a position that would allow him to breathe when the fabric was tightened around his neck.

Panic mingled in.

His field of vision that was already severely limited by nurse's aprons, the fabric of the cover and several other things. He was low down and everybody was leaning over him, working on tying the cover tightly to the rim, which was not helping things.

When his lean long form started to slide down the tub because his senses were vanishing, he felt hands holding him up.

Booming voices were all around him but he couldn't make out any of what they were saying.

He clenched his teeth, sucked in air - and bludgeoned the panic. It took such an effort that he momentarily tuned out his surroundings.

When things began to register again he was confined in a bathtub. He could turn his head and sit up straighter or sink lower, but that was about it. The only choice he had was how to position his arms and legs under the cover.

The more of his senses came back, the more personnel backed off.

"Has he been checked for consumption? He seems to have trouble breathing."

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes, if he wasn't still struggling to adjust to the situation.

Things calmed down after he was finally in. Most of the nurses left the room.

Sherlock sat in a cramped position and was trembling under the cover. It took quite some time until he realised he was supposed to relax.

After ten minutes, he was still trying to adjust, a nurse aid came in with a tablet and ordered everyone to lean back their heads. Shortly thereafter a cold wet towel was placed on his forehead.*²

The panic had subsided to moderate, but now mingled with waves of dizziness. The contrast of cold on his head and warmth everywhere else felt strange and not good at all.

Without an idea how long he was supposed to stay in there time stretched uncomfortably.

Sometimes one or both of the remaining carers left for a short time and during the second absence. Sherlock addressed the inmate in the adjacent tub.

"How long do we have to stay in here?" he whispered.

After a careful glace towards the door, his neighbour whispered back, "most of the times the let us out shortly before lunchtime."

That would be more than four hours.

When footsteps could be heard in the silence Sherlock understood talking was not allowed. Everyone else was silent and giving them tense looks.

He wondered if he could free himself should the need arise. But the construction of the cover and the way it was fastened made it very unlikely.

The minutes passed very slowly and he felt as if the cold cloth on his head was numbing his mind bit by bit. A bad combination with being all tensed up.

He did tried to relax, nevertheless, the absence of stimuli meant that a well-known empty feeling bubbled up to the forefront of his mind. It was followed almost immediately by the worst bout of cravings he had experienced in a while.

In a desperate try to not get lost in the sensation, he started to analyse the staff's routine he had witnessed so far. It was difficult to keep his thoughts on course, because he caught himself deducing where the medications were stored and figuring out how to get a key. He longed for a nice shot of morphine to numb the experience. Or a bit of cocaine that would enable him to think clearly and figure out how to escape.

Withdrawal was always hard, but this time there were factors that made it feel so futile.

The emotional turmoil - both, his own and John's - and the grief were all bad on their own, but all combined was something that seemed unmanageable.

Where  had his ability to solve problems gone?

He felt as if it had evaporated in the agony of loss.

And now on top of it all he was trapped in his own mind which seemed ready to throw more cruelty at him the more he fought.

What was his mind doing?

The mind palace was not the refuge he had hoped to find. His desire had been to recuperate and gather strength in a safe place, full of interesting cases, accompanied by an early version of John.

The last thing he needed was incarceration. He had been locked in before and left him in a poor state - mentally and physically.

Not daring to hope that it might work this time, Sherlock tried to get out of this scenario once more, focussed on leaving his mind palace.

It didn't work.

Then he realised that maybe he shouldn't try to get out but in deeper. He concentrated on entering his mind palace.

Maybe it was the other way round. Maybe he needed to get into the palace to return to reality.

Why hadn't he thought of that before?

When he managed to imagine the door he used as an entryway and stepped through it he was discouraged.

The mind palace was there - or a second level of it - and looked normal at first sight. The entrance hall was exactly as it should be. He took his time to check and found that although it looked the same, something felt off.

His suspicion was confirmed when he climbed two stairs and opened the door that he knew led to some of the memories from the pink case.

To his horror, he door opened to a vast bottomless dark space. He opted against, trying to step in.  He tried other doors and it was the same with most of them, though in some unjoined facts where swirling around in the dark, drifting in weightlessness.

Some rooms were filled with the memories they should contain, they seemed oddly out of reach nevertheless.

When another sudden rush of panic started to overwhelm him, he suddenly felt a cold hand on his forehead and his mind palace darkened.

"Shh… Don't open your eyes," Mary's whisper came from a distance, then he felt her hand on his brow.

Sherlock gulped and concentrated on keeping himself together. Their last encounter had been more like a scene from a horror movie than anything else.

Under all circumstances, he needed to prevent to freak out like the last time he had been confronted with her ghost - or his hallucination.

He concentrated on breathing evenly.

"You're still falling, Sherlock."

What?

"I'm so sorry, Mary. I didn't… I… I failed…"

"Shh," she made again, in a gentle tone. He felt her stroke his head. It was a foreign sensation. John had done it on a few rare occasions but other than that he hadn't been touched like this since he was a child.

"No, Sherlock. You didn't… or at least not the way you think."

"What did I do wrong?"

"You risked being actually killed, which was the opposite of what I needed you to do. You overdid it. But I understand now that you were more perilled than I anticipated. You do have a history of risking more than you should."

"I…" Sherlock started.

"It's alright. Sherlock, do you understand that I made this sacrifice out of love?"

"Of course you loved him, I never doubted that."

"Not what I meant. I decided in that split second that you are valuable enough to die for," she continued. "Did you get that?"

Sherlock froze and it felt as if he had suddenly lost the ground beneath his feet and was indeed falling. Panic surged up, started to suffocate him.

"Shhhh. You're okay. I got you," she soothed. "I know you sometimes need emotional things explained. Just let me explain."

"You tried to prevent it and I didn't listen," Sherlock whispered. "My words to Norbury killed you. You tried to stop me from talking and I ignored you. My ignorance is the reason you are dead," Sherlock chocked out.

"Calm down, Sherlock," she demands, gently pressing her cold hand to his forehead. "Shhh.."

It felt so good to be called by his real name.

"No Sherlock. The reason I am dead is that she shot me," Mary soothed.

"I need you to know that you are loved," she continued. "And I need you to know that I didn't expect you to go this far when I asked you to make John save you. I underestimated how far you would go. I should have told you I expected you to survive it."

Sherlock's throat was feeling clogged and wet and his head was throbbing.

"That's why I need to tell you now: You have an obligation to stay alive. I died for you and you need to stay alive because you owe it to me."

It took some time until the realisation sank in on Sherlock's side.

"I did it wrong," Sherlock stammered, his voice hoarse.

"No… well, yes, but that's not the point. I am aware what you did for him. It means a lot to me. I am very grateful for that. I should have phrased my request more careful. I should have been aware you have a tendency to take things literally… I am sorry I made you risk your life like that. I didn't mean to."

"I needed to save him."

"I know, Sherlock, I know. You did well. I just wish it didn't cost you this much," she continued.

Sherlock felt her stroke his head, simultanously he felt as if in a chokehold.

"Relax, just let it go… I got you."

Sherlock didn't know what she meant, understood that he was supposed to do something, but the onslaught of sensations that hit him were overwhelming.

"If you don't survive this, it was all for nothing. He won't survive losing both of us. He needs to hold onto somebody… and that is you. Whatever you do, whatever happens, he needs to keep you. See to it. Stay with him! Stay alive!"  

Sherlock was unable to respond and she recognised it. He felt her gently bent his head back and kiss his forehead.

It felt as if someone had pushed air into his lungs - with considerable force. Something was pumped into him and he couldn't stop it.

"It's alright. Just let it go. It needs to get out. Don't hold back. Let go."

Before he could ask her how he was supposed to do that an what exactly 'it' was, he felt as if Mary was hugging and supporting him simultaneously.

A splashing sound made him recoil and he was jerked back to Victorian reality.

One of the orderlies was leaning closer to him and hissed, "Calm down, or you will regret it," into his ear.

Sherlock needed a few moments to muzzle all the dreadful and vulnerable feelings that were threatening to overwhelm him. His eyes felt swollen and his nose clogged.

On the outside, he was just one more of the patients trying to cope and see the sense in this treatment. On the inside, his overall hardship was a swirling ocean that would drown him sooner or later.

A foreign touch startled him.

One of the orderlies was freeing him. He noticed that he was the only patient left in the room.

He was languid and disoriented from what had just been disclosed inside his head.

It was a struggle to hold himself up and the orderlies helped him out of the tub. He felt shaky and had no energy left to fight their touches or think clearly.

They noticed his lethargy and wrapped him in a warm blanket, then helped him into a wooden wheelchair.

Sherlock was barely aware of what was happening. What was happening around him overcharged him, he just allowed it to happen, surrendered to their care while he was internally crying out and struggling to breathe.

The newly gained knowledge put more emphasis on how important it was to get out.

How much time had passed in the real world?

Hours?

Days?

Years?

They moved him to a room nearby and lifted him onto a cot.

What happened then was more surprising than vile.

The foreign hands started to move him around - a lot - and wrap him in warm towels, it took quite some time and the touches became more and more difficult to handle. But then the wrappings became tighter, the more layers were added.

When he tried to open his eyes and determine his state, his hazy eyesight made him realise he was giving the perfect impression of a mummy. Although the strange binding practically restrained him and left him completely helpless he couldn't care less.

It felt good!

It actually felt so good that Sherlock blocked everyone out and just relished the first wave of wellbeing in a very long time.

It was almost like a drug. When this realisation hit, it was immediately followed by anxiety and then the all-clear. He was experiencing the release of serotonin and dopamine, caused by deep pressure stimulation. It was only his own body's feel good chemical at work.

Appreciating what was happening, he leaned into the sensation, tried to open his mind to experience it.

It was so warm and comfortable and safe and encapsulating and calm and good.

He lost himself in his body's exhilaration and he didn't care.

 

He slept through the entire afternoon and woke only when someone started to remove his cocoon.

Apparently they had tried to wake him earlier but left him be when they couldn't. They had kept him warm somehow the entire time and Sherlock felt relaxed for the first time in ages.

 

Walker - the senior carer - escorted him back to his room. On the way, he informed Sherlock  that meeting the superintendent was not possible any time soon due to the man's tight schedule. Sherlock was still somewhat dazed so that what the meaning of it didn't really reach his mind.  

When they arrived at his room, Sherlock found a tablet with dinner was waiting. Walker told him he had twenty minutes to eat.

It was dark outside and the room was only lit by the light from the corridor that came in through the wide open door. 

The tea was cold but sweet. He didn't feel like eating, so he stored the food away in his closet, well aware that it was forbidden.

 

Even after half a day of sleep he felt tired, though the bone deep exhaustion had receded a bit. He felt rested and less tense. Soaking in water all day had cleansed away something, though he was unable to name or pinpoint it. Some of aspect of the vexation had dissolved in the water. It's absence left him feeling extricated and unsoiled.

Step by step he slowly walked through the room, halfway through he wondered why he did it.

In need of more privacy, he closed the door.

Something about the day's events was important, that much he knew. He needed to analyse the problem, go through the details, think about it properly.

Maybe there was a connection to finding a way to escape from this building, he just had to spot the clues that showed him the way out.

While waiting for someone to lock him in, he arranged himself in a sloppy lotus position on the bed. He focussed on the fragments of memories from before he woke up in the padded cell, using the moderate pain in his leg as an anchor.

Focussing on the wound, he tried to remember how it had happened, hoping it would kick-start his memories.

Was the wound a physical manifestation of some sort?

Of missing John?

John's absence left a sore feeling but when Sherlock tried to explore it, he found it was dull and constant.

The wound was the opposite - Sharp and varying.

Did it represent the harm he had done to his own body these past weeks?

The only thing that happened was that the pain became annoying. 

It was futile.

It felt as if there was a block in place that blocked him from something. Not the one he had consciously put in place to shield himself from the cravings, but something else. He didn't know how to dislodge it. A black mass of unawareness that felt impenetrable.

He was still doing his mental exploration when someone opened the door, and said, "Good night Mr. Greenberg."

He blinked, but the door was shut before he could see who had been there. The door was locked immediately.

Maybe they had been right to put him in here. Maybe he really belonged here?

Believing that there was an alternate reality was a bit lunatic.

For the first time, he felt the idea claim him that he was actually going crazy.

Had he lost his mind and dreamt it all up?

No! It couldn't be like that.

It was time to try another approach.

Recently, even planning to try to leave the mind palace the usual way was seriously getting on his nerves. He was tired of trying.

The moment he thought about picturing the palace's tall ornamented doors, he experienced an ugly frowzy sensation that bordered nausea. It promised another abject failure.

He needed a different approach.

What did he personally associate with Victorian mental institutions?

Maybe it was figuratively?

There was quite a lot of information on the topic, enough to create an entire asylum. Though he couldn't remember the occasion that lead to gathering in depth knowledge about it.

There was something he was missing.

Something staring him in the face.

 

 


 

 

 

 

*1
Source: Wikipedia - History of Swimwear

 

*²
Hydrotherapy was an often used treatment in this era. It could contain prolonged warm baths, while cold flannels or compresses were laid against patient's heads. "The resulting contrast between the heated body and the artificially cooled mind greatly calms the agitated man or woman". Some patients were wrapped in warm, wet towels ('wet pack') to reduce manic activity. This treatment was strictly limited in duration; because there was the risk of inducing hypothermia. Source: Stevens, Life in the Victorian Asylum

A google picture search 'Hydrotherapy' will show you what the tubs and mummy wrapping looked like.

 

 

 

Chapter 31: Disruption - Part 10

Summary:

Sherlock finds something.

Notes:

Many thanks to Pipmer, who beta-ed this chapter. I am so happy to have someone who checks my spelling and grammar mistakes. :)

Chapter Text

 

 

Asylum Day 4: Friday, March 22nd 1867

 

Sherlock woke the next morning a lot more relaxed than any other morning before.

He had slipped into sleep while seeking out and sorting through every tiny bit of information that might somehow connect his personal history to Victorian asylums.

The exercise had brought more confusion instead of the clarity he had hoped to find. There was nothing that made sense.

By now he knew a bit more about the asylum's morning routine - and how to evade the worst smelling toilets. The constantly recurring procedures somehow made it easier once he had memorized them properly.

Breakfast was not as bad as the days before, and Paterson invited him to a game of chess after the meal.

When Sherlock wondered why the man didn't have to work, the Scot explained that he was recovering from a bad flu and had spent over two weeks in the ward for contagious diseases before they met. But he expected to be sent back to work on Monday.

His opinion was that Sherlock's recuperation time would be up by then, too.

Chances were high he was right. Sherlock had heard so often that routine and occupation were the most important things in asylum life and how evil idleness was, that he was surprised every time they did not keep him busy. The asylum was overpopulated and maybe the staff was just overworked and unable to manage all the patients.  

 

After the meal he and Paterson walked back to the nurse's desk on his level and asked if he was free to go to the day room. Miller explained that as long as he'd spent the time there with 'mental exercise' he was free to go, whatever that meant.

Then Miller added that after lunch, Sherlock was expected to report back for treatment. Sherlock boldly asked which kind of treatment and Miller answered 'light physical exercise'.

 

Playing chess turned out to be more challenging than expected.

It was hard work for Sherlock to focus on the game. Each move took him a very long time and he lost track so often it even unnerved the patient Scotsman.

Paterson was superior, although Sherlock deemed him a mediocre player. The reason was clearly Sherlock's inability to concentrate. He felt like an imbecile. The cravings were simmering through from real life and added to his problem by constantly dragging his thoughts away from the game towards needing to organise a fix.

His carefully hidden agitation resulted in him unconsciously moving the fingers of his left hand against his thumb, as if mentally playing the violin.

"Are you a musician?" A person he had seen a few times before was standing next to the table. The outer appearance made it immediately clear the man - or boy, he couldn't be older than 17 - had Down syndrome.

"Why?" he asked bluntly, revising the boys age. People with Down syndrome often looked a bit younger than they were, he remembered from one of his earlier cases.

"You play the guitar?" The boy stared at Sherlock's hands. Sherlock's gaze followed his focus and he found his hand was still going through a piece he had learned early in his violin practise.

It was one of his personal ways to stim and he did it now and then without realising it. Luckily, it wasn't obvious and most people weren't aware it was self-comforting behaviour.

"No, I play the violin," he answered after a brief period of concentration, a bit horrified he had put his need on display like this. Or maybe the boy just knew what dry training and finger exercises looked like.

"Can you show me?"

Sherlock was a bit overwhelmed by the request. He was missing his instrument desperately.

"I don't have it here. It is at my home. I miss it." He kept his explanation simple, not yet sure about the perceptive faculty of his colloquist.

"There are violins and guitars in the music room - and a huge piano. Old Rupert showed me how to play a bit, but he died," the boy explained in a sad tone.

It made Sherlock listen more carefully.

"Music room? "

"Yes, it is down the hall," the boy answered. By now Sherlock had deduced that the young man had potential. His clothes were in order, his speech was almost normal and his fingers were cleaner than most in the asylum.

The information itself, though, made Sherlock excited.

It was like discovering a little treasure.

"I want you to show me," he addressed the boy and hastened to stand up.

The boy flinched and an attendant walked over.

"Everything alright?" the man asked.

"Yes, yes," Paterson said. "We're just talking to George here. They want to go to the music room, Sir," Paterson said in a fatherly tone, pointing at Sherlock.

"Can we go?" George was reaching for Sherlock's hand.

The touch was more than Sherlock could handle, and he flinched. But then excitement took over again and his focus shifted to the more pressing issue: finding a violin.

"Now, now, George, give him a moment," Paterson said in a patronising tone. "The violin is not going anywhere.”

"Alright. Let's go," Sherlock agreed, in a choked tone. He felt the agitation tingle in his toes and on the tip of his tongue.

"Fine, go then. I will register you went there. Tell the attendant there to log you in," the carer said in a bored tone and returned to his desk.

Only then, Sherlock realised how carefully they were logging his every move.

George led the way and he followed, Paterson behind them.

They walked down the long corridor and turned into another part of the building that had a corridor looking exactly the same. It was the same direction Sherlock had already explored.

Then George turned towards a door to the left and opened it carefully. Apparently, he had been instructed to be quiet and respectful when he entered.

A few faint tones from inexpertly-struck piano keys greeted him.

When Sherlock entered, a man looked up from the grand piano in the middle of the large room. It was clearly not only meant to be for practise but also for small performances.

There were music stands, a large mirror, a round bench in the corner, several chairs and desks. He even spotted an accordion and a zither. Someone had not only collected instruments; they were good ones.

"I need a violin," Sherlock briskly addressed the bored carer at the piano, who obviously never had had a music lesson in his life.

"Over there, in the cabinet." The man pointed at a richly decorated cupboard.

Sherlock hurried over and opened it.

What greeted him was not just one violin; it was a choice of 11 violin cases, all looking old and well used. He picked up the first from the top row on the left and opened it. The instrument was in a desolate state; only one of the strings was not broken and the bow's hairs were mostly frayed.

Of course, stupid, anyone ready to look into every case would pick the top left one first. He picked the last on the right of the bottom shelf and opened the case.

It looked overall intact and well used, though it was a cheap model. The industrial revolution had started to influence even violin makers.

He continued backwards up the shelf. The second violin he inspected was heavily damaged, no strings at all and the bow was missing. The third one was in equally poor condition though the bow was high quality. It was another Bohemian instrument made by a cottage industry, by anonymous skilled labourers producing simple, inexpensive products.

Sherlock opened three more cases before he carried the first case over to the nearest table. He needed to look no further. This was the one he would play. It was made in Italy, well used  and at least one hundred years old.

With shaking fingers, he took it out and adjusted the tension of the bow. Then he checked it over for fissures or damaged strings. He had to reattach the D string and his trembling hands were not helping.

George, Paterson and the carer were sitting silently nearby watching him.

It took him a bit to prepare the instrument. When he was finally done, he gently tugged the strings to tune it.

It felt so familiar and sounded so very safe.

Like this, he might imagine being home at 221 b, sitting in his chair, playing his own violin.

Plucking its strings felt good. The sounds were warm and welcoming.

He placed it on his shoulder and gave the A string a long, gentle stroke.

The sound seemed to echo through his entire body.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

After playing the first chords of one of his favourite pieces, he found the lack of a shoulder rest difficult to handle; he hadn't played without one very often.

Many great violinists never used shoulder rests because it could dampen the instrument's tone by decreasing the vibrations. But Sherlock's long neck and the distance between his chin and shoulder made it difficult to hold the instrument without the extension.

Of course he could do it, but he'd regret it.

The cramped position would cause a painful constrained back, shoulders and neck within half an hour.

Well aware shoulder rests hadn't been invented yet, he turned back to the cabinet for an era-fitting solution.

He found a tattered wooden crate, filled with violin paraphernalia.

There were old pieces of resin, unpacked strings, a bundle of hair for a bow, a damaged tailpiece, several discarded bridges as well as some new ones. Amongst all the rubble he found two well used sponges and a bundle of what looked like shammies.

He used one of the sponges to lift the violin up on his collar bone and keep it from slipping on his shirt by covering the sponge with a piece of leather. It worked better than expected.

Once more he closed his eyes and started to play.

It was rough.

His clumsy fingers hit the strings in spots that were slightly off.  

The overall jitteriness that had followed him around since his arrival was making things worse.

On the other hand, he felt slightly shaky from how intimately pure it felt to hold the instrument and feel its sounds.

The sensation of the strings under his fingertips and the resistance the bow met when he dragged it over the strings was satisfying, even when the tones that came out weren't. Playing in a sitting position was not optimal, but he felt unable to stand upright.

Slowly, he played an easy piece, then another.

It felt good. So very good.

The vibrations spread warm Prussian green warmth in his bones and he allowed himself to sink deeper into the familiar mind space.

Irene's song was followed by a melancholic piece from his youth. The melodies brought him back to safer times, blocked out the present.

 

At some point, he heard someone whisper and while playing he stood up blindly and moved a few steps away from the voices, towards the windows. He would have preferred to throw everyone out, but assumed it would mean trouble. And the last thing he needed was to be denied access to this newly discovered treasure.

Turning his back on them, he imagined he was standing in his living room, facing the windows and standing in the sunshine coming in. It was his favourite playing spot.

 

He actually managed to forget the asylum for quite some time. He played another long piece that had been difficult to learn but rewarding once he managed it at age thirteen. His fingers practically played it on their own. It had always served him as an outlet for frustration since it contained a few crescendos and some annoying inharmonious (at least to his ears) arpeggios.

Loud applause harshly dragged him out of his illusion and forced him to resurface.

When he opened his eyes the bright light made him wince.

The area around the entrance was crowded with at least 30 people. Carers and patients alike, and they were rejoicing.

The loud clapping and the unknown persons felt intrusive. It was a blunt violation of his privacy. His jaw clenched and his breath became forced.

Hastily, but with care, he placed the instrument back in its case and closed the doors of the cupboard, meanwhile he scanned the room for exits.

There was a door to the garden and he fled towards it.

It didn't open.

The only exit was the door to the hall. Biting his lips, he stormed towards it and a perplexed mass of people parted before him. 

Outside, there were even more standing in the hall.

A private, intimate moment had turned public.

This was the opposite of what he needed.

He ran.

 

A few minutes later, he reached his room, banged the door shut and curled up on the bed.

The chaos in his head was threatening to drown him. The exaggerated agitation he felt was unnatural and probably caused by the meth withdrawal. Nevertheless, the fact that little things threw him off course was hard to endure.

It felt like being a child again. He had hated not understanding things and being not in control without knowing why.

He was being swept off his feet by the agonizing emotions that were suddenly rising to the surface. As if playing had ripped open a wound he had forgotten. He felt a bit naïve when he realised that for some reason he had hoped these sentiments would be easier to handle inside his mind palace. Maybe they were, but it was still hellish.

He was not ready to face the emotional havoc and forced a Buddhist routine to clear his mind.

Soon after that he drifted off. 

 

He woke half an hour later but kept his eyes closed, tried to analyse which emotion was currently bothering him most.

Missing his violin was a big factor. She was his outlet for unbearable feelings that he couldn't even name; his way to release pressure before it overwhelmed him.

Being unable to channel his emotions via music was causing him trouble. Things would be much easier if he could play through the night - or through the cravings.

Another aspect was that missing John for weeks in real life, and now additionally in this environment, was nauseating.

He had retreated to the mind palace to experience an easy to handle version of John. No-John at all was a mental sore spot.

The third was definitely that his decision to retreat into his mind had gone wrong in almost all the aspects that mattered. He was failing at everything and the asylum was the embodiment of that.

His own paranoia, anxiety and thoughts going in circles were extremely annoying. It was getting on his nerves that he couldn't force his mind to simply switch everything off that was magnified by withdrawal.

His inability to concentrate made him miss all kinds of details, even the fact that the staff seemed to track him. He was a detective for god's sake, he should notice such things.

What if he remained this stupid after withdrawal was over?

What if he remained incarcerated in the mind palace forever? His body in a coma-like state, a nursing case, vegetating in some first class care home chosen by Mycroft for the rest of his life.  

 

A loud knock startled him.

"Get up," Hughes barked. "You are late for lunch!”

Still dazed, Sherlock sat up and tried to adjust to the harsh change of atmosphere in the room.

"Will you hurry up? "

It was quite cold and Sherlock shivered. He grabbed his oversized cardigan before he stumbled into the hall. Hughes followed with a grumpy expression.

"If you again misuse our goodwill, the freedom to decide how you want to spend your mental exercise time will be revoked. You were told repeatedly that sleeping in your room at any time during t he day is against the rules!" he barked behind him while he shooed him down the stairs.

 

His afternoon turned into a demonstration of what it would feel like to be escorted to everything again.

They made him take a long walk in the airing court, accompanied by the slim fierce carer whose name he didn't know. The man didn't talk, just walked a step behind him the entire time. Sherlock was glad no one was trying to make conversation but it felt like another intrusion. He tried to turn it into a walking meditation with mediocre results. The resurfacing cravings made it a dire pastime.

When they returned to the building, he was cold and his leg was hurting again.

"Wait in the common room for dinner. Bathing time after the meal," the attendant informed him in a gruff voice and pointed at the entrance to the room.

Sherlock fell into one of the armchairs and picked up a newspaper someone had left at the side table.

"The pharmacy act is coming" one of the headlines on the front page read. The subtitle said 'pharmaceutical societies on their way to assert control over drug distribution'.

Sherlock checked the date. The newspaper was only a few days old. Without much interest he started reading nevertheless. The topic did touch the history of his studied profession.

The article focussed on how much the average chemist feared their business would suffer from the soon to come changes. Chemists would need to register and be examined. Their abilities and knowledge about the chemicals and remedies they handled tested.

Apparently some quacksalvers feared they would not pass a scientific test, which in Sherlock's understanding would be no loss.

The past two decades had shown how much damage uncontrolled experimenting with client's health had done.

The act would also control the distribution of fifteen poisons and opium, which had been freely available until now.

The further he read, the more clear it became that the reason for the chemists' resistance was due to the fact that the various forms of opium - such as laudanum - constituted a major part of their trade. It would throw them out of business to be denied selling it. The desired effect of this regulation saving a lot of lives was apparently not of much concern. The increasing number of opium related deaths in children and adults had led to this development. The lower classes, who couldn't afford a doctor, consulted a pharmacist. In this era, many remedies glossed over the symptoms rather than aid in healing. The misconception that feeling an effect was in the population's mind closely connected to how effective and high quality a medication was, had led to laxatives being sold as cure-alls for all sorts of serious incurable ailments. At least the pharmaceutical societies were heading in the right direction, although Sherlock was convinced the new upper class of industrialism would find a way to profit from it.

He found himself planning to stock up on opium should he get out of the asylum before January 1st, 1868. Realising he was planning to take more drugs even though the whole exercise was about getting clean dampened his mood even more.

His resolve to get off the drugs and stay abstinent was a major factor in what was happening.

If he lost his determination he could shoot himself and save everyone the trouble. Because Molly was right. If he fell back into using the way he had during the past month it would kill him - soon.

 

 

Chapter 32: Disruption - Part 11

Summary:

Sherlock learns some shocking things.

Notes:

Many thanks to PipMer for beta-ing this chapter!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

It was getting dark outside when Sherlock was picked up from the common room a bit later. The carer escorted him to the dinning hall. After the meal he was collected again and brought back to his room.

To his shock, the attendant unlocked his room's door before he could enter. Sherlock was quite daunted about the fact that they had apparently started to keep him from entering his only safe haven.

As soon as he was alone in the semi-dark room, he curled up on the bed trying to shake off the unpleasant sensation of being at the institution's mercy. Underlying, he realised, he was having cravings. The constant dire hunger for relief was probably not as bad as it would be in real life, but throughout the day, his thoughts had repeatedly returned to how yearning and empty he felt. The urgent need to fill that emptiness had become almost impossible to endure during dinner. Repeatedly, he had caught himself thinking about how to break into the asylum's pharmacy.

Walker came by half an hour later and changed his bandage.

 

Sherlock rested until two hours after midnight. Then he prepared for another nightly excursion. The goal was to learn the layout of the facility and the surroundings.

The view outside his window was not very encouraging. He had expected the almost full moon to be out but it wasn't visible. It was a pitch dark cloudy night. He stared into the dark. Obviously, there was no illuminated city whose light was reflected by the clouds. In modern times he would have therefore assumed that he was far away from a city, but in this era that

piece of observation was useless, since light pollution was not an issue.

His window overlooked the gardens; beyond that lay the park and behind that, fields in the distance. This night, he wanted to find out what the other side of the complex looked like and what was behind the man in the sentry box. All the corridor windows looked out to the opposite side, but the view was blocked by another building that was erected parallel to the one he was in. By now he understood that the very long structure he was in was constructed in a roughly convex shape.

 

Already familiar with the route, he reached the guardhouse fast. He passed the keeper without any trouble; when the man turned to fetch another newspaper Sherlock just ducked and tiptoed past the window.

The hall widened and he found a direction sign board that guided the ways to doctor's offices, the reception and the custodian.  

He followed the way down the interlocking corridors.

It was a rather long walk. His socked feet prevented his steps from echoing through the silence, but the cold became uncomfortable within a few minutes.

At first glance, this part of the building seemed completely abandoned at night. What was surprising, though, was that none of the connecting doors were locked. At daytime, most gates  were firmly in place. Patients were not allowed into this part of the building. Maybe at night the staff relied on the fact that all the inmates were locked away and keeping the doors open was facilitating work.  

Further down the hall, he slowed down when he heard voices in the distance. He had reached the access to a large space that was most likely the entrance hall. It was sizeable and more pretentious than expected. Carefully, he peeked around the corner and saw a richly decorated lobby as well as the massive curved shapes of two ornate staircases.

He made sure to stay in the dark and approached carefully. On the other side of the hall, a doorkeeper, a guard and a janitor were standing in a lit corner near a large entry door. They were smoking and not paying much attention to their surroundings. Nevertheless, there was no way to get past them. They overlooked the entire lobby and the staircase and would spot him the moment he stepped out of the shadows.

Even if he could manage to get past them, the double-winged door was probably locked. On one hand, it was ornamented enough to be the main entrance; on the other it might just be the doctors' and employees' access.

No matter who entered here, there was probably another guard outside, at a gate.

The administration building might be the best option for an escape route. But he needed information about the exterior to plan an escape route. If he wanted to succeed, he needed to meticulously plan it beforehand.

His next objective was to find a spot high enough to overlook the grounds. He spent over an hour looking for one but it turned out to be futile. Both buildings had the same height and shape and it was too dark. 

The understanding that it was all far more difficult lay heavy on him. He'd need a lot more intel before his endeavour had any chance of being successful.

He went back down the wide hallway to find a window as close to the entrance door as possible. It didn't take long to find one. Heedful of the sounds behind him, he climbed onto the window sill and leaned over to the right as far as he could.

Finally, he could see something massive in the dark. The buildings were actually connected by a huge clock tower that might be the centre of the entire complex. This meant the large wooden door in the main hall must lead to the clock tower - not outside. There was no way out in that direction at all.

No wonder it was poorly guarded. His heart sank.  

This also meant he'd need to find a passage into the tower to reach the other building, which probably housed the main entrance. The main hall was a big open space with a very high ceiling. It was obvious that in the lower levels there couldn't be a way to change over into the tower, but maybe there was roof access or a connected attic.

It was getting late and first activities would start at five, so he decided to start the return trip and search for a passage another night.

He made it back to his room without incident.

 

The after effects of nightly activities hit him the next morning when he was woken from deep sleep by a loud knocking on his door.

The unnerved attendant who unlocked the door was the same man who had accompanied him to the gardens the day before. He escorted Sherlock to the facilities, where a large group of half naked patients were already going through their morning routine.

The attendant left him there, but two other carers were present and constantly reminded the inmates to hurry up and finish. The rooms were overcrowded and smelly. One more reminder that the asylum was filled with three times more patients than it was originally built for. Sherlock understood that at some point order and control had become more important than treatment and care.

The leaden tiredness intensified Sherlock's sensitivities and when he entered the toilets, the odour was so overwhelming he gagged. Although cleaning squads consisting of trustworthy inmates constantly roamed the floors, the state of the facilities was poor. There was one water closet for twelve people if Sherlock had calculated correctly.1

Sherlock hastened to escape the stench but when he stepped back into the corridor, he found he had to join a group of waiting men to be escorted back to the dormitories to change.  

 

Half an hour later Sherlock was left at the refectory by another carer and someone greeted him when he entered. He ignored it, didn't even look up. Recently, when someone called the false name they had given him, it made his hairs stand on end. He realised he hadn't even tried to look into anyone's eyes in days. It was too much work, he couldn't handle it.

In his youth, a stupid therapist had tried to convince him it was an essential life skill and had therefore tried to force him to practice it. It had been vile back then and it still took a lot of effort. As an adult, he understood that most neurotypical people found it odd when eye contact wasn't executed properly. It could be a helpful tool in his detective work, but if he didn't need it, he didn't  put effort into it. The only thing worth any effort at this point was to find John.

Hesitantly, he walked through the large room that hummed with voices. For a moment, he stopped and looked around, trying to spot Watson, but it was as unsuccessful as before.

Dejected, he made his way over to his place. Paterson was already seated.

Only when he sat down at his place, he realised that trying to figure out the layout of the premises on his own was a waste of time. After a moment of hesitation he decided he trusted Paterson enough to ask the seasoned man for information. He treaded carefully and started the conversation by asking about the layout of the park.

Paterson reminded him that it didn't matter because neither of them were allowed there and that Sherlock should feel privileged that he had been allowed to the inner gardens before, which was unusual. Sherlock's face must have shown his disappointment because Paterson promised him a game of chess later, that would provide plenty of opportunity to chat.

 

An hour later they entered the richly decorated common room and were greeted enthusiastically by George. Instead of sitting down, Sherlock was dragged off to the music room by both George and Paterson.

Trying to show the young man how to play the violin was not very successful. George couldn't find the right spots on the plain neck to play a scale or move the bow properly.

"Is there anyone who plays the mandolin here?" Sherlock asked Paterson while George tried to coax a smooth sound out of the violin. He was putting a lot of effort into it but it was too much to concentrate on at the same time. It would be for any beginner who had only rudimentary musical background.

Sherlock knew mandolins had the same notes at the same spots as violins. What made the mandolin easier was the fact that there was a fretboard, which made finding the right finger positions easier. Once one had learned to play the mandolin, it was considerably simpler to play the violin. The mandolin had G, D, A and E strings, the same as the violin. Additionally, the right hand moves were uncomplicated, as was holding the instrument.

"I don't know, but I will find out," Paterson answered and vanished.

Sherlock was not a good violin teacher, he learned. Both he and George left the music room some time later in a quite frustrated mood. In the end George had asked Sherlock to play, but he wasn't ready to try again, much to the boy's dismay.

They returned to the common room and found Paterson talking to people. George turned to a table with papers and pencils he had left behind earlier. A carer promptly rebuked him for leaving the pens out unattended.

Sherlock only had eyes for the writing utensils. He sat down next to George and pretended to start drawing a violin. The carer sent the boy away and told Sherlock to bring the utensils back once he was finished. The moment the man turned his back, Sherlock took a new sheet of paper and started to write.

He was sure they would hold back every letter he'd bother to try to send out, so he made a decision.

When Paterson returned and sat down opposite him with a chess board in his hand, he asked in a low voice, "May I ask you a favour?"

"Depends," Paterson raised his eyebrows. "Do you want me to do something that would risk me getting out of here? No. Anything else… we'll see."

"Is it possible to give your wife a letter from me and ask her to put it in a pillar box without anyone from this institution noticing?"

Pillar boxes were a relatively new occurrence, the first had arrived in London in 1855. Only a few seconds after the words passed his lips he remembered that Paterson had said his wife was dead and that he had also said she visited him. He bit his lip, fearing he had blundered.

Why had it taken him so long to notice this?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to… You said she died. I am confused." He decided that honesty was the best approach.

"She did. I remarried. My new wife is a piece of gold and she deserves better than me. I wonder if she only married me because she took pity on me… I have nothing worth anything to offer for her patience and kindness."

"I just want to reassure my landlady that I am okay," Sherlock hastily explained. "She too is more patient than I deserve. She cares for me and I owe her."

"That doesn't sound too dangerous, does it? Seal it, I will address it to my aunt, so that if anyone spots it, we can pretend it's for her. Write the address you want it sent to on a separate sheet. I'll ask my wife to put it in a new envelope at home."

Sherlock was slightly impressed, he hadn't expected the man to be so cunning. He didn't waste time and continued to write. He addressed the letter to Mrs Hudson and wrote just a few lines in which he explained where he was and that he missed her. There was no mention of John's name. Even if Paterson's wife read it, she wouldn't be any wiser. It was worth a try. Mrs Hudson would immediately identify his writing, as would John. He signed with William, folded the paper  and left it on the table. Next, he wrote his own address on another paper and folded it a few times. Paterson was careful to pick it up when no one looked.

While they played their first round of chess, Sherlock tried to casually find out a few more details about the grounds. At first, he wanted to know if there was a city nearby.

"Of course not. This is a place out in a beautiful countryside that is supposed to provide clean air! It's at least ten miles to the next village. You probably passed through it when you arrived. The train station is there," Paterson explained.

"I was brought here without my knowledge or my consent while I was unconscious," Sherlock stated in a low voice.

"Really?" Paterson frowned.

Sherlock didn't know what to say so he added, "I get lost because I can't figure out what these buildings look like. I get into trouble because of this," he lied. "It would help me find my way more easily if I understand the layout," he added. "The other building, the one you look at from the corridors, what is it for?"

"Mostly administration, but also laundry, workshops… and it's where they do the first step of preparing the food. Wait, here."

Paterson reached for the small pile of unused paper and a colour lead pencil, then started drawing after he made sure no one was looking.

"What…?" Sherlock started, but Paterson interrupted him.

"You better hush up, because if anyone catches us doing this we'll get in serious trouble."

A bent row of connected rectangles appeared on the paper, then a second row next to it. It was immediately clear that Paterson was drawing some kind of map.

To cover up what they were doing, Sherlock took a sheet of paper himself and started drawing very rudimentary violin shapes. He missed his violin.

On another sheet, he drew a more detailed top view of a peg box. If someone stepped over they would need at least two sheets with drawings to cover up what they were doing.

Patterson added more lines to the map; apparently, he was adding what must be the airing court they had visited two days ago.

From there, Sherlock had seen that the buildings were five storeys high. All the levels above the ground level were wards, he had learned earlier.

"This is the clock tower, the only connection between the two buildings," Paterson explained while he added  a small rectangle connecting the two curved buildings. "You can only see it when you go to the end of a ward and lean to the right as much as you can while looking out of a window."

Sherlock's mood darkened, another dead end.

"We are here, right?" Sherlock pointed at the third building segment from the middle.

"Yes," the other man agreed and then added a third parallel building in the row and only in front of that, he wrote down 'main entrance'.

Sherlock's hopes sank even more.

"What are those?" Sherlock pointed at dotted brown lines while he tried to look busy with his own drawing.

"Walls so high no one can climb over them. "

To Sherlock's horror, Paterson drew a second row of high walls around the buildings as a whole, then a third further out.

"Why are there walls around here?" Sherlock pointed at small sections of the wards that had no access to the airing court, but the area directly in front of them seemed to have an enclosed small space.

"That's the closed ward's airing courts. They don't even have grass there - or benches. It's where the real bad cases are locked in. Or where you land when you really piss off the staff."

Sherlock then assumed the little brown rectangles in front of the other ward buildings were benches.

"Where is the women's building?"

"On the opposite side of the grounds, you can't see it at all from here. It won't even fit on this sheet of paper. Give me a moment, I will show you."

The last information was very discouraging, it meant the complex was even bigger.

"We are not allowed contact with the ladies and it is quite a long way to the other side of the complex. No chance for any kind of romance. The buildings have separate entrance ways and separate parks. We only share a main access road and the main gate at its end."

Sherlock's jaw worked.

"You need to relax, my friend. Want a cigarette? We can go to the smoking room. They have matches there," Paterson offered.

"Is it allowed to have those?"

"I am, at least under supervision."

"You are allowed that but they don't trust you to go to the parks?" Sherlock wanted to know. Fire seemed to be much more of a threat than someone escaping to the parks.

"Well, smoking is good for your health.2 It's medicine. Walking, you can do in the airing court or the inner gardens," Paterson replied, looking at his map.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He'd really like a smoke.

Paterson gave him a wink and continued in a low voice, "The only trees are in the outer park… far away from any walls. Safety, you know. The first wall is the one between the inner courtyard and the park and there is another wall around the park that separates it from the fields. The fields are separated from the outside by a very high stout iron fence. I've been there to work, in the fields, I mean. Escaping over the walls is impossible. Don't try, dear boy." Apparently, Paterson had understood why he was asking. Sherlock was horrified to be so easily readable.

People must have tried to escape for years, the place was designed to keep desperate souls in.

"This is the superintendent's villa," Paterson informed him while drawing a big house a bit away from the row of buildings.

"He lives on the grounds or is that outside the compound?"

"Oh, no, this is more like the centre," Paterson said while adding more details, like nurses' homes.

The map was a daunting sight. Sherlock felt his blood pressure drop and his face pale. There was no way Sherlock could escape in the direction he had put his hopes on, because it was not the back of the compound, it was the centre.

The small bit of hope he had tried to keep alive dwindled. The problem was far bigger than expected.

The grounds were not just huge, they were vast. The premises were like an entire village of its own. Escaping might be possible but would need months of exploration and careful studying of the routines.

Sherlock also understood that if his first attempt to escape failed, he probably wouldn't get another chance because they would put him in the high security tract.

He leaned back, trying to hide the distress the revelation was giving him. To overplay it, he took a pencil and marked all the areas he was already familiar with in a pale shade of apple green.

 

 

When the attendant stood up, Sherlock knew he hadn't managed well enough. Luckily, Paterson reacted fast, and swiftly shoved his map under one of Sherlock's violin drawings.

"Anything interesting you are drawing there?" the carer asked when he stopped next to their table, looking at the paper.

"Yes, yes," Paterson said. "Greenbaum was just telling me about his violin, Sir," Paterson said in a fatherly tone, pointing at Sherlock.

"I heard about his performance yesterday, but his name is Greenberg, Paterson. Can't you even remember his name?" the attendant scoffed.

Sherlock froze, it was another mental punch in the face.

How had he missed that?

He should have noticed!

Some people called him Greenberg, others Greenbaum. Berg and Baum were both actual German words. Berg meant mountain and Baum was the word for tree.

"What?" Sherlock stammered, stupefied. Then he realised that both trees and mountains had appeared in his nightmares.

"But Miller called him Greenbaum the other day," Paterson tried to rectify the rude answer.

"I am sure it was a mix-up. Happens all the time, these German words all sound the same, don't they?" Sherlock hurried to say, but his voice was hoarse and he felt his disquiet was clearly visible. "Let's have a walk," he suggested, in dire need to escape the situation. "I am stuck with this chess move and I need a bit of fresh air to get my brain working again," he added when Paterson was about to say something else.

 

As soon as they were out of hearing range, Paterson asked, "What is this about?"

"I don't know. But I will find out," Sherlock answered. It was too cold to run around the garden without a jacket for longer than five minutes.

"I am sure Miller called you Greenbaum," the Scot mused. "So, what is your name, lad?"

"My name is neither Greenberg nor Greenbaum but you can't tell anyone, can I rely on that?"

Paterson stared at him for a moment. "I don't understand."

"Me neither. I need you to keep this between us. Can you promise me to keep this quiet?"

"Sure, my boy."

Sherlock started a mental logging process to memorise when one of the names had been mentioned and who had used which.

"Do you remember who called me 'Greenberg'?"

"He was the first," Paterson stated.

Sherlock was a bit disappointed because his muddled mind was of little use.

He hadn't even noticed!

His mind was wasting away, apparently.

 

Lunch was another insipid hot soup and more bread. Sherlock was glad it was something he wouldn't have too hard a time keeping down, but the two big revelations of the day had spoiled his appetite.

Although the voices in the hall were low and sounded somehow even more depressed than yesterday, Sherlock's senses were once more giving him grief. The noises of cutlery on dishes, the clinking of porcelain on porcelain and the low murmur were hard to handle.

He cringed repeatedly when a particularly loud incident occurred, the sounds drilling into his brain, causing a headache and lowering his ability to be patient by the minute.

The distress about the newly learned facts worsened his sensory issues profoundly. Nothing - not the walk, the chess game, or the idle time during the meal - had resulted in any productive thinking about the problems.

Even after spending quite some time on analysing it, he hadn't solved the name thing, yet. The only one he remembered that called him Greenberg was Dr Rubenstein. The doctor had used the name so often during their first and only meeting it was extraordinary. The nagging feeling that the two names were essential in solving how to escape the mental incarceration made it extremely frustrating. His ability to think was additionally clouded by his sensory issues.

He felt on edge. His smelly clothes and the brute soap used to clean them were adding to the problem. 

He wanted to return to his room to think, but couldn't.

He was denied even that bit of a refuge.

 

 


 

1 Actual number of patient-toilet ratio from a real Victorian asylum, and there was one bath for 25 patients.

2 Back then cigarettes were advertised to be good for health, even heal lung issues. Brands could tell whatever lies they wanted to advertise and they were especially fond of using doctors for cigarette promotion.

 

Notes:

If anyone wants to see Mandolins at work (with guitars in this case):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_0q0F7VHhBg
I learned to play the mandolin in my early teens and that made it a lot easier to learn the violin later.

Chapter 33: Still Day 7 (2016) - At the hospital - Part 5

Summary:

John figures out a few things.

Notes:

Many thanks to PipMer for beta-ing this chapter!

Chapter Text

2016 - Day 7 - Late afternoon, Hospital

 

After Mycroft left, the sudden mental vacancy and silence hit John with unexpected harshness. The last days had been a rollercoaster of emotions and combined with the lack of rest and John's latest bender, he was beyond tired. He felt too heavy to even think straight. At the same time he experienced a mental freefall in slow motion that made him restless.
He decided he needed a nap - right now. Not looking forward to the tough task, he opted for trying it one step at a time. So, at first he made himself as comfortable as he could in the high backed patient arm chair across the room. Then he closed his eyes.


For hours, his pounding head and the leaden weight on his eyelids had been the source of a constant nagging pain. The pain was the reason why he needed sleep and why it eluded him.

Whenever John had tried to rest during the past weeks, Mary's death replayed before his inner eye. He couldn't stop it, couldn't will the agonising mental images away. The only thing he could do was witness the inner cinema, allow it to happen. If he managed to endure it long enough to reach the point where he started to drift, things usually worsened.

It was nothing new. He had lived with PTSD for years now, and this course of action was horribly familiar. PTSD patients were prone to relive traumatic events once the mind became idle. This was the third time his PTSD caught up with him. First the war, then Sherlock's suicide and now Mary's murder. That it flared up was not unexpected, though he had somehow actually managed to forget how very devastating and debilitating it was.


Since his initial treatment by Ella years ago, he had been instructed how to work though it. He once more tried the technique, but it helped as little as it always had. He once more wondered if PTSD patients were only told to carry it out to keep them occupied. Or delude them into thinking that there were procedures that should help, to divert them from the fact that psychology was at large still more stumbling in the dark than real science. A moment later he wondered where that last odd thought about denial of research came from. It took him a few minutes to notice that - additionally to his mental struggles - he was experiencing a fierce physical need to get a beer.

The taste was on his tongue and he found the desire quite unnerving. Maybe it was because he hadn't eaten enough in the past few days.
The more he tried to ignore the sensation the more it turned into an obsession.
It was 15:30. He could go over to the store in the side street and get something to drink. No one would miss him, he'd be back in less than fifteen minutes.

The thing was, he was aware that he shouldn't do this.
Besides, beer wouldn't be a good choice. If anyone spotted him carrying a pack of six bottles into a hospital it would end badly - even if he tried to hide it in a plastic bag - it was too obvious. Something more efficient would be a better choice, like hard liquor.

He was already up and reaching for his jacket when the remnants of his earlier bender reminded him how stupid his behaviour was. It would make things a lot more complicated if he got drunk now. The chance that no one would notice were minimal. Nothing escaped Mycroft. The older Holmes would throw him out without hesitation, John was sure of it. Afraid of being shut out, he returned his jacket to the hook and slumped into the chair. The nagging need remained.


A frustrating hour later his resolution to remain abstinent was dwindling. The thirst for a drink had intensified and all he wanted was to sleep. The chair was uncomfortable and the pleather was making it worse because the moment his body relaxed, he started slipping down the seat.
With the help of alcohol, falling asleep was quicker. It at least enabled him to sleep deeply for a bit, which was better than no sleep at all. As a physician, he was aware it was only subjectively helping sleep. Overall it caused poor quality of sleep later on and he would lack
REM sleep and wake up too soon.

But he didn't care, he was too tired.

Also, this knowledge helped nothing to reduce the cravings - that's what they were - cravings. He had to face the bitter truth: his thirst for a drink was his body demanding more. He fought it with new vigour after he had confessed that to himself.


Nevertheless, another two hours later he was a mess, ready to walk over to that damn store and drink as much as he could in an alley where he would check for security cameras first. If he was careful enough there surely was a way to prevent Mycroft from finding out. He was already in his jacket and heading for the door when it suddenly opened.

A flushed Mrs Hudson bustled in, Rosie in her arms and additionally laden with her huge diaper bag.

"Oh, where are you going?" she addressed him.

"Mrs Hudson? I thought Molly would pick her up?" they spoke simultaneously and Rosie started to make a fuss. John put the jacket back on the hook - again.

"Molly called. She had some kind of emergency and warned me she would be late. I need to go see my friend - she is sick again. Molly agreed to meet here. She'll be here in a few minutes." Mrs Hudson pushed Rosie into his arms when the little girl started to fidget because she clearly wanted her father.

John wasn't ready for the level of noise and action. His headache was getting worse by the minute. When Rosie started to whinge he had a hard time suppressing the urge to yell at her. It took him a moment to realise his poor temper might be an actual symptom of alcohol withdrawal - poor temper. With horror, he realised that his tiredness and the inability to sleep were more indications this might actually be withdrawal.
How had he not seen this before?

Mrs Hudson's perfume wavered into his nose and his stomach started to churn.

Was this how Sherlock felt when his senses were acting out?

Was it Sherlock's normal to feel sick when he came close to intense smells no one else registered consciously?

Usually, Mrs Hudson was very subtle with her perfume and on a normal day, John didn't even perceive she was wearing any, though Sherlock insisted she was.

Or had she just gone a bit overboard today?

While John still meandered through the onslaught of sensations, Mrs Hudson stepped over to Sherlock's bed. She motherly smoothed his hair back. John made a few steps, rocking Rosie, to soothe her. When he approached the bed doing so, he heard the landlady talking, but her voice was so low, John couldn't understand any of it. Rosie's delight about her father's attentions was short lived and her momentary silence turned into wailing within half a minute. The noise hit John with unexpected intensity.

"John, dear? You look like you are ready to keel over. Sit down, dear," Mrs Hudson said and returned to them. "Don't worry, she's hungry. Had so much fun with the ducks in the park we forgot to eat, it's taking its toll. I have her bottle right here," she added.

John wondered if the wailing child would wake Sherlock. He wished she would. But a glance over to his friend told him he was unaffected. Rosie felt way to heavy or maybe he just felt unable to carry her weight.

Putting her down anywhere in the room was not an option. Bringing toddlers to a hospital was overall not the best idea, hospitals were a cesspool of all kinds of germs. John and Mary had always made sure to change at the surgery before coming home. Molly also never wore her work clothes with Rosie. It must have been a real emergency for her to suggest to meet here.

Mrs Hudson retrieved the bottle from the bag and held it to her cheek, then she offered it and a bib to John with a nod. He didn't have much of a choice but to sink back into the chair to feed her. It was a bit of work to make her suck, she was too busy crying to realise the teat was in her mouth. Finally, after several gentle tabs with the tip of the teat to the roof of her mouth, she started to drink greedily. John closed his eyes in relief.

The silence was wonderful.

A bitter realisation followed.

Was this the way his own father had thought? Had he deemed his children only as a source of annoyance, disturbing the quiet?

Was he turning into his always angry father?

Yelling at his kids just because they did the things kids do?

Had his father been in the state he was in now? Stressed out, willing to quit but unable to go through with it?

Because if he was honest with himself he had almost ruined everything. If Mrs Hudson hadn't arrived he would be drinking in an alley right now.

Had his father even tried to sober up?

Had he loved his kids and decided to give up drinking but failed?

The anxiety to turn into his father gave him new spirit to clean up. He would not inflict the hell of a childhood he had been through to his own child.

He would sober up - now!

No more temptations. No weak episodes. No rationalising it. This was the end of it!

He flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Mrs Hudson was standing next to them and looking down with a sad smile.

"She misses you," she said.

"She misses Mary more," John spat, then he realised Mrs Hudson did not deserve his anger either. She was trying to hold things together and had given her best every day for weeks on end by now.

"Sorry… sorry", John mumbled. "You're right. I know. Thank you for helping us out, here. Rosie loves you and I am so happy she has you as a surrogate grandmother. You are the best," he tried to give her a warm smile. She turned away but he got a short glimpse of the tears in her eyes. They were all reaching the end of their tether.

Mrs Hudson picked up the diaper bag, fetched something else she then put on the small table next to John. It took him a few seconds to recognise the thermo cups he took to work sometimes.

"It's tea, dear," she explained when he frowned. Then she fetched her handbag and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Molly will be here shortly. You take care. See you tomorrow," she added in a low voice.

On her way to the door, she stepped over to Sherlock's bed, gave him another peck and left the room waving goodbye.

John stared down at his now slowly suckling daughter and wondered if Mary had looked like this as a child and who had fed her when she was Rosie's age.

By the time the bottle was empty Rosie was half asleep. He gently sat her up, aware she wouldn't like it, but he needed to burp her. With the bib and his daughter over his shoulder, he stood up to check on Sherlock. The movement resulted in black spots darkening his field of vision. He gripped the footboard hard and leaned against the edge of the bed for some long seconds before he dared to risk another step.

Sherlock still was out, nothing had changed.
While he gently patted Rosie's back, John started to - very slowly - pace the room. It always helped to soothe her. It took some time until he passed the table again. The thermo cup was in reach and he picked it up with his free hand, switched it open with his index finger. The tea was not as hot as he would've liked it, but way better than the brew from the hospital cafeteria.

He hadn't even finished a second circle when he heard a soft knock on the door. It immediately opened and John assumed it must be medical personnel. Molly stepped in and smiled when she spotted them. She carefully hugged them both to say Hallo, making sure she spoke in a calm and low voice, aware Rosie did not need excitement when she was already half asleep.

"Thought you might need some coffee?" Molly asked and placed a steaming cup on the table. She was over at Sherlock's bed a moment later, checking him over with her eyes and taking his hand.

"Tha..," John's voice caught and he had to cleared his throat. "Thanks."

A moment later, Rosie finally burped and it made them both chuckle.
"Well, it seems she is sated and tired," Molly smiled while she continued to take in Sherlock's state, "Mrs Hudson wore her out?"

"Guess she did. She was in a hurry, said something about the park and a friend," John answered.

"Right. I thought she'd wait for me outside the building. Must have been some miscommunication. Sorry," she explained with a frown and John wondered if it was something about Sherlock's state or the communication mishap.

John shrugged, aware Molly would be careful to keep germs from his daughter and Rosie's germs from any patients.

"Kept her from touching anything but my clothes are dirty."

"Can I go to the nurses and ask for an update? Can you wait that long?"
She gave him a frowning look he couldn't really decipher.

"Yeah, of course, where would I go?"

"Right," she smiled again and left the room.

John experienced a strong urge to follow her, hear what they had to say but remembered that Mycroft had told him in no uncertain terms that he was supposed to be Sherlock's friend, not his doctor. Molly was their backup and she was supposed to be informed. Staring at the closed door, John realised he felt left out and a bit jealous but simultaneously too tired to do anything but exist.

Hoping Rosie would fall asleep all the way he continued to walk through the room, this time he picked up the coffee cup and sipped it.

Way better. Coffee was what he needed. Though, he noticed a slightly funny aftertaste when he gently rocked Rosie and continued to walk in circles.

Ten minutes later Molly hadn't returned but he had emptied the cup. To his disappointment, the caffeine failed to give him a boost. Instead, he felt even more tired and shaky. Unable to carry Rosie's weight any longer he sank back into the chair. Rosie's breathing rate had decreased and when he twisted his neck to see her face her eyes were closed.
He sighed in relief, the last thing he needed right now was a toddler in need of entertainment. Being seated barely thirty seconds, he felt more of his energy drain out of him.

Drinking the way he had in the past weeks meant his nervous system had adjusted to the depressing effect alcohol had on his system. At this point, being keyed up and agitated should be expected. He checked for more alcohol withdrawal symptoms.

Headache. Check.

Feeling irritable. Check.

Shaking hands. Slightly.

Feeling wiped out. Check.

Tremor. No…. not yet?

Confusion. Not yet.

Nausea. Slight.

Vomiting. Not yet.

Sweating. Check.

Overall, the symptoms could be worse. He had seen Harry go through it all several times. It hadn't been pretty. The worst thing was the mean anger she directed at anyone, blaming whoever was in reach and treating everyone like a doormat.

He was sure he had done the same to anyone who had tried to help these past weeks - especially Sherlock. Would it become worse the more sober he was?

John knew his anger was misdirected and unwarranted but it was like an ever present flame in the back of his mind that turned into a welding torch within seconds the moment something triggered him. He knew grief and anger came side by side. He also knew frequent alcohol input was fuelling his anger and thereby negating all attempts to manage the part that was the reason of his grief. He hated himself for drinking, for being a lousy friend, for ill-treating one of the two most important persons in his life… or maybe in fact both of them. He wasn't a good father at all at the moment.

What he needed at the moment was determination to go through with his very own detox. Not to break down and give in to the temptation to visit the liquor store again.

Alcohol was a drug so easy to obtain, it made falling for it simple. The fight was in his head, to stop himself before he got there. Overall he was a careful drinker, always aware of his family history. The problem was that after Mary's death he had crossed the point where he just stopped caring.

But he never drank as much as Harry did… or did he?

Maybe in the first week. The morning he had walked into a doorframe while carrying Rosie and had given her a bruise, he decided to make sure to not drink himself into a stupor… It had been only moderately successful.
No, he wasn't any better than his sister; he had inherited the same defect and now it was getting to him.

The good thing was, he felt there were two things in his life he couldn't lose. Sherlock and Rosie… He would fight to keep them… for them.

He jerked out of his dark thoughts when his arm that was holding Rosie against his shoulder sagged down a bit - and she with it. She gave a surprised gurgle but slept on.

At first, John dismissed it as another sign of his state. Then it slowly dawned on him, that maybe there was more to his current weakness, which raised a red flag. Although his thoughts were muddled and he could barely focus on anything, he wondered if this all-encompassing weakness was really normal at this point. Feeling this shaky and heavy was alarming.

He fought how it unsettled him for a moment, tried to rationally decide if it was really this bad. When he finally asked himself if he should call for help he realised he was probably not even able to walk on his own without dropping Rosie.

While he tried to decide how to proceed, he succumbed to the heavy pull of sleep dragging him out of consciousness.

He was roused by Rosie slipping away. Some instinct told him she was falling out of his arms and he jerked awake, reached after her, tried to catch her.

She was gone.

"Shh, it's alright. I've got her," Molly's voice cooed somewhere near his head.

But John was already out of the seat, maniacally searching for his child while blinded by the bright lights and his headache.

He was confused, tired, in a stupor.

Shit.

Did they drug him? Did someone put something in his coffee? This level of confusion was not normal.

There was a second person in the room, he distantly realised, and it made more alarm bells ring.

"John? What the hell?"

Greg - it was Greg, and he was suddenly very close to John.

"Shit…" John huffed and the next thing he felt was someone hugging him and he lost his footing. The embrace tightened and he was glad for it because he wouldn't have been able to remain upright.

"Whoa," Greg made in surprise but he reacted fast enough to steady John. He lowered him back into the seat. "That's it, mate. You are going home. You need a shower, a meal and some sleep. No discussion."

Molly was beside them in a moment, checking John's pulse with one hand while holding Rosie with the other. "Can you take her for a moment so I can check him over?"

John tried to shake her off, realising what was probably the reason for his qualm. "I drank too much the past weeks. Guess, I am detoxing." His own direct addressing of the bitter truth baffled him. Maybe the bluntness of his therapist was actually helping him to work on his issues. Although, her opinion as well as her approach on some things were a bit strange. But she was definitely not tiptoeing around difficult topics.

"Yeah, and the last thing you want is someone reporting it to the GMC," Molly said. "If this finds a way into your record, the consequences will haunt you. So I suggest you do as he says." Molly spoke in a no-nonsense tone, not the least bit surprised. "Admitting it is the first step in the right direction. Go home. Stay sober," she added in a gentle, kinder tone.

"Sherlock…?" John tried, but Greg interrupted him.

"I'll call Mycroft, ask him to stay the night in case Sherlock wakes up… Just to be clear mate, I will carry you out of here against your will if you don't come willingly," Greg's tone was hard and John knew he meant business.

He knew Lestrade was right. On one hand he was grateful for the - currently somewhat rough - help they were supplying after all his screw ups. On the other he was angry about the things that were decided over his head. It was his business and his responsibility and he could do this on his own, he didn't need being babied. He was a soldier for god's sake!

Or maybe he was more of a disgrace. He had demonstrated perfectly well that he wasn't able to handle things. Lately, he made a mess of everything he touched. The guilt of having texted a woman for weeks behind Mary's back and then blaming Sherlock for Mary's death were two things he was so horrified about in hindsight he struggled to understand how he could have been such an arsehole. He didn't deserve the care and leniency of his friends.

Being caught between his anger about himself and the need to stay with Sherlock he drifted off again.

An hour later, Greg roused John and dumped him into his car. John was so exhausted he was barely aware what was happening around him, let alone able to walk on his own.

The inspector had to help him up the stairs to 221b and out of his day clothes once they reached John's room. In the end, John couldn't manage to change into pyjamas, he slept in his boxers and undershirt.

Once more, he had a hard time drifting off, despite his utter exhaustion. He was aware time was passing, but he didn't think he actually slept, it was more like drifting in and out of consciousness.

The worries that had plagued him the past hours were constantly present, nagging at his soul.
At some point he realised things were happening around him, but it was like fragments of dreams he couldn't hold on to.
There were voices, touches, and it was unsettling, but he couldn't distinguish if they were imaginary or real, dreams or memories. At some point the pain was finally replaced by darkness and warmth and he slept.

Chapter 34: Disruption - Part 12

Summary:

Another day at the asylum.

Notes:

Many thanks to PipMer for beta-ing this chapter within a few days.

Chapter Text

 

 

Walker showed up twenty minutes later, but instead of rebandaging Sherlock's leg, the carer just removed the old bandage, inspected the fresh scar and informed him he would be escorted to the baths.

Sherlock had heard that the weekly 'bathing' was infamous and wondered when it would be his turn.

As soon as he entered the hall, it was immediately clear why the rota bathing was unpopular.

Enfolding before him was a bizarre scene, about fifty men, waiting in their undergarments in several rows, each line obviously assigned to one of about ten bathtubs.

Shower stalls were lining the left hand wall.

Walker dragged him towards a row of waiting men, who were in different states of undress.

With reluctance, Sherlock watched the proceedings unfold.

The men at the front of the lines were helped by junior assistants who completely undressed them and once they were in the tub, immersed them completely. After that the patients had to stand and carbolic soap was applied. Coarse brushes were used to scrub the skin clean. Sherlock relaxed a bit when he saw that whoever was able to do the procedure on his own was allowed to do so.

"Move it," Walker reminded him and gave him a nudge towards the shortest line.

The smell of unwashed warm bodies washed over Sherlock when he stepped closer. He felt his body go into a very unwelcoming alarm mode.

Odours like old sweat and urine had made his skin crawl since Serbia. In the years after his return to 'life' he had learned to manage the post traumatic distress. It was a familiar beast, something he had learned to live with. Over time he - and John - had figured out his triggers and - when it was reasonable - to evade them. John… he missed John so much, the physical sensations his body threw at him when he thought about his friend felt overwhelming and unpleasant.

Until a few weeks ago he had thought he was doing fine, trauma-wise.

Witnessing Mary die  affected his mental stability enormously, as did the drugs.

Grinding his teeth, Sherlock decided to get through the bathing without much fuss. He wasn't shy and he had endured worse. Having to bathe in a room full of people was uncomfortable, but he would manage.

Sherlock spent the next ten minutes watching the proceedings and memorising which behaviours from patients or staff caused undesirable reactions. He was relieved when he realised that between patients the water was drained and fresh water was poured in.

At two lines on the other end of the hall, clean hair was combed, nails were clipped, and some men were shaved, all in a mass processing way.

In one line were the men who did it themselves and the attendant was supervising; in the other, men were given the treatment who couldn't do it on their own.

He planned ahead and projected his own behaviour for different events that might occur.

Waiting for his turn grated on his nerves. When it was finally his turn he hurried, followed the personnel's instructions as fast and accurately as he could. Thereby he prevented them from yelling at him the way they did at so many others. He not only washed as rigorously and fast as he could, he also successfully kept his mind out of any danger zone.

It worked well until one of the attendants decided Sherlock was too slow rinsing his hair and 'helped' him the nasty way. The man had stood close the entire time and Sherlock was very aware of that, his senses on high alert. What Sherlock didn't see was the man raising his hand, barking an order. Before the word's meaning reached Sherlock's muddled brain, the

carer plunged Sherlock's head under the murky water.

Sherlock's mind dropped into the flashback immediately.

He had no time to rationalise what was happening or remember that there was no real danger. Panic mode took over and all rational thoughts were gone.

He flailed desperately.

A nasty laugh echoed through his mind when the sensation of water entering his mouth and nose threatened to overwhelm him. Desperately, he tried not to breathe.

But the coughing reflex abruptly ended his effort when some of the water reached his windpipe.

The experience was eerily familiar. The sense memory of soapy water entering his lungs was vivid and reawakened old horrors. The sensation of something forcing its way into his airway, of his chest feeling full and stuffed, resulted in an adrenaline rush that did both, worsening the panic and slowing things down.

Blindly, he fought his assailant, pushed against a hard surface and was suddenly free. He rolled over, fell over an edge and landed on his side. Before he had made a conscious decision, he was on his hands and knees and tried to scramble off, away from the water, driven by panic.

Yelling from all directions.

Some eerie singing in the distance.

Someone screamed nearby, then Sherlock was brutally slapped.

He spluttered, coughed, fought for air, expected another assault, but none came - only more yelling and more shouts of "Greenberg!"

Getting in oxygen was the only thing he was interested in - and spitting water out. He found he was crouched on the ground, his hands raised in a defensive position. He was cold and wet and naked, but those things only registered after he had managed to suck in a few gasps of air.

"What is this tumult!" an angry voice boomed through the hall-like room.

In the distance there was still someone singing.

Sherlock pried his eyes open and found himself in the asylum.

That fact was a shock itself. It took him a moment to get his act together and remember how he got there.

The flashback's remnants mingled with reality; sorting out which was which was becoming a problem.

The singing suddenly changed from an anxious male voice to a high pitched young girl's. He tensed up.

"Look at me, Greenberg! Get your arse up and rinse off the soap!" Hughes barked.

Sherlock sat up and tried to wipe the soap water from his eyes. The sensation of the dirty wet concrete under his bare flesh made him grimace.

"What happened?" Hughes barked and the distressed murmur in the room rose. Several voices answered, but Sherlock didn't even try to listen, he was too busy finding his way back to this reality. It took quite some effort to stand up.

He could not afford to look weak any more than he already did, so he focussed on looking as tall as he could. He slowly walked with as much poise as he could put on display. It had the desired effect. People scattered around the room stepped back to make way for him.

When he reached the bathtub, he found the brutal carer sitting on a stool with a sour expression on his face. Someone was tending to either his forearm or wrist, Sherlock's couldn't tell which.

"That stupid Bastard broke my arm!" he exclaimed, much to Sherlock's consternation because he couldn't remember how that had happened.

To Sherlock's surprise several voices started talking in the crowd of men.

"You decked him," one person said, obviously agitated. Sherlock cringed. He didn't want anyone being punished for speaking up for him.

"He deserved it," someone else spat, obviously meaning the carer did.

"He likes hurting us," another voice added.

Several carers around Sherlock tensed up and tried to spot the speakers, but the crowd didn't reveal them. Apparently, hidden tensions were high and if not halted the situation might head into a revolt within minutes.

"Silence!" Hughes barked and the room abruptly quieted due to the harsh tone. It was obvious, the patients were afraid. The pent-up tension was palpable and it worsened Sherlock's barely controlled panic.

Keeping his outward calm took more effort than Sherlock could afford. His fight or flight response was overwhelmed. With a wildly beating heart he walked to one of the shower heads on the wall and turned it on, then he stepped under the spray. He was the only one in

the room moving and he felt the crowd's eyes on him.

He rinsed off and then stepped back to his asylum-issued possessions. Demonstratively calm and not looking at anyone, he picked up his towel and wrapped it around his hips. The urge to flee was hard to fend off, but he managed.

Sherlock forced himself to step over to his assailant and Hughes.

"I am sorry if I hurt you. It was not my intention. It was a mere reflex

to protect my life. I have been tortured in the past and pushing me under the water woke my basic survival instincts. I am sorry," he addressed them in a low, kind voice.

The hatred on the wounded carer's face told him the accusations of some of the patients and their reluctance to bathe was - at least in part - directed at this individual.

For a brief moment, he experienced a wave of panic when it occurred to him that his collected demeanour might actually have the opposite effect of what he aimed for. He wanted to put his clarity of mind and his lack of aggression on display but his behaviour might well be interpreted as ignorance or arrogance.

To his surprise, one or two of the carers seemed to sympathise with the crowd; it was showing in their body language. Another few of them were just trying to figure out what had happened. But the rest, which was the majority, demonstrated clearly that they thought Sherlock deserved severe punishment.

"Get back to bathing, people!" Hughes yelled and the mob of patients scuttled back to looking busy. Hughes then addressed the wounded attendant, "Go to the infirmary and have that looked after," he ordered and the wounded carer left, pissed expression on his face.

"Walker, escort Greenberg to his room. He won't be allowed to join the evening entertainment this weekend," Hughes said in a loud voice so everyone could hear.

"But, Sir…!" one of the carers started to protest, and on other's faces there was open hostility and indignation. Apparently, they deemed the punishment to be too mild.

Sherlock's delight about the order was carefully hidden and he did his best to look disappointed. In truth, he experienced the numb and diffuse mental mist that would be termed dissociation decades later. He felt separated from himself, as if he were observing his actions from a distance. He seemed to desperately hold on to the empty shell of his

body so as not to give away his vulnerability and distress.

Walker held up Sherlock's jacket and only then he realised that he had been about to leave the room clad only in the towel, his clothes forgotten.

 

When they reached his room, Sherlock felt drained and messed up. He was glad when the door locked behind him and he was finally alone. For some long moments he just stood in the middle of the room, his thoughts wreaking havoc in his mind.

After a while, the tickling of the water from his hair brought him out of his stupor. He padded his hair dry, slipped into fresh pyjamas and curled up on the bed, burying himself under the blanket.

He knew from experience that trying to only clear the mist of dissociation from his mind was not enough; it wouldn't leave him alone.

Instead, he focussed on the arduous task of dissecting what he remembered of the episode.*

The first step was to stop fighting off the distress, and instead embrace it, feel it. He took a deep breath and mentally leaned back, ready to allow the wild chaos in that constantly tucked at his mind.

To his surprise, it turned out to be difficult. It took a lot more effort to allow it in, as if the barrier his own mind had created was hard to cross. He had done this before - much to John's dismay - he could do it again.

Lying down turned out to be a bad idea, so he adopted a meditation pose he had learned in Nepal.

He concentrated on slowly recalling the episode and its triggers from before. When his mental fingers ghosted over the agony, it was an unsettling sensation. He reeled back at first, surprised by the ugly intensity.

Most of it was definitely caused by torture. Being shoved under water was a trigger. Consciously recalling was stressful and it took some time before Sherlock had sorted it out. Finally, he found there were two distinctive facts he couldn't link to anything from Serbia. Both were slightly alarming.

First: The disgusting feeling of warm soapy water passing his uvula and epiglottis that pushed down into his air pipe. Like a solid mass that invaded his body with unexpected brutality.

Second: the singing. There had been another inmate singing a nursery rhyme in distress, but the child's voice he had heard had mixed in and had sung something different that was eerily familiar.

He wasn't sure, but the first thought he had was that he had dreamed about it before, maybe when Mary had drugged him. The singing felt threatening, overwhelmingly so.

Was that it?

The missing link?

Was he trapped in the asylum because he had been drugged in real life?

Was Moriarty behind this?

Was he unable to wake up because Moriarty had somehow managed to poison him?

Or drug him?

Was what he remembered even his real life?

Or was it the illusion?

His thoughts derailed and found his body was hyperventilating.

STOP.

Was this the paranoia speaking? Paired with anxious overanalysing?

This was a symptom of withdrawal, he had to keep his thoughts straight or he would

really go mad.

Back to the original task.

Conclusion: there were more stressors, Serbia wasn't the only element in this. There were layers, and underneath the immediate, there was an old familiar horror.

He only realised that because he remembered that - while being tortured in Serbia - it hadn't been new. Back then, he had been in no state to analyse that, but now he remembered. He gagged when he tried to focus on what he had felt when he experienced something that should be new, but turned out to have familiar aspects. 

The problem was, it was too diffuse, the only thing he knew was that it was really old. Almost as old as he was. He had known it for all his life. He couldn't pinpoint it, it was just a rollercoaster of negative physical sensations coupled with ugly emotions.

The night passed slowly and Sherlock was plagued by nightmares that left him in an even more depressed state of mind than his default mood.

 

During breakfast, Paterson asked him to take part in the evening entertainment the next weekend and play a few pieces on the violin. For some reason the idea filled him with dread and his first impulse was to flee. Then politeness took over and he declined.

At that moment he didn't think about it, but during another boring walk in the park a bit later, his idle mind brought back his reaction to the conversation.

His reaction seemed completely normal, evading an audience was what he did. Then - for the first time - he wondered why and found he didn't know. He analysed it further, tried to find more memory fragments for this second puzzle.

He clearly remembered that he had been told so often in his youth that his violin play was lacking expression and passion that at one point he decided to only play when alone. Mummy had worked months to convince him to go back to the lessons he had loved earlier. The problem was, Sherlock couldn't remember who had excoriated his playing so persistently that he lost all motivation. At first he thought it must have been Mycroft, simply because there was no one else who could have done it. He had no friends or peers in school.

Had there been an incompetent teacher?

The fact that there seemed to be missing information unsettled him.

Why were his mind's storage shelves empty concerning this? Or was he locked out of the room the information was in?

Discovering he couldn't remember things he should was very unsettling.

A side effect of the drug use?

Was he finally paying the price for needing peace and quiet in his mind when the world was too overwhelming? Was losing memories the answer to his need for calm?

He had chased an ordered psyche his whole youth, when neurotypical therapists explained that his mental creativity and hypervigilance was treatable and needed to be tamed with discipline. Maybe one of them was the reason for this?

He knew he had resumed going to lessons at some point, but he never performed willingly after whatever happened.

Playing was his own private thing, done only in the safe haven of his own home. Mrs Hudson and John were the only people allowed to see him this open. It certainly helped that they stepped into his life at a point where he had finally started to learn to tolerate his own presence.

He never had friends before. He had always been the one who stepped on everyone's toes, the one who was bullied because he could do things others didn't understand. No matter how much he tried to be kind and behave appropriately, he had never been part of a friendship that lasted long enough to develop into a close one.

When he had realised this in his youth, his strategy had been to try to collect proper behaviours and reactions in to a mental database. It had taken him years to organise and learn things. Although it made him more socially acceptable on a superficial level, he always reached a point at which people started to dislike him because he blundered. When he tried

to be of help he insulted people because he was too honest, too direct.

Little by little he lost all hope to ever be a proper human being.

In his late teens he finally realised that the database would never be enough to handle people appropriately, and that he was damaged goods.

All his desperate attempts to adapt to society failed, he was an outcast and a freak. No one would ever waste their time with him or - god forbid - like or even love him. He unintentionally hurt people's feelings no matter how much he tried. It was futile. He was defective. He was the factor that destroyed harmony.

That was when he gave up. He stopped using the database, locked it away with the help of drugs, dulled his mind with chemicals.

Mycroft had tried to hammer it in that caring was his one big weakness that would be his undoing. Only the drugs made him stop caring, but Mycroft had never understood that this was the only way. They also switched off his pursuit for the truth. Peace and silence in his own mind was a side effect he started to enjoy, too.

Over time, his relationship with John withered as all things did, due to his lack of understanding neurotypical human emotion. He had made mistakes he didn't understand, and therefore couldn't prevent. He overdid it or failed to do it; whatever he tried, it was always the wrong thing.  

Striving for acceptance was a waste of time. For a while, he thought John accepted him, but apparently he had just been a means to an end.

The same trap he had stepped in so often in his youth. Back then, his mother had - sooner or later - informed him that it wasn't friendship he had found. He was just exploited. Over time, he learned to prevent being used, but in the end, it also left him without any social contacts.

"Sherlock, stop this," a gentle voice intruded. He didn't bother to look up, he knew it was Mary. "This is the depression talking." He heard her familiar steps on the path behind him but he walked on.

"No, it isn't. It's my life experience. I never had real friends. No one ever wanted to waste their time with the freak. Whenever I thought I had found a friend it turned out they just wanted something I had. No one was ever my friend for the sake of it. I was always just something to exploit or a tool to use."

"John values your friendship," she said while she caught up with him.

"Maybe I did manage to find one or two people who genuinely wanted to be my friend for a time, but I never see all the details. I always miss the cues. I never know when to shut up. I will never learn how not to trample on everyone's feelings on a daily basis. People can't stand it in the long run. They will leave because I said the wrong thing one time too often," Sherlock whispered in a choked, hopeless tone. "I will never learn how not to blunder, no matter how much work I put into it. He is better off without me."

"You can't abandon him like that. He needs you. God, Rosie needs you," Mary tried to argue.

"She'll be far better off without a crazy godfather who is a failure as a role model. I taint everything I touch."

"That's BS. I value your strong moral compass…"

"I thought John was my moral compass," Sherlock interrupted bitterly.

"…and your fight for truth and justice, you know that," Mary retorted.

"No one wants to hear the truth. The truth is not something desired by society but a disturbance in people's illusions they have about themselves. To stick to it does more damage than good. But I can't let go of sticking to it. Look what that did to you." Sherlock's voice broke when he uttered the words and he felt nameless but crushing emotions rise up. The urge to run was suddenly overwhelming.

"Sherlock, you need to keep going. Do not fall into this pit of despair. You need to get out of here!" Mary urged.

"I can't," Sherlock choked on his own words and stopped dead in his tracks. Walking had turned into an effort. He felt exhausted and ill. "I tried, again and again." Now there were desperate tears in his voice, but he didn't care.

"Yes, you can. Use your brilliant mind.”

"I have no energy left. I am weak. I can't even think straight,” Sherlock whispered, feeling the heaviness pulling him down. It felt like a physical weight. He stumbled towards a bench a few steps away and slumped into it.

"There is no use," he mumbled. "Real life is no better than this. No need to molest anyone with my obnoxious presence."

"Thinking that this is easier to endure than the problems you and John are facing is an illusion," Mary said in a gentle tone and sat down next to him.

He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. Her understanding was disgusting. He could feel her hand on his back, just resting there.

"You needed the drugs to keep going, I know. I understand. They made you alert, more aggressive and fearless. You needed all that to survive. But now, your fear of losing John has mounted up so high you can't manage any longer. You are close to the breaking point, but hiding in depressive thoughts will do the opposite of what you want."

"I am not hiding!" Sherlock hissed wearily.

"You need to lift yourself up by your own bootstraps. No one else will do it for you. Your depression is severe, it has you in a tight grip. Therefore, your thoughts are taking all the negative routes and what you need is new positive thoughts."

"I can't. I lost them. There is nothing positive left," Sherlock whispered, expecting Mary to chide him for uttering how fragile and lost he felt.

"John is in a very bad state," Mary said, close to his ear.

Sherlock wished this fact would make him fight harder to find a way out, it had in the past. But now he just felt numb, abandoned and rejected by John.

"You know enough about psychology to understand that those things are not intentional," Mary reminded him, "They are side effects of grief."

Sherlock's mind then presented him with another disturbing thought.

What if John was the reason he was in here?

Was John administering drugs to keep him this way? To not have to endure him?

"For god's sake, Sherlock! That's bullshit!" Mary's voice was indignant for a moment, but then changed in tone suddenly, "You know what this is? This is the paranoia setting in… Which is completely normal at this stage of withdrawal," she added in a soothing tone. "So, this is your body going through these changes to find its way back to normal. Don't let those symptoms rule you. They will go away. Keep your cool until it's over. John is out there waiting for you. You need to hang on."

Sherlock felt her stand up, take his head in her hands and kiss him on the forehead.

"I know I have said most of this before - your thoughts are running in circles… I also know you might need to hear it again and again and again before this is over. I will be here to kick your arse as often as you need it," she added.

The forehead kiss was a sense memory that brought him back to the wedding and he was overwhelmed by the loss of the two people in his life that mattered so much.

"Fight, Sherlock," she whispered, and then she was gone.

Sherlock sat on the bench and the emotions overwhelmed him.

He buried his face in his hands and wept.

 


 

* Sherlock and John used the mind palace to dissect Sherlock's memories in order to help him cope with his PTSD after he came back from Serbia. This happens my story 'Define Vulnerability.

 

 

Chapter 35: Disruption - Part 13 - Sunday

Summary:

Sherlock makes an important discovery.

Notes:

Many thanks @PipMer for beta-ing this chapter.

Chapter Text

 

 

Sherlock spent the rest of the day in a numb stupor and went to bed immediately after dinner because he was so exhausted he couldn't think straight. He was overall grateful that he - until now - had escaped the mandatory activities due to the wound on his leg. All this would change the next day; from Monday on he was expected to take part in everything they threw at him. He feared that his time in the asylum would soon become even harder to endure than it already was.

 

After merely six hours of sleep, he woke, defeated and restless. Sitting up was a struggle. It was cold and he kept the blanket wrapped tightly around his torso when he leaned against the wall. The healing wound on his leg had progressed to the state of itching, which was probably what had woken him.

For several minutes, he tried not to scratch it and listened to the silence. It was oddly quiet. The question of the time was  answered some time later, when the clock tower in the distance announced it was a quarter past one.

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to chase away the mist of sleep and exhaustion.

Chances were high he would be unable to sleep again any time soon no matter how tired he felt. He might as well use the night to continue exploring the building and memorizing the staff's movements.

 

An hour later, Sherlock had made it to the administration wing. He tiptoed down one of the upper corridors. On both sides were offices; he stopped now and then to look out of the large hallway windows. Once he had left behind the patient areas there were no more guards on rounds. This part of the building seemed completely abandoned at night.

At least he thought so until a sudden noise from within a room he had just passed made him flinch.

With his heart pounding he ducked into a corner, pressing his back against the wall.

But whoever was in the room didn't come out - at least not immediately.

Sherlock waited with bated breath. His hiding spot was not a good one. If someone looked in his direction they would see him. But people didn't see what they didn't expect and it was relatively dark, so chances were good.

Unsure if he should go back the way he came or continue down the corridor, his gaze fell upon the door on the opposite side and he froze.

Sherlock stared at the sign, dumbfounded.

Dr William A. Portmann, Director, Superintendent.

He knew that name!

Overwhelmed and unprepared, he gasped.

Then, suddenly pieces started to fall into place. At first it was like a few pebbles rolling down a slope. Disconnected images, the face of a young man.  He tried to focus, remember how he knew the name. He was caught by surprise when his mind was caught in an avalanche of things falling into place.

They didn't just fall, they rearranged themselves with the equivalent mental noise of a  nearby ship collision. Sherlock had to lean into the support of the wall.

More fractions of memories flooded his mind.

He had found the missing link between the Victorian reality he had chosen to dwell in as a safe place, and the asylum.

Then he gulped repeatedly, staring at the golden name plate.

A tiny noise behind him caught him off guard.

The door next to him opened and the thing he should have done was keep whoever it was silent, but the second of shock slowed him down.

Someone gasped in surprise. He started to turn, but apparently the person's reaction time was a lot shorter, because a fraction of a second later, the man was yelling, even before Sherlock was facing him.

Sherlock reached up to muffle the screams. In the resulting struggle, they landed on the floor. Only a moment later, the door with Portmann's name on it opened behind them.

That was the moment Sherlock realised he was in deep shit.

More yelling.

Sherlock tried the only option left: run.

His aching limps moved. He started sprinting from a kneeling position, adrenaline kicking in hard. But he had barely made it four or five leaps when another door a few metres ahead opened and another man stepped into the corridor.

Sherlock tried to run him over, shove him away, but the man had seen him coming and was prepared. He rammed Sherlock into the wall with unexpected force and Sherlock's head collided with it.

Momentarily dazed by the impact and the pain, he slid down the wall.

It was all his opponents needed. Hands were upon him, pinning him down almost instantly.

"Get me something potent!"

"He's trying to escape."

"You'll regret this, bub," someone with an American accent hissed.

More voices mingled into the chaos, but Sherlock couldn't really make out many details. His view was limited, his face was turned towards the wall. The dim lighting became brighter at some point but his field of vision didn't change much, even when more people joined to restrain him.

Violent hands pinned him to the floor, pressed his chest and face into the cold marble. They overpowered his weak struggles without much effort. There must have been at least ten men present at that point.

"Greenberg!" the first familiar voice yelled a few moments later. It was Hughes.

"Get me something to sedate him with," someone repeated and it reignited Sherlock's will to fight. Unconsciousness might mean he would never wake up, because Portmann might choose to make him disappear permanently.

The thing was he didn't even know if the out-of-sight man was Portmann.

The hands forced his left arm outwards, tight around his biceps.

He fought, tried to kick, aware what would happen next.

"Hold him steady," someone boomed.

The iron grips shifted to bare his painfully twisted arm.

He mustered all his strength, infuriated by the idea that he had finally solved the mystery and they would neutralise him before he could use his knowledge to get out of this godforsaken place. Then he violently jerked him arm back, curled around it to protect it.

Something collided with his temple. The pain was profound, not only at the temple but also on the other side of his head, where it had hit the marble floor.

Helpless and disoriented for the moment, his attackers used their chance to shove the needle into his arm and inject him with something.

Whatever it was, it was potent. Awareness was kicked out of him, hard.

 

His return to consciousness was slow and he hovered in a half-aware stupor for quite some time. He did realise that he had trouble waking up at some level, but that fact didn't help him to speed up the process.

He felt groggy and nauseous when he finally managed to open his eyes.

The familiar sensation of drugs leaving his system was obvious and he struggled to remember what he had taken.

His transport seemed unsure if it wanted more or was just pissed that he had taken something in the first place.

Only when his eyes focussed on the padded leather under his head, did he recalled what had happened.

He was back in the 'quiet room'.

An unnerved groan escaped his lips. His physical affliction and the pain were better than being dead but he felt too sick to appreciate that.

All his muscles seemed to have tensed up. He tried to consciously relax and found he was in a strait jacket again.

At least the pain his joints and muscles threw at him when he tried to sit up woke him further.

No sitting, then.

Desperately, he tried to relax his arms and back. He was more than exhausted and it made him overly sensitive to stimuli, which was probably also the reason why the pain felt so intense. He closed his eyes again and tried to focus on blocking the unwanted perceptions one by one in the hopes of mental clarity. 

 

It took quite some time until he dared to carefully wind himself into a less painful position. Lying on his back turned out to be a bad choice.

The bulky buckles in the back hurt to lie on and he had to shift again.

Whatever they had given him, it gently cradled and calmed his mind, while it also seemed to have given his thought processes an odd tinge.

At least it helped him to relax once he had put his mind into it; he welcomed the latter effects.

Nevertheless, he would probably feel the pain for days - that was if he lived that long.

They might still kill him, sooner or later, he was quite certain of that.

He was in the asylum because someone had tried to make him vanish bloodlessly, but this was probably the point at which they would consider a more permanent solution to protect themselves.

 

He jerked awake and - frustrated that his body had given in - actually hissed at it.

For god's sake what had they given him? His own thoughts felt foreign.

A strange mental spark ignited a train of thought and his mind powered up, processing the events. He felt more like a spectator than anything else. The realisations burned through his consciousness with a hot bright and red glimmer. The deductions came in faster than he could process them, scorched his mind in doing so.

Dr William A. Portmann was the superintendent of this asylum.

He must be the father of their client Avery Portmann - the name was suddenly there in his focus, complete with a overly sharp picture of the man. He now remembered what had been lost to him for days.

The last thing he did before waking up in the asylum was to interview Mrs Portmann.

The client had asked him to find his fiancé who had vanished - as had her mother.

It was highly probable that the missing fiancé and her mother were in the women's asylum nearby - or had been at some point, locked away under a false name, diagnosed with something that made their every word unreliable, in order to keep the woman from marrying Portmann's son. The parents weren't fond of her lower class origin.

Both women were probably suffering the same fate that had befallen him.

Superintendent Portmann had used his god-like power over asylum patients to cause him to vanish too, when he came too close to the truth.

Portmann had abused his position to do this. A superintendent's word was law inside an asylum and he controlled every aspect of life in the institution. The staff had to strictly obey him, which meant a superintendent could practically order his subordinates to do anything.

Though in this case - up to now - Portmann had probably only created a fake file for Sherlock and no one would ever doubt it. The patient's voice didn't matter.

Of course Portmann wouldn't grant Sherlock a meeting or allow him to see documents he had signed with his name, because that would've meant Sherlock would've understood. The man had the means to either slowly drive Sherlock insane for real or kill him and make it look like natural causes. A superintendent was in charge of treatment, medication, diet and even postmortems. It wouldn't take much work to make someone vanish forever leaving no traces of them.

Sherlock hoped that Emilia Rowe - Avery's fiancé - and her mother hadn't already been disposed of this way. People vanished into the system, even healthy ones no one wanted. It was not unheard of that wives with undesirable attitudes had been locked away by their husbands.

In an era when most doctors were convinced that a patient's diagnosis was their own fault and the result of their own weakness, rebelling was counterproductive - at least in a 'normal' way.

Patterson had warned him that the more one drew attention, the worse the treatments would get. Rebellion was dangerous in an environment like this, but he realised for him it had become deadly. Portmann would have probably left him alone had he decided to fit in and keep quiet. Maybe he would even have forgotten him over time.

He realised that maybe he had been kept in a private room and allowed more freedom than others to keep him relatively quiet.

A sharp ugly sensation in his chest accompanied the realisation that chances were high John was also incarcerated somewhere in this institution. This was when the panic started to stir, despite the numbing drugs running through his system.

Sherlock hoped John had kept his head down. In a padded cell and without knowledge of John's locations he was useless. He needed to find a way out to help his friend.

It would take time until he collected himself enough to even try to escape. Chances were slim escaping would be easy, he knew from his first encounter with this sturdy room. His chances of survival might depend on a) how good he would be able to defend himself once they came for him and b) if he managed to get out before that happened.

The drug cocktail in his system worked against him and despite the danger, pushed him out of his mind and into sleep once more.

 

He drifted in and out of consciousness for a long time. At least it felt like that. He was losing time, precious time, but felt helplessly at the mercy of the drugs.

During one of the clearer moments, he continued to analyse how exactly he had been brought to the asylum, in the vague hope of finding details he could use to escape it. At least the drugs enabled him to go deep into his memories and remember more than he would have without them, his creativity enhanced involuntarily by the medication.

He focussed on the moment when he and Watson had headed to the house of Avery Portmann's parents to interview the mother. His leg was perfectly fine when they entered.  

That was when things got sketchy.

He definitely remembered Watson using the heavy doorknocker, a bit louder than necessary.

The door was opened, but he couldn't recall by whom.

They found themselves in the drawing room, that much he knew. He concentrated on remembering the details of the room but there were more grey areas than details in his mental reconstruction of the room.

They had talked to Mrs Portmann, that much he knew but he was also missing the entire conversation.

Had there been a maid? He couldn't remember seeing her. There must have been, the woman of the house wouldn't serve them tea herself… There was tea?

Yes, tea. Served in expensive china with a floral pattern.

He hadn't tried the tea. Watson had, out of politeness, as he had shortly before at the Thompson's house - the landlords of the mission woman's mother. Sherlock turned his focus to that meeting and was able to remember most of it.

Good.

He turned back to focus on the drawing room, trying to remember the furniture and décor, but it remained fuzzy. He mentally looked at Watson, tried to use him as a focus. Inspected every detail of his appearance.

Then suddenly, his memory switched to the outside of the Portmann house again. It was not the superintendent's villa which was located on the asylum grounds, that much was sure. Paterson had mentioned that the superintendent lived in his villa on the grounds. So for whatever reason, the wife lived near London.

When they were on their way back to the hansom, Watson's appearance suddenly changed; he looked dishevelled and his clothes were dirty and blotchy with wet spots.

There were loud noises, but that was the last Sherlock could remember. No matter how much he tried to focus, that was the last of it.

Sherlock drifted off again and when he came to he was disappointed to find his situation hadn't changed.

"God, still not awake! I have solved it for god's sake!" he addressed the silence, then realised he had used similar words before and groaned.

 

Overall, the realisation that he might not be here because his own mind was punishing him, but because of some other reason was less unsettling.

It wasn't the first time that he thought he had solved something and he hadn't… But in the big picture, it made little difference.

He was restrained and incarcerated and maybe that was the point. Maybe all he needed was to free himself from this existence.

Could it be that simple? If he died in the mind palace, would it automatically expel him?

Would he wake up if he died in here?

Did he even want to return to real life?

Was his subconscious trying to tell him he needed to let go?

Transcribing the figurative into the physical to make him understand?

But why then was Mary visiting him regularly and encouraging him to hang on? Was she the manifestation of sentiment, his fear of letting John go?

Was the asylum a metaphor of him feeling trapped in his drug use and fighting to save John although there was no way out?  Things he held dear were gone. During the time John had broken contact after Mary's death, Sherlock had felt isolated and alone, and he had given all he had to save John.

Just that now, after John was safe, he felt still isolated and alone… maybe even abandoned. The situation remained a conflict, nothing seemed solved. As if all the problems he had aimed to solve were now just simmering under the surface.

There were so many negative feelings it was overwhelming: loss, worthlessness, uselessness, as well as anger at himself. Ella had asked him where his own - healthy amount - of anger was about the woman who had actually shot Mary? About John's behaviour? About everything unfair that had happened to him? But he was at a loss; he couldn't find that anger.

Maybe it was needed to stay alive and that was the reason his self-preservation was rubbish, because it was just not there.

He was certain Portmann would try to get rid of him sooner or later, just giving in and allowing them to kill him could shorten his suffering.

Was he ready to risk that it might not bring him out of his mind palace but burrow him deeper?

Mary's pep talk the day before had had the opposite effect of what she aimed for. All he gathered from it was that people wanted him for their own selfish reasons, and he just didn't know where to get the energy and the will to do that.

He had run out of… everything that had kept him grounded and going before. All that remained was exhaustion.

He was too tired to fight or to even hope.

With his mind already drifting off, he tried to decide if he should fight them any longer. He was ready to escape the asylum, by any means necessary.

 

 

Chapter 36: Disruption - Part 14

Summary:

Sherlock hits rock bottom.

Notes:

Many thanks to PipMer for beta-ing this chapter :)

 

*Trigger warning*: superficial suicidal thoughts ahead, skip this chapter if there's a chance that such things might trigger you!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

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.

 


 

Restrained

 

Do not post my art on other sites/social media or use in any other way without my written permission.

 

 

 

Notes:

I started painting this piece of art in the summer of 2018 when I wrote the first drafts of Sherlock in the Asylum.

Only some of my art is posted on AO3, if you want to see it all feel free to visit my tumblr or twitter.

Chapter 37: March 28th, 1867

Notes:

Many thanks to @pipmer for beta-ing this chapter.

Chapter Text

 

 

John Watson nervously limped up and down the living room of 221b, waiting for the arrival of Greg Lestrade.

Ten days ago he and Holmes had tried to interview the parents of Avery Portmann. There was nothing ominous about that meeting at first. Only the mother was home and she was very close-lipped, which is why Holmes decided to come back later to see both parents together.

Back at the carriage, things turned odd. The carriage and the horse were there, but their driver had disappeared. At first they thought he might have wandered of to relieve himself or smoke, but when he didn't return after a couple of minutes they started looking for him. The moment they passed a high hedge they were ambushed by five men who tried to grab and incapacitate them by using chloroform.

Holmes managed to wind out of their grip before the substance had a chance to knock him out but his escape was short-lived; one of the perpetrators knocked him over the head. Watson witnessed him go down while he struggled to free himself. Although he fought like mad, he had no change against three bulky and well trained men. This was the last time Watson had seen his friend.

He later woke in a moist and rat infested cellar. Bound, blindfolded, and alone. Whoever had separated him from his friend had also taken his coat, everything he might use as a weapon or tool, and his wallet. The following hours were dire. Watson's worries for the well-being of Holmes kept him in an anxious and nervous state.

Roughly twenty four hours later, the men came back. Without a word, they gagged him and threw him onto what must have been the back of a wagon, which promptly started moving. Watson was not clothed properly and stiff from the time in the cellar.

At some point, someone just rolled his bound body off the moving wagon. The impact on the ground was so hard, it knocked the air out of his lungs. Catching his breath with the gag in place was difficult, and at first he was afraid he might black out. Without the use of his hands, it took him quite some time to wind out of the blindfold, but the gag was impossible to shift. He found himself alone in the dark in the middle of nowhere. Mercifully, the almost full moon allowed him to see the rural countryside surrounding him. Getting up was equally difficult due to his injuries, probably a sprained ankle and a fair amount of bruises on his right side.

The moment he was on his feet, he started to walk - hobble, if he was honest with himself. He was well aware that he needed to find shelter before hypothermia set in. Their assailants had obviously chosen to dump him somewhere remote so that his return to London would take as long as possible. Apparently it was not their aim to kill him directly, though exposure might do the job for them.

He staggered down a dark unpaved road and hoped to find a farmhouse sooner or later.

The injury made walking a slow and painful endeavour. It took him over three hours until he reached a farmhouse and he scared the young couple half to death by kicking their door to make himself known.

At first they hadn't dared to open the door but when they understood he was gagged they finally let him in and helped him. Watson hoped they would be able to bring him back to London with a cart or something, but he found out it was almost two o'clock and London was more than five hours away by carriage. Worried about Holmes but not able to walk properly, he could do nothing else but accept their hospitality and stay the night. They promised the farm hand would bring him to the nearest station first thing in the morning.

In the end, Watson stayed another night, because it occurred to him that Holmes's fate might be similar to his own. He searched the woods and countryside for his friend.  The farmhand and the maid helped in the search but they found not even a hint that Holmes might have been there.

The morning after, the farmer himself brought Watson to the nearest train station after a hearty breakfast. He promised to keep his eyes and ears open about Holmes and send a note if he heard something.

Several hours later Watson reached Baker Street, wet, dirty and barely able to walk. He had to use the doorbell because the perpetrators had not only taken his wallet but also his keys. Mrs Hudson was on him the moment she opened the front door. She was quite agitated about them both missing for two nights. Watson's hopes that Holmes had made it home were dashed immediately. Even before he changed into fresh clothes he sent for Lestrade to come see him.

The director arrived an hour later and was equally worried when he learned what had happened. By then, Watson had washed, dressed in dry and warm clothes and had some hot tea. But even warm socks, a hot water bottle and some soup failed to chase away the cold he still felt.

 

Four days after his return Watson was exasperated and out of ideas as to where to look for his friend. The revelations Holmes had made a few days prior to their kidnapping - about being abstinent from cocaine - worried the doctor additionally. It meant Holmes' ailing health could endanger him profoundly, even if the criminals didn't. Even neglect could become a serious matter, not to mention being abandoned in the woods somewhere. Somehow he hoped Holmes had been set free somewhere, made it to London and had spent the past nights in an opium den, falling back into old habits.

Lestrade and Watson had spent every day since Watson's return checking all the cases he and Holmes had worked on in the past months. They tried to make sure none of the perpetrators were out again or had revenge-seeking relatives. Every clue they followed ended in a dead end.

Watson was close to desperation after days of fruitless research. Without the brilliant mind of his companion he felt the insights to be long in coming. Then he realised that maybe that was the point. Maybe someone had kidnapped Holmes to prevent him from solving one of their current cases. The thing was, they weren't anywhere close to a solution in any of them.

The one with the maid was still uncertain, the other two were dormant for weeks, and the Avery case was still in its beginnings. Also, there were probably a few boring cases Holmes never bothered to mention but had solved in the background.  Unfortunately, Holmes hadn't told Watson the theories he had and therefore the leads were very thin.

 

March 28th, 1867 - Thursday

Two weeks after the kidnapping, Mrs Hudson stormed into the living room, a letter in her hand. It was addressed to her and clearly written in Sherlock Holmes' handwriting. It was signed with William, though.

At first, Watson couldn’t believe his friend was incarcerated in an insane asylum. It all made no sense. Nevertheless, the relief to know that Holmes was still alive made Watson's knees weak. The past days without news had been torture in their own way. He immediately called for Lestrade and after that tried to find out where exactly the asylum was located.

When discussing the letter, Watson, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson realised that it contained a lot more than just the short notice. Something was off – way off. The fact that Holmes had started his letter with 'Dear Martha', was the first hint that something was wrong. The second one was obvious: the simple fact that it was not addressed to John. And the third, that Sherlock did not use his real name but signed it with William and left out his last name. This would make finding someone under a false name difficult, especially in an institution with hundreds of inmates. All those oddities pointed towards proceeding with caution.

Frantically, they tried to figure out how to carefully gather intel. In the end, Watson remembered a man he had befriended during his early semesters. He was a record-keeper with the name 'White' whom Watson thought had mentioned that he had sought employment in some remote asylum in the country after graduation.  Of course, Watson didn't know if he had actually got the job. Although they had lost contact years ago, Watson deemed him a reliable source if they wanted to poke around a bit without raising suspicions.

Watson and Lestrade headed to White's last known address and found the man's parents still lived there. The only person present was the family's maid. Although Lestrade explained it was a police matter, the only thing she felt comfortable revealing was White's current address. John immediately sent White a telegram and asked him where he worked nowadays and if a meeting about a delicate matter was possible.

When White answered in the early evening, Watson couldn't believe his luck. White was apparently employed by the very same asylum Holmes was incarcerated in. White's message pointed out that since it was a long journey to London, a personal meeting needed to be carefully planned.

John kept the details to himself when White asked what it was all about, but explained it was urgent. In his answer Watson then expressed his hopes to come the next day for a visit. The next morning he received a positive answer. He and Lestrade immediately packed small suitcases and headed to the station to catch the next train.

Upon their arrival, they met White for lunch. At first, Watson hesitated to inform White about the fact that he was Holmes' acquaintance and that the detective was missing. The circumstances were too unclear. Watson feared the man might feel obliged to report to his superior what they told him, so they kept it vague, told him they were looking for a criminal in hiding. When asked to keep it quiet, White seemed to have no problem with it since his loyalty to the institution's superintendent was dwindling , and he was already in the process of applying for another job.

"The superintendent somehow seems not happy about my work," White explained during the meal they shared. It was a soul-baring comment full of sorrow, not lightly shared with an old friend he hadn't seen in over a decade. This showed how much he still trusted Watson.

While Watson and White wallowed in memories of their youth, Lestrade excused himself and headed to the local police station. He knew they needed support if they wanted to find out more inside the asylum, let alone be able to leave with one of their patients.

 

Shortly after lunchtime they regrouped with Lestrade at the gates of the asylum, who had brought a policeman and another detective named Johnson for support as well as an official carriage.

Only an hour later Watson, Lestrade and White were in White's office, looking through the lists of patients the asylum currently contained. Lestrade had brought official papers that enabled him to look through the records.

"This is the list of patients that arrived here during the time span your suspect went missing. As you can see, there is no one by the name of William on that list."

"I need to see every one of those patients," Lestrade declared.

"It's not that easy. We need to ask Superintendent Portman first. He is out. We need to wait for him to return," White explained.

"Portmann?" Watson repeated and his eyes widened. Until now, he had heard several people refer to the superintendent, but never by name.

Lestrade knew the name, too. Watson had told him about the current case Holmes had been working on when he went missing.

"This just turned into a crime investigation, perhaps even murder. Who is Portman's deputy?" Watson asked and stood up. They were very lucky he was out, it gave them a wider scope of action if the man wasn't there. Watson was afraid Portman might recognise him, which would give their rescue mission away.

 

Twenty minutes later, they were escorted through the wards. It was a lengthy process to see every single patient that had been admitted in the days after the 14th of March. They were also in a hurry to find Holmes before Portman returned.

They had already seen about sixteen men when they were led to the closed ward's quiet room.

"This one is dangerous, therefore he is in a quiet room. His behaviour was unacceptable and we needed to intervene for his own safety. He is refusing to eat and if he goes on with it we will have to  force feed him soon," head attendant Hughes informed them.

Watson's breath froze in his chest when the door was unlocked and revealed his best friend lying on the floor of the padded cell.

Holmes was restrained by a strait jacket and didn't react to their presence, not even when Watson examined him superficially and tried to rouse him. It took all John had to hide his excitement and his horror and pretend he was just inspecting a wanted criminal. Holmes seemed heavily drugged and not even half-conscious. Although he now and then opened his eyes a bit, there was no awareness or recognition.

"Why is he in this state?" Watson asked the carer.

"He was violent and we gave him belladonna – among other things – to keep him from hurting himself," Hughes explained in an indifferent tone.

"We have to take him to the nearest police station and book him," Lestrade explained. "He not only fits the description of our wanted criminal, the likeness of the pictures we saw is undeniable. We are quite certain this is the man we are looking for. Greenberg is probably not even his real name," Lestrade further informed the head attendant. The man started to explain that he couldn't allow that without permission from the superintendent. Watson and Lestrade had agreed that until Holmes was safe they would not reveal to anyone but the local police who he really was and that they would not leave without him. The detective and the policeman from the local station had agreed to that.

Hughes tried to convince them to wait until his boss was there but when they insisted, he became less friendly by the minute. "He is suffering from acute mania, he needs to be locked away to protect the public and himself."

"We will take care of that," the local detective reassured him.

"I will inform Dr Rubenstein." The man stormed off, clearly agitated.

Watson once more checked on Holmes, but he remained unresponsive.

Hughes came back with a doctor a few moments later.

"You can't just come in here and take a patient," Rubenstein barked instead of an introduction.

"Actually we can," Lestrade held up the paperwork. "We are looking for a dangerous criminal, clearly you don't want to endanger your other patients or your staff," Lestrade lied without blinking.

While the inspector explained in detail how to proceed to the personnel to keep them occupied, Watson sat his friend up and tried to rouse him.

"Hey?" he asked in a low voice and brushed back the greasy hair. "Can you hear me? If you can, please look at me. I am here to bring you home."

Holmes head lolled a bit towards Watson and his eyelids fluttered, but although his eyes stayed open for a few seconds, there was still no sign of recognition.

The doctor understood that as long as Holmes was unable to walk transporting him would be very difficult, and the staff could argue that they needed to wait until he was aware of proceedings.

When Greg stepped in to see what was going on, Watson whispered, "We need to get him out of here. Now! Before that Portman character comes back and all hell breaks lose!"

Lestrade took a closer look at Holmes and understood immediately. He returned to a fuming Rubenstein and boomed, "If you don't want to risk getting charged with abetment I suggest you prepare the papers to dismiss him now! He probably fooled you to get into this institution to hide from prosecution. You really want to be accused of helping a criminal?"

It took the staff twenty minutes until they gave in and Rubenstein signed the papers. They prepared to move Holmes. It was a fair amount of work to get him into a half decent standing position. Watson was supporting Sherlock on one side, the police man at the other. They had to leave the strait jacket on for now to keep up appearances. The movement seemed to have at least activated Holmes's reflexes. He was trying to walk, though not very successfully.

Lestrade was finalising the paperwork at the entrance desk when they caught up with him. Their doings had brought attention to their little group, and the carer's and Rubenstein's agitation was drawing even more. They were accompanied by two guards and two other carers by the time they reached the main hall.

Unfortunately, that was the moment when Holmes finally managed to regain some of his senses. Watson was so surprised, he couldn't stop him from breaking free of their hold.

Holmes barely made it three steps towards the door when the guard roughly grabbed him by the buckles and shoved him back into the policeman's arms. The other guard was on him a moment later, holding Holmes in place. It was clear that not hurting their patient was not one of their main concerns, and Watson hurt for his disoriented, panicked friend. Unable to interfere, he urged them to get their charge into the police cab.

The guards and the detective dragged and heaved Holmes into the waiting carriage. They then urged Johnson to chain him down, who informed them he would take care of it and that they were no longer needed. The moment they were gone, Watson climbed in and sat next to his friend.

"Holmes? Can you hear me? We got you out. You're safe now."

When Sherlock sagged forward and threatened to fall off the seat, Watson grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back so his spine leaned against the backrest. He then gently tilted Holmes head back and lifted his eyelids to inspect his pupils.

Holmes grunted in protest but his eyes still weren't focussing.

"Hey, Holmes, look at me," Watson ordered.

But the other man didn't, he just stared into empty space.

"Ready to go?" Lestrade asked and John could feel the carriage rocking; clearly, the constable and Lestrade were climbing into the box seat.

Johnson joined Watson and knocked against the roof to signal them they were ready to go. The carriage started to move.

The asylum grounds were huge. So huge in fact that it took them almost fifteen minutes to reach the main gate, which was at the end of a long, slightly bent road lined by high walls on each side. It left Watson a bit claustrophobic. The architecture reminded him more of a prison than a hospital. Clearly those long blank walls were a way to remind people how futile it was to try to escape. The corridor was easy to overlook; everyone on foot would be spotted immediately.

"Alright, the moment we are out of the gate, we need to get him out of those dreadful restraints," Watson addressed Johnson and sighed.

Then it dawned on him that maybe what he needed was not the wisest option. Trying to remove it  might cause another episode they weren't able to handle. Holmes' abilities to fight in a closed space could wreak havoc.

"Holmes? Look at me?"

To his amazement, Sherlock's eyes opened slightly and for the first time, his eyes found his face. But instead of a word of relief, Holmes' face started to slowly contort.

"Are you in pain?" Watson asked.

Helplessly, he watched as his friend's eyes filled with liquid.

"Holmes, please say something. You are safe. We will bring you home. It's alright now."

His friend blinked and frowned, still looking tormented.

They briefly stopped when they were out of sight from the gate keeper's hut and Johnson changed places with Lestrade. Apparently he thought that this was a matter that didn't need a stranger as a witness.

"My dear friend, you are in no danger. We rescued you from this dire place," Lestrade addressed Holmes in a gentle tone, resisting his urge to place a reassuring hand on Holmes' shoulder.

Holmes tilted his head back and leaned it against the rear wall. He closed his eyes, but he did not relax. He seemed to be using sheer force of will to keep it together. He made no sound but Watson saw a drop of liquid run down his temple into the hair.

"For god's sake Holmes, talk to me," Watson urged in a low voice, alarmed by what he was witnessing.

When Watson gripped his upper arms to gently shake some sense into him, show him he was real, Holmes reaction was unexpectedly rough. He tried to kick and keep Watson at a distance, shrunk further into the corner.

"Holmes, its me, just me. You' re safe."

Holmes madly shook his head like a cornered animal, out of his mind from the drugs. It was unlikely that any amount of talking would bring him around enough to have a sensible interaction.

"Alright, okay. Just relax and regain your senses."

Holmes struggled to focus, understand what was happening around him, that much was clear. He was tense, but exhaustion soon let him slouch in the corner. Now and then, another drop of liquid made its way down his face. Watson was sure his friend wasn’t even aware that his emotional torment was on display. Never before had he seen Holmes this emotionally derailed. It was a horrible sight, the great mind shattered to pieces.

"We will get that jacket off you as soon as possible," Watson reassured him.

"I can't do anything for him in here," Watson then addressed Lestrade , who still seemed shocked about Holmes' state.

"We need to find a place to stay the night. We can't transport him like this. He needs rest. Any Inn or a hotel nearby?"

"I asked them to bring us to a nice inn at the edge of town, at the lake. Relatives stay there visiting their loved ones at the asylum. We will drop Johnson off at the station first. The ride is almost an hour."

Watson nodded grimly.

 

 

Chapter 38: Disruption - Part 15

Notes:

The last few updates of this story have been slow and it might be advisable to re-read chapter 36 to get back into Sherlock's mindset.
Quick summary if you don't: Sherlock was in the padded cell and then he was dragged into a carriage, expecting his aggressors to prepare to get rid of him.

-
Unbeta-ed, sorry.

Chapter Text

 

 

Hands touching him and the movement of a carriage brought him back to a state of half awareness. Before there was conscious thought the adrenaline rush prompted him to move, shove his assailant away. But his body was slow to react and failed to respond properly.

The memories of what had happened trickled back into his awareness.

Right, muscle relaxants... and a strait jacket.

When he heard John's voice, his mind was lured into listening to the reassuring presence.

The mere act of forcing his eyes open was harrowing; and the triumph was short-lived.

Admittedly, he recognised the blurry shape of John's face, but immediately remembered that if he gave in and believed that this apparition was Watson coming to save him, it would make things much more difficult. This wasn't the first time that he hallucinated John in a dire situation. He couldn't fall into the same trap again. The sooner he convinced himself he was on his own the less he would suffer.

No one would come to save him. The intensity of being brought back to this set of mind drove liquid into his eyes. Having miscalculated burned hot and left him in vulnerable desperation.

Hopelessness took over and it was so vicious and his fatigue was so crippling, that all he did was to hope to black out again. His stupid transport on the other hand held on to consciousness despite his need to not experience this again.

"For god's sake Holmes, talk to me," Watson urged.

Can't… trust this… not… real, he stubbornly tried to remind himself.

More touches.

His mind went into overdrive.

It wasn't right. He was missing something.

Right. John had come. He had saved him from certain death - just that he couldn't remember when or how… but one thing was clear in his memory, it had happened only after Sherlock had given up believing he would.

His decision from earlier, to just give in, let them kill him and get it over with evaporated when his body betrayed him. Survival instinct kicked in. This had happened before - repeatedly. The ongoing fight between his mind and his body about this were seriously annoying by now.

His transport was definitely not ready to be snuffed out, no matter how ready he was. And it was winning this fight in the worst possible way just to then surrender because it had no strength left. Which then resulted in him wanting it to be over. A never ending circle.

Don' touch. Stay away.

Sherlock wasn't sure if his obnoxious transport managed to utter the words or somehow react, but it didn't matter. His mind was occupied being annoyed about the betrayal, trying to figure out how to overrun it. Besides, pleading words would do nothing in a situation like this, they only made him pathetic.

"Holmes, its me, just me. You are safe," the hallucination uttered gently.

It was a sharp contrast to the disgusted and furious hallucination of Watson he had been confronted with earlier in the padded cell. Frustration suddenly boiled over and became so towering high it subdued his mind and his body.

His energy seeped out of him and all he could do was witness it. He just wanted to be left alone and escape to oblivion. It was more than pathetic, really.

As he struggled, the opposite happened. John's warm stable hands wrapped around his arm. It felt good to be touched like this - even if it wasn't real. He wanted more of the reassuring touch, wanted the this sensation to stay.

Nevertheless, the internal conflict drove tears to his eyes because the last thing he needed was hope and a spark that would ignite another fight for his wasted life. It would only prolong his suffering.

"Alright, okay. Just relax and regain your senses."

He tried to block out the touch, convince himself it wasn't happening - because it wasn't. It was just his mind playing tricks on him. The physical contact promised safety but he couldn't allow himself to be lured into that bottomless pit again.

The only thing that happened to trust was abandonment. No one he ever trusted had stayed. Everyone left sooner or later, decided someone as defective as him was not worth the effort.

Finally, his body caved in and the crippling fatigue allowed him to drift off as he fiercely clung to that thought.

 

 

Painful movements dragged him out of the sweet dark nothingness. It was once more replaced by hands on him and the resulting panic.

Still alive, then.

The never ending circle of this brought his mind to its knees. He would have screamed in frustration had he had the energy.

Hands lifted him, dragged him, but he wasn't able to see his surrounding due to the blindingly bright light he was now surrounded by.

Voices.

Water was forced into his mouth and his transport gulped it down, obviously convinced it needed it. For a moment he thought they wanted him alive but then they pried open his mouth again and something was forcibly shoved into his throat.

For what seemed like an endless moment, the violent intrusion floored all his thoughts. They came back racing.

Where they trying to force feed him?

People had died in asylums due to these brutal treatments, had suffocated because whatever they were fed went down the wrong pipe. His weak tries to rip free were stifled by the strait jacket and made his efforts futile.

God, he had hoped it would be quick.

Mindless panic took over again and his body fought against their hold as vicious as it could. But the iron grip was too tight, there was no escape and he could do nothing against the assault.

The torture continued until his throat convulsed and he brought up what little was left in his stomach. His nostrils burned and he fought for air. His eyes watered up till - finally - his mind caved it and he returned to numb darkness.

 

 

March 29th, 1867 - Friday

The police growler was travelling down a picturesque but bumpy countryside alley with tall trees on both sides. But Watson had no time to admire the landscape or enjoy the bright sunshine that was unusual at this time of year. He was busy monitoring Holmes's erratic vitals. His friend had been unresponsive since they left the asylum.

Finally, Watson had the chance and enough light to examine him in detail.

He was quite alarmed by his friend's state and especially by the constricted pupils. It appeared that he have been given massive amounts of drugs during the past days. Watson had a chance to briefly look into his file and it only now occurred to him that one of the attendants had mentioned they had given him belladonna although the file had not contained that drug. The list of administered drugs it only registered laudanum tincture and 'pills' and no information what those pills had contained or in which quantity they were given. Belladonna would usually result in dilated pupils and could affect his memories and his heartbeat. Additionally, the file had been overall very underreported and sloppy, contained barely any information at all. One reason why he didn't trust it, the other was that Portman might have tried to kill Holmes by ordering a variety of carers to administer smaller doses without knowing what others had already given him and thereby cause overdose. His friend was far from safe yet.

That meant the most important thing right now was to prevent more active ingredients to enter his bloodstream. Which unfortunately left him with only one solution: he had to remove whatever might be in his in stomach before it reached his system. His personal need to not inflict more damage to his friend made his professional self hesitate briefly, but the latter knew it needed to be done rather sooner than later.

When they passed the course of a stream he signalled the driver to stop.

Lestrade looked at him in confusion when the growler came to a halt.

"I need him to purge whatever they have given him. This won't be easy. I need your help," Watson stated and rose.

Lestrade gave him a horrified look but hurried to help him lift their patient out of the cabin.

While the policemen stayed behind with the carriage, the both of them carried Holmes towards the steam bank. They allowed him to sink to his knees on a flat spot near the water and kept him in a half sitting position. The doctor half knelt, half stood behind Holmes and wrapped one arm around his torso from behind, with the other he steadied the slack head. He couldn't help but notice the putrid smell that was coming of Holmes; days of sweat with undertones of urine and leather.

"Alright, if he fights, I need you to help me hold him still," he addressed Lestrade, who was watching the proceedings with mixture of pity and determination on his face.

"First, we need him to drink water so he has something to throw up."

Lestrade fetched a bottle from the carriage and they gently poured liquid down Holmes throat, who remained mostly unresponsive but swallowed mechanically. They waited a few minutes so the water could settle and those minutes were hell on Watson. He direly hoped his friend would not remember this. Maybe the belladonna would help with this. It might also help inducing vomiting because it often caused nausea. Holmes must be feeling like shit, no wonder he was so out of it.

It was no use, they had to do this.

Watson tightened his right arm's grip around his friends torso from behind and brought him forward. As soon as he was sure he could balance them both he shoved Holmes head up with the same arm's hand under his chin.

"Hold his head in place, would you?" he asked Lestrade, who stepped closer and positioned one hand on the back of Holmes' skull, the other on his forehead.

Next, Watson used his left hand to open his jaw and he forced two fingers down Holmes' throat to trigger the gag reflex.

As almost all human beings, Holmes started to fight the intrusion. Watson was actually grateful for the damn strait jacket because it made this a lot easier. He used his right arm to pin his friend's back against his chest to keep him from breaking free.

Holmes' throat started to spasm and Watson pressed his right fist into his stomach to aid the process. It was dreadful but it couldn't be helped.

"Get it out, Holmes," he urged gently when, after a few dry heaves, his friend finally started to bring up his stomach content. Water, bile, and a few half dissolved pills hit the ground beneath them; much to Watson's relief.

"There you go, that's it. Just get it out."

Lestrade turned his head away, apparently fighting his own urge to retch due to the anguished noises Holmes emitted.

Another weak heave produced a bit more liquid but nothing else. Watson relaxed his hold and lowered them back, away from the puddle which Lestrade interpreted as a sign to let go. Holmes' head rolled back against the doctor's shoulder before it turned towards him, their faces close to each other in the rather intimate position. Watson leaned back and went down on his haunches.

"I am so sorry, Holmes, forgive me. This was the only option I had," he gently rocked back and forth to calm his gasping friend. In this god-awful situation it was the only comfort he could offer and hope it would not make things worse. It had helped with wounded soldiers on the battlefield, so he was not beyond trying it despite knowing Holmes' aversion to touch in general. He hoped to infuse a bit of safeness and reassurance.

Holmes's breath smelled foul, of malnutrition, chemicals, and vomit. Through half open eyes, Holmes' eyes found his face, but his gaze was unfocussed and dull. It lasted only a moment before his eyes rolled back and he sagged against him, unconscious again.

Watson sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Alright, let's clean him up and get back to the carriage," he addressed Lestrade and wiped Holmes' face with a handkerchief. While they used the brook's water to clean him up as best as they could Johnson joined them to see if he could do anything.

Ten minutes later, the three of them carried Holmes back and hoisted him into the carriage. This time they allowed him to rest on the floor on a thick blanket but they had to lift his knees up and lean them against the bench so he could fit in.

Watson and Lestrade both removed their shoes, Watson because it made it easier to care for Holmes, Lestrade because he had to sit with his feet on the bench. They had another hour of travel ahead of them and it was the only way to fit the three of them into the small space.

As expected, Holms remained unresponsive when the growler started to move. The purging had taken much out of him and Watson made sure to check his vitals repeatedly. In between, he and Lestrade discussed their options. The police growler couldn't bring them all the way back to London. Even if it could, transporting an ailing and anxious Holmes over large distances didn't seem like a good option, maybe he would be well enough to travel in a few days, but they had to wait and see.

Watson prayed that Holmes' state was only caused by the dangerous cocktail of drugs in his system and not by the onset of psychosis caused by whatever had been done to him.

Not that it was a priority at the moment, but there was also the matter of the missing fiancé and Watson was sure that the moment the detective's mind cleared he would refuse to leave before the matter was resolved. As soon as White had mentioned the name Portman, Watson was convinced that somehow this was related. Watson for his part was eager to bring as much distance between them and the institution as possible.

 

 

When the growler stopped in front of a picturesque building it was late afternoon. Watson tried to rouse his friend while Lestrade went in to rent rooms.

"Holmes, wake up," Watson urged and gently nudged his friend's knee.

But Holmes remained dead to the world, which made it easier to carry him up the stairs, because unfortunately the only free room was on the first floor. They gently rolled Holmes onto the bed and Lestrade headed back downstairs to finish the arrangements. The first thing Watson did after washing his hands was to roll Holmes onto his side and unbuckle the strait jacket. Then, the doctor moved him back and forth to free him from the dirty contraption. Under it, Holmes chest was bare. It must have been quite uncomfortable for his sensible skin to have nothing in between the rough denim and his skin.

Holmes blinked owlishly but immediately slipped back into sleep.

As careful and slow as he could, Watson started to examine him. He listened to his chest, palpated his abdomen and checked his lymph nodes, all while softly talking to him like a spooked child.

Apparently, it worked. Holmes moaned and lifted uncoordinated hands now and then but he didn't had it in him to fight his ministrations.

"Shhhh… it's alright… It's just me," Watson cooed.

When Watson felt something bulky under the faded blue trousers' leg, he first tried to pull the fabric up, but it didn't work. There was a bandage under the fabric and he needed to see what was underneath.

Things went downhill from there.

 

 

Sherlock drifted through nothingness until hands palpated his throat and brought some awareness back.

Weakly, he tried to batter the hands away without even trying to open his eyes. This time his arms actually moved. His mind stuttered to a halt when the lack of the straight jacket registered. His hands hadn't been exposed to air in a very long time and the unexpected lack of boundaries made him shiver. It felt strange and exposed, threatened to make him lose contact to himself.

"Shhhh… it's alright… It's just me." A voice cooed and there was a touch on his arm.

He knew that touch. But he couldn't trust what he thought he knew any longer.

Furthermore he decided to keep his eyes closed, the only option to withdraw he had left.

What irony. They had taken the restraints off, probably because they deemed him too weak to escape anyway.

He was done.

There was nothing left.

At least that was what he thought until anther new horror was put upon him. When the hands tried to unbutton his trousers his mind threatened to derail in sheer disbelief. His body however mobilised a last effort and dumped adrenaline into his system.

Not that!

There was no way he would wait for them to continue and torture him to death. He would finish it himself to get it over with. He started to kick and flail, forced his eyes open and managed to get off the surface he had been lying on. Half blinded and disoriented he stumbled into the corner of a room he had never seen before and collapsed against the wall.

Glass broke and alarmed voices added to his own distress.

It was so bright his eyes screamed from the pain the blaze caused. His head was pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat yet he managed to fight the pain and keep them open.

A normal room?

It was neither a cold dark cellar nor a cell in the asylum he gathered from the vague and blurred glimpses of wooden furniture he perceived in between his frantic blinking to clear his vision.

Where had they taken him?

For the first time it dawned on him that something might be happening that he failed to understand. But he wasn't able to grasp the situation, all focus was helplessly washed away by the panic. The cocktail of drugs running though his system was playing havoc on his psyche and his senses.

Had someone even touched his fly buttons?

He couldn't spot anyone close by but his vision was so distorted he was almost blind - and it was worsening, he realised in confusion. It was getting darker.

Sherlock felt the shutdown coming and desperately fought it, but it mercilessly kicked him out of his own head.

 

 

The attempt to remove the trousers ended with Holmes suddenly screaming and flailing. Watson had barely time to jump back and evade some vicious kicks. In a wild scramble, Holmes rolled off the bed and retreated into a corner like a threatened animal, where he continued to trash, held up by the wall. In his wild dash he had brushed off one of the lamps from the nightstand and it burst into pieces.

Watson's mind shattered with it, witnessing his best friend out of his mind with fear. It was unsettling and heart-breaking. Obviously, Holmes still wasn't recognising anything but his deep-seated anxiety. The fact that trying to unbutton his trouser had send him straight into fight mode alarmed Watson to no end.

Holmes was a strong person, not only physically. Always disciplined and in control, more than capable of a mind-over-matter approach, even when drugged. The doctor had never seen him reduced to mindless misery or blind panic. He was overcome by his own emotions and it was hard not to succumb to his distress.

Not very English, he tried to scold himself.

The days of uncertainty, worries and of desperately hoping Holmes wasn't dead had tipped his own mental balance. He felt drained and ready to crumple, too.

He felt the urge to walk over to Holmes and shake some sense into him, but it was overcome by his professional experience. He knew it wouldn't work, he had seen it in the war. Things like that never worked. The only thing he could do was give Holmes space - at least as long as he wouldn't come too close to the shards of the lamp, so he raised his hands to show he meant no harm and stepped back. He doubted Holmes was able to really see him if his frantic blinking was any indication. Without turning his back Watson sat down in one of the armchairs at the foot of the bed, pretending to ignore Holmes and just wait, give him time to come to his senses.

Instead of calming down though, Holmes started to rock his torso when he found he was no longer physically attacked. His heaving breaths were loud in the rurally decorated room.

It took almost five minutes until Holmes energy was finally depleted. His breath first gained a slightly sobbing quality, then he slid down the wall. A short time later, his knees tilted onto the floor and his eyes rolled back.

Watson waited a few moments before he stood up and checked Holmes' breathing and pulse.

It seemed his friend had succumbed to total exhaustion.

 

 

Chapter 39: Invasion

Notes:

This one is also unbeta-ed, hope it isn't too bad. Sorry :(
Special thanks to @karuna for giving me some additional ideas in the comments - for this and the next chapter.

Chapter Text

 

March 29th, 1867 - Friday

 

Watson nervously waited for Lestrade's return. He couldn't treat his friend like this, slumped into the corner between the bed and the wall and he didn't dare to move him on his own.

It didn't take long until Lestrade finished their check in and reappeared, although it felt way too long for the doctor. Together, they carefully transferred Holmes back onto the bed, who remained completely dead to the world. At least, this enabled the doctor to rid him of the dirty trousers and give him a thorough examination. Lestrade meanwhile cleaned up the shards of the broken lamp and once he was finished with it left to get some rest in his room across the hall.

During the examination Watson found several bruises in various stages of healing, some in the crooks of Holmes' arms and others on his lower back. The asylum's carers certainly hadn't pulled any punches.

Watson clad his friend in his own nightgown without further complications before he turned to the ominous bandage on Holmes' leg.

After unwrapping it he found an infected wound that had been stitched up with catgut some time ago. From the state of healing he guessed the injury must have happened about ten days ago, or less if tissue repair was impaired due to poor general health. Although it had healed nicely for some time, it was now red and swollen, probably due recent events. Watson had no doubt it was causing considerable pain. The doctor cleaned the site and prepared a plaster with local pain relief, then covered it with a fresh bandage. He wondered how his friend had obtained the injury. They had been kidnapped at the 14th of March and it must have happened during or shortly after the kidnapping.

All in all the most pressing issues were the overdose and the dehydration. Soon, they will be confronted with withdrawal on top of it.

 

Barely an hour had passed when Holmes started to become restless again. He seemed to drift in and out of awareness and although he sometimes briefly opened his eyes, Watson was sure he was not aware. He tried to talk to his friend but he couldn't make him respond.

Ten minutes later the chills started, accompanied by a slightly elevated temperature that should in no way result in tremors this bad. Watson wondered if it could be the onset of withdrawal. He carefully added another warm blanket to the two that already covered Holmes and made sure his feet and shoulders were tucked in neatly.

Then the delirium started - or at least it looked like fever dreams.

Watson took Holmes temperature for the eleventh time that night and found it had risen slightly but it still wasn't a fever - strictly speaking. He cursed about the fact that he didn't have his sphygmograph with him.* It might have been really useful to be able to monitor Holmes' low blood pressure.

The detective became more and more agitated in his sleep and Watson had to reposition him twice to prevent him falling off the bed before he finally decided to try to wake him. More liquids would do him good.

Watson stepped over to the washing stand, filled a glass with water and returned to the bed. He was about to lower his bottom onto the mattress when a familiar pain shot through his leg. As a result he plopped down on the bed way heavier than he intended to, which shook the sturdy wooden frame.

Damn his leg!

The sudden movement woke Holmes with a flinch. He moaned and his breathing sped up. Watson rested his hand on Holmes' shoulder to soothe him - and to keep him in place. It seemed as if his friend was trying to fight some invisible restraints.

Within a few seconds, Holmes' struggles became so intense, it shook the bed frame even more.

As gentle as he could, Watson pinned him down with one hand and reached for Holmes' hand with his other. As he expected, Holmes' hand was cold; he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Easy… You're okay… Shhh… I've got you. Everything is alright," he tried to calm him.

For a moment it appeared as if Holmes was regaining his senses and settling down when his fingers returned the squeeze. But the agitation returned almost immediately and Holmes' grip tightened so much he seemed to be holding on for dear life. Much to Watson's dismay, his friend then started to weep. Even before Watson could think of a strategy to handle the laid bare state of his friend, the weeping turned into more intense crying, and shortly after that the room filled with nerve-wracking screams.

Nothing Watson tried to handle the situation had any kind of effect.

It didn't take long until Lestrade stormed back into the room. During the short time the door was open, Watson could see several curious people wearing nightwear in the hall.

"What's going on?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"I don't know," the doctor replied loud enough to be heard. "I am not fond of the idea to introduce any additional substances into the mix."

"Maybe you should rethink, before he has a heart attack or the inn keeper throws us out."

Holmes' thrashing intensified.

"No. Keep him in the bed," Watson ordered and he headed for the door, opened it and stared at the mob of people chattering outside.

"Hey," he yelled. "I am a doctor and we have a severely sick man here and I am very sorry he is a bit loud at the moment, but he can't help it. So please, ladies and gentleman, go back to your rooms and have a bit of patience. I am trying to safe a life here." With that he closed the door in their faces and returned to the sickbed.

"Well, doctor, what do we do now?"

"Wait?" Watson said over the continuing screams and sat down on the other side of the bed next to his friend.

For some dire minutes they were busy just holding him in place. Fortunately, it didn't take long until debilitation set in and the screams ebbed into occasional moans. They allowed him to curl up on his side. The doctor was sure Holmes would succumb to exhaustion soon, which left Lestrade to clear out the last people whispering in the hall and explain what had happened to the inn keeper.

Watson felt drenched, the episode had unsettled him more than it should unsettle a war veteran and the fact that Holmes continued to openly weep made him heavy at heart.

Watson's only way to soothe his friend was to comfort him in a physical manner and he gently placed his hand on Holmes' head so he could stroke his thumb over his forehead, hoping a tender touch might make him realise he was not going through this alone.

"I am here, Sherlock. It's gonna be okay. I am here."

Watson almost never used the man's first name, but now he did. The situation was too dire to keep up the distance the usage of last names produced.  

"Sherlock? Listen to me. You're safe. I'm here and I will not allow anyone to harm you. You hear me?" He placed his other hand on Holmes' chest and carefully rubbed up and down.

Judging by the effect, the gesture had the desired effect, the distressed noises slowly died down.

"Hey mate, open your eyes!... Can you hear me?"

Holmes blinked his eyes open and actually managed to keep them open but they were looking through Watson, not at him. Holmes seemed blinded by the light and Watson had the mind to dim the lamps. However, the agony and confusion remained clearly written on his patient's face.

Watson stroked the side of his head to encourage him with more sensory input, wishing it might anchor him to reality.

"You're almost there, Sherlock. Don't give up. Come on, wake up. Fight your way out of it!"

Holmes' breath hitched and he blinked several times, obviously trying to focus.

Watson caught his hand on his chest and squeezed it.

For a long moment, Holmes just stared at him, trembling, wide eyed, and confused.

Then his eyes started to scamper through the room. It seemed almost manic and whatever he was seeing was amplifying his turmoil.

Before Watson could even try to counteract it, Holmes' body suddenly lost all tension and he was out again.

 

.

 

For quite some time he drifted in an out of awareness, which provided him with nothing more than vague snippets from a dreamlike state. His self was a flickering light of a nonentity soon to die.

Sometimes he hallucinated another presence nearby, sometimes the only thing that registered was pain or anxiety pressing into him.

Once he woke trembling all over, like having the chills. The shock of being reminded that he actually had a body was followed by the insight that he felt so atrocious and overall sick that he wondered if the end was finally coming.

Another time it registered that he was on a soft surface. His surroundings were rocking, as if they were moving, and he wondered if he had been dragged into another carriage.

All these brief episodes of resurfacing had a few things in common. One of those was that he still couldn't focus on anything for longer than a few seconds before he drifted off again. Another was the sensory onslaught; his transport was either producing this issue or failing to handle the input. His sight remained too disturbed to help him gather any valuable information about his surroundings at all. It was not the only sense that was acting up; his hearing was in a similarly state of dysfunction. Sounds switched from raucous noise to barely audible humming in a way that made them unidentifiable, which would make processing speech impossible.

 

At some point, he lost the connection to himself entirely; he no longer had a sense of who or what he was, not even of what he was supposed to be. He was a stranger in his own mind and his body had entirely disconnected, he wasn't even aware he should have one. The concept of existing had vanished and life itself had turned into a fractured and abstract concept no longer viable.

 

Some indistinct time later, he finally managed to break through the surface of unconsciousness but whatever was happening remained veiled by his condition. At least he was actually aware that some part of him still existed and what existing meant, although he was not fully there.

A gentle pressure on his scalp and the connection to his body snatched back into existence. The strangeness of that realisation hit him hard and threatened to drown him in existential fear.  

The caring touch was remote at first but then intensified. His first reflex was to try to shake it off but then his mind provided him with the only possible source of this kind of touch and he seized to fight it. There weren't many people who had ever touched him like this and those who did were precious - even if they were hallucinated.

Slowly, bit by bit, more sensory input trickled in through the fog surrounding him.

He found he was on his back and for some reason it was hard to breathe. He gulped. There was a disturbing tickle in his throat and on the back of his soft palate. A disgusting sensation that forced more alertness into him - in the form of adrenaline. Whatever was in his throat, he needed to get it out. Being only half aware paired with rising panic and he tried to roll onto his side, but something hindered his movements.

Was he back in the strait jacket?

Not only was his torso restrained but his legs seemed to be bound to the surface he way lying on. His eyes were still closed but he hadn't realised it because it wasn't dark. Maybe he was just not ready to see or face whatever was happening. He felt like some fragile object, helplessly tumbling in a strong current, thrown back and forth with no means to stop whatever was happening to him.

The pressure moved from his head to his right shoulder.

A warm hand squeezed his own and it took him a long time to realise this meant the strait jacket was absent.

Sherlock clung to the hand, desperately. It was the only point of focus in the storm of sensations and the confusion raging in his mind.

"Easy… You're okay… Shhh… I've got you. Everything is alright."

So, hallucination-Watson was still with him. His imaginary touch the first familiar and welcome one he felt in weeks.

A vague memory of endless days filled only with strangers and their antagonistic contacts.

He held on for dear life even though the effort caused considerable pain.

Nearby, some kind of alarm started to squeak; a foreign and obnoxious sound with a threatening quality to it that reverberated in his teeth and worsened his headache.

The rocking of the surface beneath him compounded the sensory onslaught and nausea kicked in.

An ominous humming sound registered.

His attention was drawn back to the fact that although he kept his eyes shut, he felt it was really bright wherever he was.

Something was wrong with his face.

There was a sharp stinging pain in his left brow.

And a pulling sensation in his right nostril.

What kind of torture was this?

The more sensory input he gathered, the worse it got. It was frightening and all too much and too intense and none of it made any sense.

He didn't want to be where he was. Didn't want whatever was happening, didn't want anything any longer. He tried to resist the storm that was building up, but the universe didn't care about what he wanted, he was at the mercy of whatever was happening. Harsh emotions he couldn't even begin to name assaulted him and his helplessness began to boil over. The torment was too much to handle and the frustration mounted in an ugly need to cry out.

His will to keep himself together had evaporated.

Nothing mattered any longer.

His body merely reacted to all those pent-up emotions. His eyes started to water and the pain in his face worsened when it contorted.

Control completely slipped away and before he really knew what was happening his body tried to vent the accumulated distress by senselessly screaming.

He didn't care. The turmoil was too enormous to contain.

Albeit the majority of Sherlock's awareness was caught up with experiencing his own fragileness and the inability to escape, some small aspect of him just watched the chaos unfold.

But even that was soon lost in the maelstrom, the emotions stripping him of anything but blank horror he was doomed to experience.

Then something changed.

As if a warm blanket of mottled orange and red warmth simultaneously settled over his mind and body. It had a slightly bitter overtone. His heart had been beating wildly but it now slowed down when equable comfort enveloped him. But the sudden change left him even more confused.

This was not his doing. It was foreign, coming from the outside.

Nevertheless, Sherlock's mind desperately clawed at it.

A dim voice hovered at the edge of his awareness and Sherlock tried to drown the panic by honing into the one thing he knew. It was just a droning at first but over time it became clearer.

"Hey mate, open your eyes!... Can you hear me?" It was unmistakably the Watson-hallucination that was talking to him.

Sherlock failed to understand the meaning of the words. What did not elude him was the gentle hand returning to his head.

Without conscious thought he tried to lift his leaden lids to see John a final time. If there was a virtual apparition of his friend with him at the end he wanted to see it.

 

Watson's blurry face appeared in his line of sight, surrounded by brightness so intense it blinded him.

When the pain had faded enough to allow him to see, the absence of a moustache was the first striking detail Sherlock focussed on.

Next were the odd clothes Watson was wearing.

Sherlock's face muscles worked and worsened the pain in his left eyebrow. His left eye felt clogged and swollen and there was some sleek pressure on the index finger of his left hand.

The physical sensations had momentarily distracted him from wondering about the strange surroundings he found himself in.

Bright yellow and blue shapes encompassed him, mixed with pale grey. The contrast of the colours was so intense it seemed beyond natural.

Someone else was there, a stranger, clad in a bright yellow green jacket with letters printed on it that was so glaring he could taste it. The unusual colours and sharp angular shapes of the small space they were in felt so foreign he had to squeeze his eyes shut again. He couldn't remember ever having been in a room this brightly lit and so densely stuffed with equipment he couldn't recognise.

Sherlock's breath hitched when he realised how much he actually failed to understand what was happening. His heartbeat was so loud he could barely see and the overwhelming anxiety hindered his perception.

"You're almost there, Sherlock. Don't give up. Come on, wake up. Fight your way out of it!"

Encouraged by the familiar and gentle voice, he blinked several times to clear his vision.

"Squeeze my hand, Sherlock?"

It took him a long time to actually understand what he was asked and he wasn't sure if he managed to comply. The only thing he could focus on was Watson's bleary face hovering above him.

"Hey. Good to see you, mate. You're alright. We are going home. Stay with me."

John squeezed his hand, a gesture that was probably intended to reassure him but this time, it did the opposite. His mind whiplashed when something about the idea to follow as Watson suggested imploded in his mind.

Some unknown lurking danger would unfold itself if he did as asked. This entire situation screamed danger and it made the hairs on his back stand up in warning. Something was viciously fighting against accepting the luring words.

Sherlock barely had time to wonder to what exactly his subconscious instinct might be reacting to but the intense reaction itself stole his ability to think.

He knew he was missing some vital aspect of this, was failing to make a connection he should be able to make. It was urgent, but also too complicated for a mind mired in chaos.

Trying to make sense of it while keeping the panic and the pain at bay turned out to be too much. His mind dissolved, his eyes closed involuntarily and he didn't have the strength to open them again. Once more Sherlock's mind lost itself in nothingness.

 

 


* According to Wikipedia the sphygmograph was the first unbloody method to measure blood pressure, invented in 1854 by Karl von Vierordt. In 1863, Étienne-Jules Marey improved it  by making it portable but I don't know if a London GP like Watson could have afforded such an apparatus.

 

 

Chapter 40: Day 8 (2016) - Leaving the hospital

Summary:

John takes Sherlock home to 221b.

Notes:

Un-betaed.

Chapter Text

 

 

Day 8 - Midday, 221b

 

When John woke the next day his head was pounding. The bright sun coming in through the closed curtains wasn't making it any better. With blurred vision he fumbled for his alarm clock and found it was almost noon. Cursing, he grabbed a set of fresh clothes and made his way down the stairs.

"Morning," Greg greeted him from the kitchen when he entered the living room.

"Why the hell did you let me sleep this long?" John grumbled on the way to the bathroom.

"You needed it," Greg said no nonsense and John entered the bathroom.

Greg's behaviour made him feel annoyed and grateful at the same time. The angry part was about his performance yesterday as well as the world in general. Being managed was something that triggered all kinds of crappy memories, although he knew his friends were only trying to handle a situation in which there were no optimal solutions.

After a quick shower John sloppily brushed his teeth, but he couldn't bother to shave; he wanted to go back to the hospital as fast as he could. At least the shower had improved the headache and he felt slightly better, it did little for the nausea, though.

"Where's Rosie?" he asked Lestrade, who was making breakfast in the unusually clean kitchen. Someone had been over and cleaned the entire flat, John realised after he checked his surroundings. Never before had it been in a state this polished. Even the linoleum had an annoying bright shine to it that reflected the sunlight coming in and the floor boards in the living room seemed so have had new wood stain.

The moment Greg cracked some eggs and started to fry them, the smell threatened to turn John's stomach.

Right. He was detoxing. Like his alcoholic sister had been more often than he could count. He was so disgusted by himself it made the nausea even worse.

"With Mrs Hudson downstairs," Greg muttered, ignoring his grumpy mood and putting two omelettes on a plate he then demonstratively placed on the table between them.

"I appreciate the gesture, but I can't eat. Sorry," John shook his head.

"Mycroft called. Said he arranged for Sherlock to be brought home later today," Greg explained.

"Oh," John just made. "Right… That's… that's good, I guess," he commented, a bit taken aback by the surprise about the sudden arrangements. Mycroft had discussed it with him the day before and the fact that preparations had been made meant that the hospital concluded that nothing physical was wrong with Sherlock - beyond the already known issues of course.

"He wants you to supervise the adjustments to the flat. A crew will be over soon to prepare his room for… whatever… He wasn't clear on what exactly," Greg elaborated further.

John was sure he meant to equip the flat with everything a comatose patient would need. Even if they had agreed that the state Sherlock was in was not a coma, his needs would be very similar to a coma patient for the time being.

John had barely time to get accustomed to the thought of transferring the flat into some kind of care home when a group of Mycroft's minions arrived and started to deep clean Sherlock's room and unpack an enormous amount of medical equipment. The doctor was blindsided by all the hustle and bustle as well as the long time arrangements all the equipment implied. Sherlock's clothes were removed from the commode and even most of it from the wardrobe and both were then cleaned and stuffed with medical supplies. John saw everything, from drip-feed equipment to hospital grade hygiene supplies only a bed-stricken patient would need.

The reality of the situation hit him hard and at some point he had to go downstairs and see Rosie to escape from it all. Greg took over organising the preparations.

 

In the late afternoon, John took a cab to get back to the hospital, he couldn't handle the tube. Despite Mycroft's reassurances during a call an hour earlier - in which he promised that everything was arranged and John's  presence was not needed - John wanted to be with Sherlock during transport.

Bustling activity greeted him when he arrived. Sherlock was surrounded by a team of nurses preparing him for transport and an ambulance crew that was briefed about his condition and needs.

Sherlock remained dead to the world but was now fitted with a nasogastric tube, anti embolism stockings, two permanent IV lines and several sets of electrodes to monitor him. He was barely visible under all the equipment.

Heavy heartedly John watched him being transferred to the ambulance's gurney and wheeled out of his room. He was only a bystander in all the proceedings and it made him feel utterly useless and incompetent.

The only thing he could do was receive the paperwork, listen to the medical jargon exchanged and watch it all unfold before him. He peeked into the folder. They had done an additional cranial MRI, a SPECT scan to determine if the blood flow in the brain was okay, and a cerebrospinal fluid analysis. It all turned out okay, which was a relief.

Separating himself from being a medical professional in this situation felt wrong and like being ostracized.

Well, he had been the one who insisted to be there although it wasn't necessary, so he had only himself to blame.

Finally, the small procession started to move and they wheeled Sherlock towards the exit. John's headache had come back full force from all the noise and the bright lights. The fear that he might be told to take a cab and follow the ambulance was unsubstantiated, they waited for him and granted him a seat in the rear of the vehicle.

Small mercies.

The interior of the vehicle looked quite new and the blue and yellow edges gave it a very modern appearance. John briefly wondered why Sherlock was transported in an actual ambulance, not by a NETS vehicle.

"Dr Watson? I'm Scott. We'll bring you home now," one of the men greeted him, obviously a paramedic.

John's didn't correct him. Baker Street was no longer his home although somehow he still found he somehow considered it his home base. Even scrubbed to an almost unrecognisable state he felt more at home there than he ever did in the basement flat in the suburbs.

"Dr Watson?"

Apparently, he had stared into nothingness to prompt being addressed with a worried tone like that.

"Yeah, sorry, a lot going on with all the preparations. Lost in thoughts, I guess. Nice to meet you," he answered and held out his hand.

 

John expected the ride to be smooth and last no longer than twenty minutes, unfortunately his expectations turned out to be wrong.

Ten minutes into the ride, Sherlock started to twitch and John unbuckled from the assistant's seat to get a closer to his friend.

The gentle rocking of the ambulance changed when they changed onto a main road. John barely felt them because the spring mounted rear was absorbing shocks well. Sherlock on the other hand seemed to react to them. His heart rate and blood pressure were rising. Scott leaned over Sherlock to see his face and John emulated his deeds.

They waited but for some long moments nothing happened, until another bump caused a moan from his friend.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" John asked. "We're going home, mate."

A left turn followed and the movement worsened Sherlock's restlessness. After two days of no movement all the rocking was probably hell on Sherlock's senses - even if he didn't feel them consciously.

Sherlock's agitation grew. It was just small movements and shifting on the gurney at first, but over the next two minutes things worsened. Sherlock tried to shift his hands and knees but since he was buckled in, it left him very little room to move. It became clear to John that he felt the restrains and was weakly trying to free himself. 1

"You're alright. You're buckled in so you won't fall off the gurney. Just relax, Sherlock, we'll be home in no time," John soothed.

Not that he expected that his words would have any effect, but he certainly didn't expect Sherlock to start to actually fight the restraints. His movements became testier by the minute. Sherlock even started to thrash his head from side to side, although his expression remained lax. That was until they hit another bump in the road and the detective's face contorted as if in pain, his breathing hitched.

John fumbled with the blanket that was neatly tucked in under the buckles. It took some time until he managed to free one of Sherlock's hands with his own left while he kept his right on his shoulder to gently keep him still.

He squeezed Sherlock's hand and much to his surprise Sherlock's hand clasped his in a desperate attempt to hold on.

Then Sherlock tried to roll onto his side and disturbed some of the equipment, which prompted the paramedic to try to hold him down.

"Easy… You're okay… Shhh… I've got you. Everything is alright." John tried to keep his voice calm, despite the prospect of Sherlock hurting himself by tearing out the lines.

Scott's gentle tries to keep their patient in place only his agitation.

Sherlock's grip on John's hand tightened even more, as if his life was depending on it and his breathing derailed. The heart monitor started to flash a warning.

"I think its time to give him something to calm him down," Scott announced and let go of Sherlock's shoulders to address the driver through the small widow connecting the front and the rear. "Pull over for a minute if you can."   

The driver confirmed though John couldn't hear the exact words because Sherlock's breathing and shuffling drowned it out. John sighed. They didn't have much choice but to drug him. Sherlock's struggles were becoming more violent by the minute.

"Sherlock, you're okay… It's okay…" John muttered helplessly and tried to keep the nasogastric tube safe, which was starting to come lose from where it was taped to Sherlock's cheek.

The thrashing continued and John shifted his hands to hold Sherlock's head steady.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, listen to me. You are alright," he said in a firm tone but his friend didn't seem to hear him.

Instead of calming down Sherlock started kicking, which posted a threat to the equipment that was attached to him. Things were escalating fast and only moments later Sherlock really freaked out. At first his moans grew worse, then they gradually turned into screams that gained unexpected intensity.

Witnessing Sherlock's turmoil was painful. He seemed lost and devastated by whatever he was living through. As a doctor, John was well aware this could be a response to whatever was happening in Sherlock's mind or the meth withdrawal, which was currently at it's peak. The process of getting clean of the drug was painful and traumatic and he had hoped Sherlock wouldn't be too much affected by it while he was in some self-induced pseudo coma, but right now those hopes dwindled.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Scott prepare a syringe. Meanwhile, John had his hands full trying to carefully keep Sherlock from hurting himself.

Then suddenly Sherlock screamed on top of his lungs and John involuntarily flinched when his struggles became what could only be described as violent.

"I'm here Sherlock, I'm here," he reassured Sherlock and rubbed his hand to get his attention. The level of desperation evident in the scream was something John had rarely heard from his friend. Sherlock did not do panicked or horrified. He rarely failed to mask his vulnerabilities - especially when other people were present. Even when wounded, drugged or in other dire situations, Sherlock kept his head and an odd aura of superiority. It had saved their lives more than once. In their line of work, this ability was an advantage. When it came to emotional equilibrium, mental health and friends - not so much. Sherlock's masking was boycotting his personal needs most of the time. As far as John understood, it had become automatic over time. Sherlock couldn't switch it off anymore. The pretence of functioning albeit barely hanging on had delayed medical care and other important problem solving in the past. It had taken John some time to figure out it was a protection mechanism.

John assumed it had to do with having his vulnerabilities used against him too often in his early life, as a result Sherlock had weaponised his mannerisms. In some very private moments John had understood that Sherlock was unable to switch it off, even when he realised he needed to. Overall, he mostly failed to notice the program that was running was not goal-targeted for his own well being, instead it was a mechanism to stall until the discomfort was over. Having utilised and internalised this strategy he had a hard time unlearning it. Everyone would, but Sherlock of course was convinced his understanding of the problem would enable him to erase it, turned out he couldn't.

During Sherlock's earlier PTSD therapy* it had been revealed there had been dire phases in his life when displaying emotions meant he could be hurt, exploited and those emotion then used against him. Sherlock worked hard to pinpoint those phases but in the end was unable to remember them, even after weeks of sifting through his mind palace to find them. The only thing he had dug up was that Mycroft was systematically fuelling those misconceptions for some reason. According to the therapist, John had done the opposite from the beginning; even if he wasn't really aware of it he had channelled Sherlock's emotions.

Said therapist and Sherlock himself had insisted John's way to handle Sherlock was improving things. Just that - at the moment - John felt Sherlock was so far out of his depths that it had driven him to hide so deep in his mind palace that not even John was able to reach him.

Sherlock's head continued to thrash wildly from side to side.

Scott finally had the syringe ready and slowly pushed the medication into the IV port.

"John?" Sherlock moaned and John saw liquid spilling out from under his closed eyelids. The mentioning of his name brought home that even after all that had happened, Sherlock was asking for him in his most vulnerable moments. John had to bite his lip to contain his own ravaging emotions.

"I am here, Sherlock. It's gonna be okay. I am here." Once more, John squeezed his hand.

The drug to hold of Sherlock and slowly, his cries died down, as did the mindless struggling, even though his fingers remained clawed into the blanket and his jaw clenched.

The more the medication took over, the more Sherlock's tense muscles relaxed. Unfortunately, he also turned extremely pale.

"Sherlock? Listen to me. You are safe. I am here and I will not allow anyone to harm you. You hear me?" John repeated and felt like a broken record but he couldn't help himself, if there was the slightest chance to get through he had to try.

"Noo," Sherlock moaned and some of the tension returned.

"Sherlock? I am here! Look at me," John urged him in a loud and clear tone.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered briefly and John felt a rush of excitement and hope.

"Hey mate, open your eyes!... Can you hear me?"

John's shifted his free hand to Sherlock's head and pulled one lid up, then the other to inspect his pupils.

"Sherlock, open your eyes!" He stroked Sherlock's forehead with his thumb.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered again and a few moments later his eyes stayed open for almost two seconds before closing again. Sherlock seemed to fight to regain awareness. It was the most direct reaction he had given since this whole ordeal started.

"You're doing great, try again. Come on. Open your eyes," Scott encouraged him. He too reached for Sherlock and rubbed his shoulder.

John's hand stroked the side of Sherlock's head to encourage him with more sensory input, hoping it might anchor him to reality.

"You're almost there, Sherlock. Don't give up. Come on, wake up. Fight your way out of it!"

Sherlock's brows furrowed as if he was concentrating very hard and then his eyes opened a slit and stayed open.

John leaned closer to make sure he was in Sherlock's line of sight and the redness of Sherlock's sclera reminded him how much his behaviour was part of the reason his friend was in the state he was in.

"Hey. Can you hear me?" John managed to smile albeit the crushing guilt he was experiencing.

After a few long moments Sherlock's eyes seemed to focus and locked on John's face. He blinked repeatedly while his features remained contorted in pain.

"It's alright. You are okay. Can you squeeze my hand?" John reached for his hand again and pressed it briefly.

Sherlock stared at him but seemed painfully dazzled with the bright ambulance lights overhead. His expression showed shock and panic, as if he couldn't believe his eyes or was confronted with something world-shattering confusing.

"Scott, can you turn off the lights?" John asked the medic who immediately switched them off.

"Squeeze my hand, Sherlock?" John repeated and Sherlock's finger twitched and it brought another smile to John's face.

"Hey. Good to see you, mate. You're alright. We are going home. Stay with me," John squeezed Sherlock's hand once more.

But instead of being reassured by the interaction it seemed it only fuelled Sherlock's agitation. His eyes scampered through the ambulance for a few seconds before they lost focus and closed again.

"You think he recognised you?" Scott asked and reached for the control of one of the panels to see Sherlock's blood pressure.

John blinked away tears before he lifted his head to look at Scott. It seemed like Sherlock had reacted to him. After two days of worrying and losing hope this was a good sign. It had to be. The storm of emotions floored John's ability to think straight. He let go of Sherlock.

"I certainly did my best to make him notice me, didn't I," John retorted; he couldn't decide if he should be happy that there seemed to be a little light at the end of the tunnel or frustrated about Sherlock slipping away again. He knew of course that patients in a coma did things relatives might interpret as signs of awareness but that were merely the body reacting without conscious thought. Nevertheless, this was not a real coma so there was hope.

"Sensory stimulation sometimes helps," Scott added. "Maybe you shouldn't stop. This was the most aware he was in days, wasn't it?"

John just nodded, slightly overwhelmed by it all. Sherlock was out again and he was not ready to put himself on display any more than he just had.

God, what a pitiful pair they were.

John briefly wondered how soon his behaviour and affection on display would make the rounds at London's hospitals. The thing was, he had lost all self-respect in the past weeks and he couldn't bother to care. His life had gone to hell, he had reached rock bottom and it didn't matter any longer that people might gossip.

Nevertheless, he felt bared to his core by his own display of affection. Scott seemed to hone in on his distress and after he had checked all the monitors and made sure Sherlock was resting comfortably he put a hand on John's shoulder.

John barely managed to not shake it off.

"He's your best friend, it's okay to be unsettled about this," Scott reassured him and John realised he must look as shaken as he was.

"I just lost my wife, I can't lose him, too," John chocked, absolutely surprised by his own flamboyant honesty.

"I'm sorry," Scott said with true sympathy and squeezed John's shoulder.

Feeling ambushed by his grief, John just lowered his head and clenched his jaw. The entire situation was hitting home harder than he was ready to admit. His headache was back with a vengeance.

Scott knocked on the window and said, "We can go now, everything is settled," to the driver.

John heard a faint confirmation and a few moments later the vehicle started to move again.

 

 

Mycroft's people had finished setting up Sherlock's room when they arrived at 221b and two nurses were waiting to help settle Sherlock in. They transferred him to the bed and reconnected all the medical devices, then changed his foley bag and adjusted his IVs.

Sherlock never even stirred.

A short time later Mycroft arrived but remained in the sitting room, apparently not eager to watch the proceedings. At some point he called for John to discuss the arrangements he had made.

The nurses - Theobald and Marlies - would take turns but would be a constant presence at 221 b until Sherlock's recovery. They would take care of Sherlock's physical needs around the clock and sleep in one of the unused rooms upstairs, next to John's old room, which had been cleared off unused furniture and remnants of former tenants of Mrs Hudson.

Their planning was interrupted when Theobald poked his head into the kitchen.

"Dr Watson. I think he is waking up," he said.

John hurried back to Sherlock's room, Mycroft on his heels. John sat down on the edge of the bed and asked Marlies, bustled around with equipment to give them a minute.

"I think the less sensory input there is the better," John stated and everyone - including Mycroft - left the room. Someone switched off the light and left them in the dim daylight filtering through the curtains.

Sherlock's hand twitched and John reached for it, squeezing it once more.

God, how often had he done that in the past days? He lost count.

"You're with me?"

Sherlock blinked and opened his eyes, though they didn't focus for some long minutes. John  was relieved beyond words to see him awake again.

"Sherlock? Look at me?"

Sherlock's eyes roamed around the room and finally focussed on his face.

There was unveiled fear and confusion on his face. They stared at each other and John forced a smile onto his face.

"Hey," he said lamely, suddenly lost for words. "We brought you home. Thought you would feel better here than in the hospital."

Sherlock was clearly unsettled and John's gaze wandered over to the silent vitals monitor, which showed Sherlock's heart rate and respiration had risen alarmingly. He tapped the BP monitor to stop the automatic that would blow up the cuff at regular intervals. No need to add more stress to the mix by surprising his friend when it blew up.

"You're okay. You are safe here," he squeezed Sherlock's and again.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something and when he tried to speak nothing came out.

He gulped and tried to clear his throat, which must have slightly jostled the nasal feeding tube because the next moment, Sherlock reached for his face in panic, searching for it.

John caught his hands and held them.

"No, no, no. Leave it. It's okay,"

Sherlock tried harder to fight him, but he hadn't used his hands in days and was too weak to really do anything. He started to squirm on the bed, tried to dislodge John's hands.

"Need any help?" Theobald asked from the door.

"Maybe. Wait there," John huffed.

"Sherlock?... Sherlock?.. Listen to me. It's okay. It's okay! It's just a small feeding tube, it won't harm you. Don't try to rip it out, you'll hurt yourself."

John stood up and placed his hand on Sherlock's head, which was weakly thrashing from side to side, just as it had in the ambulance.

"Shh, calm down. It's alright," he soothed but it had no effect.

"Sherlock! Look at me!" he then ordered, still in a calm voice.

Sherlock took a hitching breath. He was clearly barely able to keep his panic in check.

"It's the feeding tube, don't pull it out," John repeated in a clear and slightly louder voice.

Sherlock stopped moving, stared at him. The anxiety on display was deeply unsettling and John decided they needed to up the anxiolitic.

"You are okay. We are home safe. Just relax."

John could see it was taking his friend a great amount of strength to focus on what was asked of him. The doctor just waited and gave Sherlock time to settle.

Slowly, over the time of several minutes, Sherlock's breathing changed to a smoother rhythm. John waited and watched, reassuring him now and then.

Finally, Sherlock had collected himself enough again to try to speak.

He gulped again and grimaced when the tube moved, but seemed to have accepted it's uncomfortable presence.

"Why di' you shave 'ff th' m'stache?" he muttered in a voice hoarse from disuse.

John huffed. Of all the things he was at that again. Then it dawned on him that maybe Sherlock's was not all the way there. He had shaved it off years ago.

"Apparently, everyone hated it, remember?" he tried for humour.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, which worried John all the more.

Memory issues?

"You want anything? Water?"

"Pipe," Sherlock moaned.

"What?"

"W'nt t' smoke. Stuff pipe f' me," Sherlock explained, his eyes more unfocussed than before. The adrenaline must be wearing off.

"Sherlock? Look at me."

Sherlock's tried, but his eyes had dulled even more.

"Okay, sleep now. We'll talk about it later," John reassured him.

"No cham'er pots," Sherlock murmured and drifted off.

John's brows furrowed.

What the hell?

 

 


 

*This happened in my story Define Vulnerability.

Chapter 41: Recovery - Part 1 - March 30th, 1867

Summary:

Holmes wakes up at the Inn and it is bumpier than Watson had hoped.

Notes:

Un-beta-ed, sorry.

Chapter Text

 

 

The night was difficult, Holmes woke several times, distressed and disoriented and still failed to recognise his friends. His state was despicable, and he neither was able to understand what was happening nor able to form coherent sentences, which limited Watson's hand to find out what had happened to him exactly. Although Holmes deliriously babbled something about moustaches and bright lights sometimes, it made no sense. The good thing was, they managed to get him to drink a bit now and then.

 

The following morning passed without much happening. And although Holmes slept fast and deep, Watson was on high alert. He couldn't help but listen to Holmes' every breath, afraid he might lose him again. There were phases during which his eyes moved under his closed lids restlessly and Watson sat on the bed next to him to monitor his state. Lestrade helped by keeping the room quiet and organising things. Apparently, the investigations at the asylum were going well. They took turns to eat their meals downstairs or nap. Overall, most of the day was a strange mix of tense and boring. In between Watson tried to distract himself by reading the newspaper or drafting new articles for the strand.

It was early afternoon when Holmes started to show signs of waking up.

Watson was sitting at the small secretary when Holmes started to twitch now and then. Only a few minutes later, the detective's breath became strained and Watson silently put his pen down and pulled the curtains closed. He turned his chair around to face the bed. The last thing he wanted was to spook his friend again by close proximity or bright light, the foreign room was probably stressful enough on its own.

Watson could sense his friend tense up, a tell tale sign that he was aware again. The horrors of what he imagined might have happened to Holmes to leave him in a state like this had made Watson's past hours dire.

Homes eyes opened slowly and he blinked into the dim lights.

Patiently, he waited for Holmes' eyes to focus on the room, but he only stared blindly ahead. The blankness in his gaze worsened the doctor's fears that Holmes had undergone severe maltreatment or even abuse. After some very long minutes of silence, Watson's patience left him.

"Holmes, can you hear me?" he asked in a low and very calm voice.

Holmes didn't react to him directly, though his eyes briefly took in the room - but his gaze remained vacant and disinterested.

Watson waited but his friend made no further attempt to communicate.

"Holmes, look at me," he urged but it was like talking to an empty room.

It took all his might to just wait. He tried to read, but couldn't focus on the article in front of him. Five minutes later, he tried again.

"Hey. Can you hear me?"

When Holmes shook his head, the doctor frowned in confusion, but he was glad there finally was a reaction.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Certain'y. Another… episode of wishful thinkin'… m' mind 's making up," Holmes slurred and although the meaning of the stammered words broke John's heart, it was a relief to know that at least Holmes recognised him.

"What? Good God, no! It's me. I am real. We rescued you from the asylum," Watson gently protested.

"Chances 're 'm hallucinating you…" Holmes whispered and Watson's own face crumpled with worry about his insistence.

"No. I am here. We're in an inn. Bloody Portmann incarcerated you in the asylum under a false name. Lestrade is here, too… Can I come closer?"

"Do wha' you must… Might be m' last chance to… 'njoy your presence," Holmes muttered in  a defeated tone. The words were barely understandable and it was so out of character for the detective to show this much desperation that Watson felt even more unsettled about what might have been done to his friend. Helplessly witnessing Holmes give up and abandon trust was frazzling him.

Watson slowly rose and stepped over to the bed. Holmes hadn't moved a muscle since waking up, which was odd. He remained still on his side in a foetal position, facing the room and Watson. Only his eyes moved. He looked completely jaded and still not fully there. It was no use, they needed to wait until the drugs were out of his system before meaningful communication would be possible.

Watson sat down on the far side of the bed and reached for Holmes outstretched wrist lying on the sheets. Holmes' gaze followed him and when he reached for the hand he didn't only place his fingertips on the pulse point, he picked the hand up. Holmes' elbow remained on the mattress but he allowed his pulse to be checked while he remained surprisingly limp.

 "What happened? Do you know what they gave you?" Watson asked, trying to figure out a few more details.

"Proba'ly chloral hydrate, Indian hemp, Laudanum."

They wanted him compliant and weak, that much was clear.  

The attitude about laudanum and substances made from poppy in general had changed in the last decade, although it seems in institutions they were still widely used. Overall, medical practitioners have started to recognised how addictive opium derivatives are and its sales were a topic of constant discussion in pharmaceutical circles. Just a few days ago Watson had read an article how the - soon to come into action - pharmacy act would affect its sales. Some wanted more restrictions and regimentation, others (pharmacists who made a lot of money from it) were against that.

Almost a year ago, Holmes had decided to go without his frequent morphine or cocaine use and stay abstinent, a decision Watson had welcomed and supported. Inevitably, withdrawal had followed and it was dire. It also had renewed the doctor's aversion of the drug. Now they were back where they started, it seemed.

"You're safe now. You hear me? It's all right now!"

Holmes didn't react to the statement.

"Any pain?" the doctor asked, despite knowing he was, he wanted Holmes to interact with him and describe his ailments to get a better picture about what they were dealing with.

Apparently, Holmes was not ready to answer that - or did not want to go there because Watson didn't receive an answer to that, too.

 

"Alright, we need to speak about the laudanum.  I can't risk you going into full withdrawal right now, so I'll give you regular doses and reduce them slowly."

The answering nod Holmes gave was barely visible, but it seemed every relief from his misery was welcome.

"I will order some broth and jelly for you."

"Please don't. Not hungry."

"Well, the lack of sustenance is making you weak and irritated. You'll feel much better once you have eaten. The food is good here – a lot better in the country than in London."

Watson ignited the lamp before he left the room to talk to Lestrade. The sun was setting and tinted the room with dark shadows. Giving Sherlock a moment to get used to the situation and the room in private might make things easier. He left the door open and knocked on Lestrade's door to ask him to order an evening meal before he returned.

 

Much to Watson's dismay, when the meal was delivered, Holmes refused to eat and drifted off again - but only after complaining about the smell.

An hour later tea was delivered and Watson woke Holmes up to drink some more. Until now, his friend had been pliant when something was poured down his throat, but this time, Holmes tensed up when Watson helped him into a sitting position. Without warning, Holmes lashed out and shoved the hands holding the teacup away. The content of the cup spilled over the blanket and the cup and saucer rolled over the bed before the cup fell over the edge and the fine china shattered on the floor. Watson reacted immediately and pulled the soiled blanket off Holmes legs.

Holmes on the other and didn't react, although the spilled liquid must have been hot at the side of his bare right thigh, the skin was reddening a bit.

Watson couldn't help but feel a hurt by his behaviour, but not alarmed. He had seen many patients  lash out - physically and verbally - in situations like this.  

Without further explanation Holmes rolled to his side, away from him and curled up. A clear sign that he did not value company at the moment. But Watson knew better than to leave Holmes to his own devices in a state like this. It would end in more trouble. He leaned close enough to eye the thigh carefully but found he had reacted fast enough. No burns, just a bit of a flush. Perhaps, it was better to not bother Holmes at the moment. It was better to just wait until his mood changed. So Watson returned to his writing.

 

Half an hour later Holmes' posture relaxed slightly and Watson hoped he was drifting off. It didn't last. Moments later, Holmes jerked back awake with an almost silent gasp.

The process repeated itself. Watson assumed that he was afraid he might wake up in his cell if he slept. Which meant he still doubted he had really been saved.

Although Holmes remained overall motionless, Watson noticed when it happened a third time a few minutes later.

Okay, enough was enough. It couldn't go on like this forever. Up to now, they were both prisoners of their recent experiences and therefore Watson was probably more careful than he should be. A change in tactics was needed.

Watson stepped over to the bed and tapped the mattress twice just in case Holmes hadn't noticed his approach. He fetched his bag and poured a small dose of laudanum into the small glass of water on the nightstand, then swirled it a bit for the liquids to mix and put it back on the bedside table.

"I need to check your leg, see how the infection is going," he announced and stepped to the foot end of the bed. Holmes' left thigh was less red than earlier, small mercies.

When Holmes didn't react, Watson reached for his pelvis to help him turn. He hoped that medical attention and it's necessary touches might ground his friend and reinstate some trust.

"Don't touch me," Holmes snarled.

"Yeah, I will touch you and I will take care of your leg," Watson stated and pulled his pelvis. Holmes fought him but didn't lash out, tried to roll back away from him. But Watson had none of it and pinned his thigh down gently. It wasn't the first time Holmes refused medical attention and in the past, it had mostly worked when Watson allowed his inner army doctor to take control.

"I will remove the bandage and apply a new one, now," he said and went to work. Holmes tried to pull the leg away and Watson reached for it to keep it in place. He didn't use force, he just made it clear that he would not yield.

Holmes jerked it out of his grip and moved away but Watson had none of it, he just went a step around the bed for it to be in reach again and started to undo the knot that held the bandage in place. He was well aware there was a real chance that Holmes might kick him and he stayed alert.

The leg was jerked away again and he again moved to adjust. A stifled kick was next, not one aimed at him, just one to stop him from touching.

It was a double edged sword this situation, Watson was aware of that. On one hand he needed Holmes to realise that he was safe and no longer at mercy of an institution that expected his obedience and was ready to use violence to make him pliant. On the other, he needed to take care of his health, even if Holmes was oversensitive to touch. It was his duty to do everything medically needed to help him. If things went into the direction of a full blown panic attack he would not urge to continue, everything else was a go ahead.

"No, we are not doing this. Stop that now and let me take care of that leg," Watson stated calmly and reached for him again while he carefully listened to Holmes' breathing.

His friend didn't kick again, just jerked his leg away and yelled, "Leave me alone!"

He was shaking now and Watson - much to his surprise - realised it was not from anxiety but anger. Good, it meant he shouldn't budge.

"No," he stated plainly.

"For heaven's sake! I don't want your help!"

"Why not?"

Baffled silence.

"You didn't deem me worth of helping earlier, so why now?" Holmes spat without looking at him.

There they were, though Watson was not sure what he had done wrong.

"I always deem you worthy of help Holmes and I can't remember ever doing anything that might make you think the opposite."

"I do. You weren't there. No one was there. No one cared if I lived or died. I know I am unbearable burden so don't bother to lie and tell me otherwise. Certainly, I do everything wrong and you loathe me for it."

Watson's breath froze in his chest. Horrified about his friend's implications he was lost for words for some long moments. The silence of the room only disturbed by both their agitated breaths.

"Good Lord, I don't think you are a burden and I never said so," Watson finally managed, his tone not as steady as he would have liked.

"You don't need to, it is rather obvious, isn't it?" Holmes hissed and finally turned to face him. "You didn't come, I was alone and at the mercy of him in that hospital." Holmes icily stared at him, which gave Watson the impression that he was missing a lot about what was really going on in his friend's head.

"Well, you are right. I wasn't there. I spent three bloody weeks trying to find you and it was not fast enough. I am very, very sorry. I wished I had been there sooner," Watson saw confusion on Holmes face but ignored it, he needed to get this out and therefore tried to stymie his own built up frustration. A moment later he wondered if maybe anger was what his friend needed right now. Holmes never lost control. Never lashed out. Contrary to popular current believes, it wasn't healthy to bottle up things and be a gentleman all the time. Holmes needed to get it out, feel things. Maybe it was just the volatile mixture of drugs and withdrawal that allowed things to reach the surface that normally wouldn't.

"I busted a gut trying to find you. Do you even know how hard it was? What I went through to do this? I am not proud of my belated detective work and the main reason we found you was your letter," he added in a furious - maybe even provocative - tone.

Instead of venting his anger and giving Watson more clues about his state of mind, Holmes clamped up and kept his silence.

"It is not obvious, though, why you conclude that I don't care or that you do everything wrong," Watson probed. "I couldn't have done it without the letter. I am not a genius. I need to be shoved into realising what was needed to be done and I am chastising myself for it," he continued.

He could a almost see the cogs in Holmes head start turning. As if he had realised he made a mistake and was trying to analyse it. Something was happening. Holmes' gaze lost focus and he could see the retreat. Unfortunately, the result was that Holmes started trembling again, not in anger any more, but in fear, which was so very unsettling to see.

"Talk to me!" Watson ordered, wishing he could manage to kick the man out of his head at least once.

What the hell made him like this?

Instead of answering, Holmes again just rolled away towards the wall and curled up.

"Right. The only thing that is burdening me is to see you suffer and being unable to help," Watson addressed his back and didn't hold back on the frustration that was leaking into his voice. "Someone has to take care of you when you can't or won't take care of yourself. I am happy to do it. It is my privilege and I will definitely not stand by while you suffer. You need to trust me and remember that anything I do, I do because I know you need it."

His speech seemed to have overwhelmed his friend, who remained unresponsive. Judging by Holmes' reaction it was better to give him some space, therefore Watson didn't insist on treating the wound.

They didn't speak for the next hour and Holmes' tension didn't leave him. Watson was torn between giving him some space by going down to have a midnight snack or stay with him so he knew he wasn't alone. Their confrontation has left him shaken and he was aware he was not as calm and collected as he should be - as Holmes needed him to be. In the end, he couldn't bring himself to leave the room.

 

It was past midnight when Lestrade brought a tray with bread, cheese and sliced meat. His eyes asked silently how they were doing, but all Watson could do was shake his head and shrug.

While he carried the tray over to the table on the opposite side of the room from the bed, Watson found his leg was hurting again and he couldn't prevent a subtle limp to show. When he turned back to the secretary he saw Holmes had turned around and was trying to reach for the glass of water containing the laudanum. Even though Watson was sure Holmes wouldn't manage to drink from it on his own, he didn't jump to help him.

"That's your next dose of laudanum," he simply said. Holmes actually looked at him but his gaze only told him he had stated the obvious.

Unsurprisingly, when Holmes tried to lift the glass to his lips, it slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. Another piece of inventory shattered on the floorboards.

Silently, Watson got up, fetched a new glass, poured a small amount of the drug into it, added as much water as the glass could safely hold, and sat on the bed, the glass in hand. If Holmes wanted the full dose he had to drink the entire glass. He needed liquids.

Holmes had sunken back into the cushions and his hands were clawing into the linens in frustration. He neither asked for help nor the drug, he just struggled with whatever was happening in his head in silence.

 "Sit up for me," Watson ordered, no nonsense.

Without a supporting hand, it took Holmes three tries to work himself into a sitting position. The struggle left him paler than before and clearly feeling like shit. He was also back to evading eye contact.

Watson offered the glass with his left hand but didn't let go of it when Holmes wrapped both hands around it and brought it to his mouth. The fact that his eyes seemed glued to Watson's hand didn't escape the doctor's notice. While taking slow sips, his gaze checked where his right was and Watson made sure to keep it in sight and still. Obviously, something was unsettling Holmes, he looked less angry and more anxious now.

Then Holmes seemed to shove it away and focussed on gulping the liquid down greedily, either because he finally realised how thirsty he was or because the cravings had set in.

Once the glass was empty, Holmes let go of it and sank back. Carefully, Watson took it away and rested his free hand on the other man's shoulder. As expected, Holmes flinched.

"You are shaky because of the lack of nutrition and water," Watson stated, pretending not to have noticed that apparently, a hand near his head was unsettling for Holmes. "Eating would help you recover faster. You want some dinner?" He stood up and moved over to the tray. "There's bread and cheese and -"

 

"And if I don't, will you force me?" Holmes interrupted, his voice hoarse and full of venom.

 

Watson turned away to prevent him from seeing him close his eyes to collect himself.

Had they done that to his friend?

He rubbed his hand over his face.

God, he was tired.

 

"Of course not," he hurried to answer, well aware that his horror must be present in his voice.

 

It didn't take long until Holmes succumbed to the laudanum.

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock woke some time later from a nightmare. Unfortunately, the laudanum didn't keep them away, quite the opposite, it made them worse.

He didn't open his eyes but could feel Watson's presence in the room. Their earlier confrontation came back to him immediately. In hindsight, he was shocked about the overwhelming anger he had felt. It was an emotion he rarely was plagued with and the depths of it had caught him off guard. Equally puzzling was the fact that its source was not clear to him. 

For weeks, he had longed for Watson's presence, and now that he was here, he was refusing him. It had been Rubenstein who had planted the idea that he was an unbearable burden in his head… or maybe his own fear that manifested this way.

Additionally, Sherlock wasn't ready to believe his senses. The fear of waking up in a cell or a dingy cellar at any moment remained.

The presence and the tender touches of his friend were something that had always soothed and reassured him in the past, even if he was not ready to admit that out loud. Normally, John's mere presence was a guarantee that situations became less threatening, but now it was making things worse. One reason for that was that it felt unreal, as if his mind was mocking him for his need. Also, somehow he felt he didn't deserve the care - even of a virtual John. The cause for that escaped his mind, but there was something he couldn't grasp about it that made him recoil from remembering.

When John tried to help him sit up and then guided his trembling hands to hold the cup of sweet tea something boiled over in his mind.  

Now Watson pretended to care, when it was too late because the damage had been done. He would never be able to forget feeling as alone and abandoned as he had in the past weeks. Even if anything returned to how it had been, his mind would never be the same. The shadow of the memories would stay with him and he would never be able to trust John like he had before. Once burned twice shy. The reason why he didn't trust people as a default setting was that he had learned that lesson in his youth and Mycroft never seized to remind him that caring was not an advantage.

Stupid, he had been so stupid to not heed that advice. He had trusted John.

Despite his own readiness to risk his life to save others, no one ever bothered to do the same for him. He was not worth saving. Most people just took, they never gave anything back. He had thought John was different, but recent events made him doubt his belief in that. John hadn't bothered to save him, he had almost died because of that. The part of him that was broken over this little fact - still vividly remembering how it had felt to realise he was not worth it - had exploded the moment Watson pretended to care. 

Sherlock stayed still in the bed, struggling with his insights. Additionally, the remnants of the nightmare that had woken him lingered and made it all even more sinister. He tried to remember details of it. There had been a distinct horror about being held down in a bed. The absence of John was another aspect of the dream. John, who had not bothered to prevent him from being killed. It seemed to have been a major part of his dream and analysing it left him shaken.

Furthermore, there were glimpses of oddly furnished rooms again, of a Watson without the moustache, clad in odd garments. The hazy memory added new fuel to the smouldering panic and he couldn't stifle a little gasp. Deciphering what was a dream and what reality had become impossible. Sherlock still felt detached and the even without the fog of the drugs the situation felt surreal, as if he was still caught in a dream. On top of that, he was disgustingly weak, unable to defend himself should need arise.

"Bad dream?" Watson asked unnecessarily. He finally opened his eyes and noticed that someone had covered him with the blankets while he slept. The small gesture stirred up more and surprisingly strong sentiment but he couldn't decipher what it was or what it meant, just that it was unsettling.

He needed - wanted - Watson's care, badly. But for some reason couldn't endure it. It felt wrong.

Without warning Watson increased the light of the lamp and even lit up the other lamp on the nightstand.

"I have to check that leg," Watson informed him before flapping back the covers. The first try to do it had ended with Sherlock freaking out in anger. This time he would manage to keep it down, he decided. A storm of emotions he couldn't even start to name followed.

Vulnerable at John's mercy.

Enduring John's anger.

Full stop.

It was his own anger he tried to keep in check, not John's, wasn't it?

He raised his forearm over his eyes to get the little privacy it would provide, which had the additional advantage of blocking out the lights. The back of his hand came to rest against his left eyebrow and a stab of pain went through his forehead. He felt for it. There were stitches near the ridge of his brow.

Where did they come from?

He couldn't remember. For a brief moment he wanted to ask John about it but couldn't bring himself to do it for some reason.

Watson wordlessly changed the bandage. Another injury he didn't know the origin of. The pain in his leg had lessened, probably due to the opium plaster the doctor was renewing now. Watson took his time, especially when resting his hand on Sherlock's leg to feel for warmth that might indicate an infection. His touches were gentle and caring - more than usual - and something in Sherlock's mind hurt from the tender treatment, so much that tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He fought them, blinked furiously under his forearm.

He was forcing himself to give up control willingly like this. To trust someone with taking care of him had been a struggle all his life and after the recent events it was all too fresh and sore. Every touch felt like a violation and a threat. He couldn't help it. Once more touches were something to be avoided or endured, nothing that helped or even soothed. He longed for the latter and grieved about having lost what he had worked hard for - to experience  touches from certain people as positive.

The tears started to flow and he was too exhausted to keep them back any longer. They remained unseen, though, hidden behind his forearm still covering his eyes. All he could do was keep his breathing even to not alert Watson to his distress.

Breathing deeply, the smell of the fabric hit him. It must be Watson's nightgown he was wearing. A sudden maelstrom of misery pulled him down into the void of self-hatred. His breathing hitched; he was unable to prevent it.

"Holmes?" Watson asked and he was able to hear the honest worry and uncertainty in the doctor's voice, which somehow renewed Sherlock's stamina to keep it together. He gulped and nodded, then cleared his throat and answered.

"Don't stop. Get it over with." His voice was rough and shaky, but Watson continued his work nevertheless. If he noticed his turmoil, he ignored it.

It felt like ages until the doctor was finally finished and covered him up again.

"You can have another small dose of laudanum if you feel you need it," Watson offered in a sympathetic tone that grated on Sherlock's nerves.

When he heard him turn away from the bed to fill another glass with water, he used the unobserved moment to wipe his eyes with the lose sleeve of the gown. Then he attacked his close eyes with his fingertips and rubbed violently to chase away the desperation and the headache that had suddenly appeared a few minutes ago.

Sherlock hummed in agreement and allowed John to help him to drink another glass of medicated water before he sank back into the cushions.

By the time he started to drift off, Watson had dimmed the lights again and returned to the secretary.

But like before, Sherlock jerked awake the moment he fell asleep, his heart pounding.

He felt the mattress dip when Watson sat down on the bed next to him.

"You can rest, Holmes. I'll be here when you wake up."

Sherlock stifled a remark about him understanding nothing. Much to his surprise, John placed a hand on his chest and put gentle pressure on it. All he wanted was to get up, get out of this godforsaken room and return to familiar surrounding to feel a hint of safeness again.

"No!" Sherlock protested, well aware his voice was leaking vulnerability that Watson would not miss. John didn't remove his hand and Sherlock was glad he didn't.

"Call a cab. I want to go back to London," Sherlock urged.

"Not happening. You are in no state to travel. We'll discuss our return tomorrow. Rest until then," Watson said in a calm voice.

Giving up, Sherlock allowed his eyes to close and tried to shove away the misery decisions made without his consent brought. On the other hand, in a situation like this, he should be able to rely on Watson. He was in two minds about it. It would be advisable to shove the feelings of abandonment and damaged trust away and forgive John in order to restore his trust in him.

So why was he (his transport?) resisting?

'There's always two of us.' Watson's words from the waterfall echoed through his mind.

He wanted that back, the reliance, the trust, them easily sharing a flat and solving cases.

Maybe he was denying himself this out of self loathing, an all too familiar set of mind, renewed by his time in the asylum. He should be able to get over it and accept help.

He always survived a fall, he had said it himself. But not without John, who was always there to pick up the pieces.  

He drifted off and this time sleep took him. At some point he dreamt of Watson resting his hand on his brow and murmuring, "Relax, you are safe. I will watch over you. You can sleep."

Chapter 42: Recovery - Part 2 - March 31st, 1867

Summary:

Holmes has his first really wake moment and it is followed by an astounding revelation.

Chapter Text

 

 

March 31st, 1867

 

The next morning came and when Sherlock woke, he found Lestrade sitting at the secretary.

"Morning sunshine," he greeted him and Sherlock blinked. That remark was so not like him.

"Watson is in my room, sleeping."

So Watson didn't have his own chamber at the inn, this was 'their' room.

Until now, Sherlock's universe had been reduced to this small space. He knew nothing about his location and the world outside the door. During the few bright moments earlier he had briefly catalogued the room with it's rural furnishings. It wasn't simply a cheap roadhouse they were in, that much he had gathered. But his blurry eyesight and fuzzy mental state had kept more insights away. The room was rather spacious and of rectangular shape. It had two lavish windows at the side opposite the bed, where a bureau with a chair and a richly decorated wardrobe were placed. The long walls were without windows; a washing table, complete with a lavishly decorated porcelain bowl and matching jug was placed along it. Watson's bag stood next to it. His double sized bed was close to the other short wall and an armchair stood at it's end, matching the other furniture of the room in style.

"Do you need me to get him?" Lestrade's voice dragged his focus back to him before he had finished the inspection of the room. The inspector seemed a bit out of his turf. He probably was.

"I need the bathroom," Sherlock stated before he had consciously registered the pressure on his bladder and carefully sat up.

"You need help to get over to the washing basin?"

"No, I need to pee," Sherlock explained, probably a bit too direct if Lestrade's expression was any indication. He seemed a bit surprised by the expression bathroom, though.

"Right. Don't get up. Let me fetch you a chamber pot," Lestrade looked around, as if seeking the device and Sherlock felt an odd twinge in his chest.

Chamber pot? Surely, he could manage to use the ensuite. While he was still puzzled about why the DI thought he couldn't, said man left the room.

Fine, he would go there by himself then.

The moment he carefully placed his feet on the ground and pushed himself up his body reminded him how stupid the idea of standing was. Dark spots clouded his vision. By the time the spots vanished, he started trembling from exhaustion.

It was cold - he needed decent clothes.

The armchair at the foot of the bed was buried under a heap of fabrics, among them seemed to be a pair of Watson's trousers and an old jacket. Using his hand to stabilise himself against the wall, he slowly made his way over, all the way fighting the vertigo.

Putting the too shot trousers on was awkward, especially with the bulky and the long nightshirt he was wearing. He finally managed to close the buttons and slipped the jacket over the nightshirt. Moving was wearing him out, his vision blurred and he had to lean against the wall waiting for it to pass.

"Holmes?"

He looked up.

Watson was standing in the middle of the room, a bright white chamber pot dangling from his right hand.

"You okay?"

"I need the bathroom," he stated and shook his head in a futile attempt to clear it of the fog. He would not use that thing.

"Ehhh, there is no water closet on this floor, if that is what you mean," Watson said with a frown.

Sherlock frowned, too. There should be a bathroom nearby. Every inn had bathrooms, if not an ensuite then at least one on each floor. His gaze went through the room searching.

How had he missed that there was only one door? It was at the long wall opposite the wooden washing stand.

Why wasn't there a freaking bathroom?

"Holmes, we are not in London. This is a rural area. Surely you must know that not everyone can afford the luxury Mrs Hudson spoils us with. There is no indoor plumbing in this place. We are in the middle of nowhere and the building is old."

Mrs Hudson…

The image of their landlady appeared before his inner eye, clad in a knee-length violet dress and with her short hair neatly arranged.

His face hurt.

Right.

It dawned on him that something was off.

Why was he expecting Mrs Hudson to wear short skirts?

Had any woman ever worn short skirts?

The sound of rushing water evaded his mind.

Why was he expecting that inns had ensuite bathrooms?

There must be plumbing, he could hear it.

His mind stuttered to an abrupt halt.

Not plumbing… it was a waterfall he was hearing. The conversation he had with John at the waterfall - he had thought about it just last night - came back to him, not just the line about 'there is always two of us'.

No, there was more!

'I am a storyteller, I know when I'm in one.'

He had forgotten.

Oh god.

He had forgotten! Got lost in his mind palace.

There was a real reality out there and all this was happening was in his mind. The insight caught him off guard and the floor was ripped from beneath his feet.

Reality shifted.

"Good God, Holmes!" someone exclaimed and his bottom made hard contact with the wooden floor, which was apparently back.

His body was fighting for air and hands were on him. His shoulders were supported by a solid surface and he tilted his head back against it to open his airway.

"Don' touch me… Don' touch me," he stammered, disoriented and lost in the onslaught of memories coming back.

"What is it? What's wrong?... Just breathe… It's okay. You are safe," John murmured close by and a hand came to rest on his brow. Gentle pressure against the pulse in his throat. The smell of Watson's aftershave.

His face felt sore and when the finger touched his brow there was a sharp twinge of pain there.

Stitches.

He flinched.

John had beaten him.

Still not awake!

The contrast between John back then and the John in front of him gently soothing him  forced his face into a grimace of anguish. The impulse was to lift his hand to guard his head, but he used his force of will to not execute it. He must have reacted in some way, though because the hands suddenly vanished.

He wanted to accept the caring touch; John being there for him. That was the John his mind wanted, but his body's urge was still to keep him at a distance.

Disappointed trust, rooted deep in his transport's own set of reflexes.

In some way, he was still shocked about his own anger earlier but he now realised he had fooled himself into thinking the episode in the morgue had just gone by him without further effects. Of course he had expected that John might lash out, but for some reason he struggled with it more than he anticipated and he hated himself for not being able to take it.

No matter how much he wanted his mind to overrule it, there was a dark area of doubt present that hindered him.

He knew this was not his real life, had known all the time, he had just forgotten to remember it.

Escapism on a whole new level.

He was sabotaging himself.

It took effort to close his eyes, relax his face. He wasn't seeing anything anyway, his vision again distorted and dulled.

For a brief moment he considered leaving the mind palace, but the problem was, he was not yet ready to stop running away from the alternate reality's existence he had just remembered. Returning meant danger, his subconscious warned him. The mere thought of it send a shiver over his back. Something deep in his mind was actively fighting the idea of that reality and he apparently had buried it deep.

Was he supposed to trust his earlier judgement and just go with it or fight and ignore it?

The latter was his default setting but had it done him any good in the past?

Or should he just trust his subconscious mind and wait until it came to him on its own?

He was lost. Indecisive.

Which was something he was not really familiar with, neither was he with just waiting for it to come.

"You are worrying me," Watson huffed and his gentle fingers returned to his wrist to monitor his pulse.

Yes, he definitely wanted that touch, the easy physical intimacy they used to share.

Needed it.

John was actually trying to make it up to him.

Why was he not able to receive and concede that?

"I am losing my mind," he slurred, meaning it literally and figuratively, but Watson couldn't know what he had just understood.

This was his mind palace, his escape from a real world he had temporarily displaced.

"You are not. Don't worry about it now. Fearing you might is probably caused by all those nasty drugs in your system. Let's just wait for them to flush out. You'll be able to see it all from another angle then. You are not going crazy. As soon as you are strong enough to travel we will return to Baker Street. It will be all right," John soothed. His voice was both, careful and caring as well as firm and affirmative.

All Watson probably wanted was to learn what had happened to Sherlock in the asylum, but he refrained from starting a discussion of the topic, presumably afraid he might worsen Sherlock's agitation.

“Well, I understand that you fear that you can't trust yourself, but it will pass. The clearer you get, the more you'll realise they tried to manipulate you, my dear fellow. They wanted you to think you are insane to make you more compliant.”

It was refreshing how John was completely unaware of the fact that this all was just in his mind. Although, during his last stay in the Victorian Era there had been moments when Watson was aware. At the waterfall John had asked him what his other self was like. Currently, Sherlock was at a loss about which reality he really belonged to - or wanted to belong to.

"I am relieved to see you exhausted but yourself," Watson let go of his wrist and Sherlock opened his eyes. The dim light coming through the windows was still too bright and he squinted his eyes.

He gave Watson a small smile. "Thank you for getting me out of there. They were driving me nuts.  Diagnosed me with mania… monomania and delusions,” he pressed out. "Elaborate. How did you find me?"

Watson started to explain - again, but this time in detail - how they had found him, still kneeling in front of him.

 

Half an hour later, reflecting what his friend told him and in a clearer mind, Sherlock had to admit that Watson had indeed worked hard to find him. Nevertheless, in the end, it had been his letter that had saved him.

"I do believe it would be a good idea to get off the floor," John suggested, his voice contained a hint of amusement. He was right. It was getting quite cold, but Sherlock had somehow felt safer in the corner, wedged in between the bed and the wall with his knees up.

Watson stood and fetched the old asylum clothes from the armchair before he angrily threw them onto the floor next to his bag.

Not very Watson-like, that.

Next, he helped Sherlock to the armchair, who sank into it.

"Well, there is an investigation. As soon as Lestrade and I realised that Portman was the asylum's superintendent we drew the conclusion that you were probably not the only one hidden there. Portman is suspended. Local police is trying to find Emilia Rowe and gather evidence for the falsified referrals."

As Watson explained, his gaze fell onto the discarded chamber pot on the floor, "Good Lord, I forgot. You needed a leak?" Watson was back to doctor mode.

Sherlock, now aware that this was his mind's stage reminded himself that he should be able to manipulate the setting if it suited him. He closed his eyes and focussed on sensing that his imaginary bladder was empty.

It didn't work.

Still not back in control, then.

But at least he had John back and this meant things would get better. Spending time in the Victorian era was okay, as long as he was out of that godforsaken asylum. He could do this. There probably was a good reason his subconscious was doing it this way, he should trust the process.

He usually did, so why was it so hard now? Probably because it had given him such a hard time recently. He didn't even try to return to 2016 because he is afraid it wouldn't work and also he was entirely not ready to face reality and John's guilt, yet. Being where he was felt right for now.

Just lean back into this scenario and see what happens, allow the setting to unfold, he told himself.

"Yes, I suppose, I do need to pee," he answered, "Is there a privy?"

"Out in the back. I don't think you should…"

"I will go to the privy!" he stated and Watson helped him up without further comment.

 

It took them almost half an hour until they were back in their room and Sherlock was so depleted and tired he was trembling with fatigue when he sat on the bed.

"You need rest… and bathing," Watson stated.

"And a shave," Sherlock added. His stubble had grown so much it was becoming a beard and he didn't like it, it was annoyingly itchy.  The foul taste in his mouth was even more irritating.

"Of course. Let me get you some hot water. You're okay here for a bit?" Watson carried the chair from the bureau over to the washing stand and gestured him to sit down there.

Sherlock nodded and his friend left the room.

It barely took three minutes until Watson came back, carrying a shaving-tackle, towels, and other utensils. The first thing he offered to Sherlock was a new wooden toothbrush (that looked way too big to do any efficient cleaning) and a small round tin of dentifrice in form of tooth powder.

"Certainly, I will not put that in my mouth, it's made of ground cuttlefish. Get something else. And I want an entire box of new toothbrushes… I will only use them once."

"I know." Watson rolled his eyes while he unpacked the shaving-tackle and laid the items out on the wash-stand in front of him.

All in all, it was somewhat relaxing to remember this was not real. No need to care for monetary or resource-saving environmental issues. His senses were messed up already and every reflective surface was irking him; the last thing he needed was that tooth powder in his mouth. It might send him back to a sensory hell that triggered another episode of intense anxiety. Trying to shave was already a balancing act, no need to overdo it at this point.

Sherlock started to spread the shaving soap on his face, but even that proved to be difficult. He dropped the brush twice and made a mess in his lab. At that point Watson offered help, clearly not trusting him with a blade.

Sherlock took a deep breath, aware that he wanted to rebuilt their trust and normalcy. It meant surrendering to John's care and this definitely was an opportunity to put his trust on display - even if it was only in his mind, a good practice for later. For him it was a big thing, for Watson probably not so much. The doctor was used to taking care of patient's physical needs, it was his 'normal'. And although Sherlock hated needing help and there was a risk that it might be more uncomfortable than doing it himself, this  was a step towards healing the festering wound that was John's rejection.

Sherlock offered him the brush and looked at his friend's face.

Their eyes met.

Then one corner of John's mouth travelled up, giving him a relieved smile.

"Want me to leave a moustache? You're already halfway there to grow a proper one."

"God, no!" Sherlock protests and there it was, the easy normalcy of their relationship he had missed so much.

With a shy smile on his soapy lips he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, surrendering to John's gentle ministrations.

 

 

 


 

Author's Notes:

Fanart for this chapter. Sherlock in the corner after remembering he is in his mind palace.

Do not post my art on other sites or on any social media without my written permission.

 

 

 

Chapter 43: Recovery - Part 3

Notes:

I don't expect anyone to be aware of the different symptoms of withdrawal from the earlier mentioned Victorian drugs and modern meth. So while reading this chapter one should keep in mind that most of the symptoms Sherlock is displaying here are actually those of meth and cocaine withdrawal. This is not due to sloppy research on my part, reality is invading Sherlock's mind palace messing with the Victorian reality.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

March 31st, 1867, early afternoon

After shaving and washing up, Sherlock felt a bit better - at least until Watson brought in a tray with lunch, which changed his mood abruptly for the worse.

Much to Sherlock's dismay, John decided they had to stay at the Inn until he was recovered enough to travel, which meant staying at least another two days - if he ate. Sherlock felt blackmailed. They were still hotly discussing Sherlock's refusal to put anything in his mouth due to the assault it caused on his senses, when Lestrade was called away for something police related. That of course made - in Watson's understanding - Sherlock even grumpier because he must feel he was excluded from the proceedings.

Watson added insult to injury when he refused to give more information about it as long as Sherlock didn't even try to eat. It didn't help, especially because Sherlock knew it was not about being grumpy. In reality, he felt anxious - something he was not ready to share. Additionally, he felt an unsettling amount of indifference towards the investigation. He had not put any interest in it on display, which he found a bit odd himself. But the fact that they were having this discussion made him wonder if Watson was indeed holding back. Feeling that ominous things were happening behind his back worsened Sherlock's agitation and erased the little sense of safety he had gathered over the past two days.

Repeatedly, questions like 'Was Watson telling the truth?' and 'Did Watson even want him back?' popped up in Sherlock's mind. Which lead to more dire thoughts that made him wonder if police would storm in and bring him back to the asylum because Watson wanted to get rid of him.

Whenever that happened, Sherlock called himself to order, reminding himself that those thoughts must be paranoia, a common sign of withdrawal. Unfortunately, the seed of doubt growing in his mind was fertilized by Watson's behaviour and it was sprawling faster than he could mentally weed.

In the end, Watson ate all the food on the tray and Sherlock did his best to hide his anxieties.

 

Sherlock spent the remainder of the afternoon resting and slowly getting used to being back on his feet - the latter only when need drove him or Watson insisted physical activity was necessary. Under normal circumstances, lying idle in bed was something he despised, but the fatigue was so strong, he didn't even have the energy to properly despise it.

He must have spent an entire hour just staring into space when Watson got up from the bureau and - with the patience of a saint - offered once more to organise a meal.

"Not hungry…" Sherlock mumbled in response.

"Well, Holmes, if you don't tell me what you want, I'll fetch something I find suitable and you will have to live with the smell until you eat it."

Watson's threat caused another storm of doubt in his mind.

Where they trying to drug or poison him again? So he would be more pliant?

Was he still dreaming while locked in a cellar?

Was all of this just a hallucination?

No. He shouldn't give in to the lure of those thoughts.

Watson must have seen Sherlock's inner struggle because his stern expression softened.

"I'll see if they have something you like. Something sweet maybe? I think I saw some fancy jelly served yesterday," Watson offered.

"No jelly. It's made of cooked calf's feet," Sherlock reminded him, well aware of the current craze for jellies. One of the foods made popular by the royals that was therefore favoured by anyone who could afford the recently developed copper moulds.

Not only was jelly disgusting in texture, Sherlock could also taste the beef and the copper in the end product, which made it unpalatable for him - something Watson was convinced was imaginary. Sherlock had made the mistake of trying a sweet Champagne jelly at a dinner with Mycroft and had sworn he would only ever eat it again if his life depended on it. Anything that contained salty ingredients, like meat or fish would go better with the broth taste, but it was absolutely out of the question due to the texture. Conserving meat by putting it into an oxygen poor environment made sense when fridges where rare, but in Sherlock's eyes that was no excuse. Either eat it fresh or don't eat it at all. Of course gastronomy and those eager to show off their wealth had a different opinion on that.*1

"No jelly!" He repeated after a long rant about how disgusting they were. "Get me some decent breakfast tea - or coffee."

"Of course. I'll see what I can do," Watson muttered and vanished.

Much to his dismay, Watson returned with a full dinner tray for himself and tea for Sherlock.

At first the smell of the food repugned him, but as soon as his friend started to eat Sherlock experienced an odd tinge of longing for the hot soup Watson was eating. It's smell was both at once: alluring and revolting.

Mid meal Watson stood up and carried the half eaten food over to the bed. He gave Sherlock a slightly bemused look before he placed the tray on his lab.

"Come on, try it," he encouraged him. "I can literally see your body craving for it."

Sherlock sat up and stared down at the bowl of rich cream soup, a plate of cheese and fresh bread by its side.

Watson was right. His transport wanted fuel - even if his mind was not eager to experience eating it. He reached for the bread first, it would be the easiest to start with.

Oh god, it smelled good.

Not like the bland soft stuff he had been served at the asylum, but real bread.

His first and second bite were careful and hesitant. The third, he couldn't get into his mouth fast enough. He wolfed down the entire portion and all of the cheese. When he went for the soup Watson reminded him that he would make himself sick if he didn't slow down.

He tried to heed the advice, but it was hard.

The meal left him exhausted and tired, so much that he drifted off the moment Watson left to return the tray to the kitchen.

 

"How is he?" Lestrade asked when Watson sat down next to him in the dining room of the inn.

"Ate most of my meal and I hope he is asleep now," Watson grinned.

"Finally. Thank god."

"I am worried, though. He is displaying an odd mixture of symptoms. He is anxious and paranoid, although he tries to hide it. Watches my every move as if he's afraid I might vanish any moment. He's lethargic and restless at the same time and I think even if it is against my better judgement when it comes to the question if he is strong enough to travel, I think we should leave as soon as possible, before his depression gets even worse."

"Depression? What is he depressed about? He is out of that sodding place."

"It doesn't work like that, Lestrade. And it is subtle with him. Was he just any random patient I wouldn't notice, but this… His communication is down to explaining things that he knows I know and he's not talking without being prompted. His speech is completely out of character and he doesn't do anything without being prompted."

They were interrupted when the waiter brought Lestrade's food and Watson ordered another soup.

"Also, his mood changes abruptly and without any reason," Watson continued when they started to eat. "And he is broadcasting hopelessness so damn vicious it burdens me to stay in the room with him at times. Good lord, under normal circumstances, we would have a hard time trying to keep him here. He would want to storm off to be included in the investigation."

"Mrs Rose asked to see him."

"Oh?… She is better, then?"

"Maybe we should allow them to meet. Lift his spirits?" Lestrade suggested. "Johnson keeps reminding me they need to write a report on what happened to him. They want to come by to interview him. Local police needs it to keep Portmann in custody."

Watson sighed. He knew this was coming, but he was not looking forward to it. Holmes' anxiety seemed to spike every time something reminded him of the asylum. Until now they had talked a lot about how they had found Holmes, but had gathered almost no information at all about Holmes' own experiences.

"Him not being eager to join the investigations is another strong hint for depression. I don't know if it will lift his spirits or if anything can at this point. Withdrawal is messing him up."

"Only time will help, then?" Lestrade grimaced.

Watson seemed to make a decision. "Alright. I'll have a short walk after the meal to clear my head a bit. Then we'll see."

"Should I order him some cake and tell him about the interview?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah, worth a try," Watson sighed and reached for another bit of bread. "Had to stop him from ordering more food earlier. He was ravenous."

"That is some good news at least. He's lost a lot of weight."

Watson wasn't sure if it was good news when he returned. He found Lestrade ordering a third piece of cake when he entered the Inn.

They climbed the stairs together.

"He's accepted we need a report. Wasn't easy, though," Lestrade explained.

"Well, it seems bribing him with cake worked. No more than that, though, he'll make himself sick."

They entered the room.

 

Sherlock had known that sooner or later he would have to make a statement. He dreaded it. An obnoxious headache was making things worse and it seemed his transport was throwing additional hardship on him by constantly craving for more food. Eating earlier had cut the anoretic knot and no matter how much he ate, his transport craved for more. He knew he had eaten enough, even felt unpleasantly full, but his body demanded more nevertheless.

When Lestrade asked him for an account of his time in the asylum, Sherlock tried to gain time to steel himself for the interview by asking for food, but even after three pieces of cake he found he wasn't any closer to being ready to address it all.

Watson and Lestrade returned together and he knew smoke screens would not work any longer.

"You need to tell us what happened, Sherlock," Watson gently urged, using his first name. It irked him to be treated like a delicate flower but on the other hand he felt like a trodden withered tare so maybe it was appropriate. Watson was only trying to be considerate and supportive.

Sherlock nodded and his friend dragged the chair closer to the bed before he sat down. Lestrade seated himself at the secretaire.

"Alright. Start at the beginning. How did you arrive there?" Watson encouraged him when he was at a loss about where to start.

"I don't know."

"Okay. What is the first thing you remember?"  Lestrade suggested.

"I… woke up in a padded cell… Was there for quite some time. Then they showed me around and I learned who I was supposed to be. I had to comply to being 'accompanied' and monitored while doing whatever they wanted me to do… Later I was allowed to go to meals on my own…" Sherlock knew his information were jumbled and he sensed his palms getting damp - just from stating some superficial data.

"Slow down. They told you who you are. Did you not know?" Lestrade asked for clarification.

"I knew. They insisted my name was Greenberg and threatened to punish me if I didn't comply."

"What else did they tell you?"

"That I had a concussion and therefore memory loss."

"Did you knew where you were?"

"Only later."

"Why did they monitor you?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"Endangerment."

"Of what?"

"Myself and others."

"Good Lord, Holmes. What did they tell you why you were there?" Watson interrupted, although Sherlock knew he had told him earlier, but apparently Lestrade needed to hear it, too.

"Took days until I was allowed to see a doctor."

"And? What did he tell you? Come on, don't let us ask for every bit of detail," Lestrade's impatience was starting to show.

The conversation was tough on all of them. Sherlock had severe problems focussing on it and although he had been sweating all day, it became very irritating the longer the interview lasted. After merely ten minutes, he was bathed in sweat and they had only scratched the surface by then.  

"Holmes, please. You need to volunteer the details," Watson urged him. He stood up, walked over and sat down on the bed. Sherlock had to restrain himself to not move away. He wanted his comfort, but it was still a struggle to receive it.

"We can't do this relying on asking the right questions, you need to be more forthcoming."

Watson was right. All he had done was giving brief and cursory answers. If a witness did this on a case he was working on, he would have yelled at them by now.

He took a deep breath and put forth an effort to give an abridged but complete summary of his recollections. But it was no use. Repeatedly, the conversation grinded to a halt and Watson had to remind him where he had stopped because he lost the thread.

"I do understand this is hard," Watson interrupted when he - again - lost his train of thoughts. "But how much of your difficulties are due to your inability to focus? Honest answer, please."

Watson he was right. The anxiety was not the only problem, focussing was another obstacle. Sherlock roughly rubbed his face with his left hand and found it was trembling.

His most valuable asset - his mind - was a train wreck.

How was he supposed to work like this?

To live even?

"Holmes?" Watson dragged him out of his thoughts. "How much?"

Sherlock gulped and it took a lot of effort to keep his voice steady when he answered, "I don't know."

Without seeing it, Sherlock knew Lestrade and Watson were exchanging worried looks.

 

It went on like that. It was slow and painstakingly difficult to go through it all. Sherlock tried to skip some parts but it was no use. Watson easily managed to ask exactly the right - or wrong from Sherlock's point of view - questions but it was getting them nowhere - not really. Like this, they would need days to gather useful timeline for a proper statement.

"Would you be more comfortable to write it down alone instead of being interviewed?" Lestrade suggested.

"I doubt he can focus enough to actually do it," Watson replied and Sherlock felt even more incompetent. Not even Watson had faith in his abilities. He felt sick and tired and decrepit. Unable to continue, he rolled onto his side, away from his audience.

"Okay, let's give it a break. I'll order some tea," Watson announced and they both left.

Sherlock was glad they gave him some space and for a brief moment he wondered if his body was about to have a meltdown. His face muscles hurt but the headache had intensified so much, he barely noticed. He slipped into sleep a few minutes later.

 

 

April 1st, 1867

Sherlock was woken by a nightmare and found himself bathed in sweat.

The room was only dimly lit by a small gas lamp over the secretaire. It turned out he had slept the entire evening and most of the night. The clock showed half past three.

A very haggard looking Watson helped him get out of the damp shirt and administered another small dose of laudanum that allowed him to sink back into sleep.

 

It was around seven in the morning when he woke again. Watson was sleeping with his head on the secretaire and Sherlock silently winced. His friend had taken care of him for at least three days and was exhausted enough to fell asleep sitting up. Feeling guilty and ashamed he worked his aching body out of the bedding and put on the by then dried shirt and the trousers. Watson didn't wake, despite the noise he made and in the end, Sherlock walked over and gently shook his friend's shoulder.

Watson blinked up at him, his eyes bloodshot and slightly disoriented.

"I am finished sleeping, get into bed," Sherlock told him.

"Holmes? How…? Are you-" Watson stammered, clearly worried.

"Go to bed," Sherlock gently repeated and helped him up when Watson didn't immediately move.

"Do you need anything? Are you alright?" Watson insisted while he scuffled over to the bed.

"I am fine. You need sleep."

With a mixture of worry and amusement, Sherlock watched him sit on the bed. Watson slipped out of his boots, trousers and waistcoat before he curl up on his side still in his dress shirt.

Sherlock walked back over to the bed.

"Open your collar," he insisted and Watson awkwardly unbuttoned the three front buttons but didn't bother to remove the stiff stripe of cotton. Sherlock bend down and opened the small button in his nape before he gently pulled it free and placed it on the nightstand.

"Ta," Watson breathed and Sherlock felt warmed by the trust of his friend. It didn't even take two minutes before Watson started to gently snore.

 

Sherlock returned to the bureau and fetched a new sheet of paper.

Writing down a first sentence for his statement took over ten minutes. After that, he got stuck again because he didn't know how to continue.

Lost in the enormous amount of details that were his memories of the past weeks, he failed to summarise things in a meaningful way. It took longer than it should have to come to the conclusion that collecting and grouping memories was the first step to get there. He started to make a list of all the case relevant things that had happened but found there were things he didn't want to mention but wasn't sure they were irrelevant for the case. Making even the simplest decisions was hard and his problems with concentration made it a lot harder to sort anything into meaningful clusters of topics.

Some time later, Sherlock was briefly interrupted when Lestrade brought coffee but he left without a word after he found Watson asleep and him busy with his lists. By then Sherlock had started six and wished he could pin them to the wall to obtain a better overview. The only alternative was to place them on the ground, which he did. Nevertheless, it was slow going.

Several times, before facing an especially dire recollection he went downstairs to either get a fresh coffee or relief himself. It felt oddly liberating to wander on his own despite the  glances he got from other guests - probably for his odd attire (Watson's too short trousers and jacket worn over the nightshirt). He needed proper clothes sooner or later but he was not ready to go further away from the building than to the privy, and even if he was, he had no clue how far it was to the nearest shops.

 

The afternoon wore on and he was finally ready to write the actual statement. Following that he collected his final conclusions and his own open questions on two separate sheets. In his current state of mind he would probably forget to ask them without a to-do list.

In the end, he rechecked what he had written and sighed. His handwriting was messy and his choice of words seemed erratic here and there. Additionally, there was some rambling and information he now in hindsight found was completely irrelevant for the police - despite his careful sorting.

Reviewing the report showed he had not only failed in keeping it professional but also to keep it free of hints of his crumpling state of mind. The way it was, it would probably prompt awkward questions. 

He was still proofreading it and crossing out passages when Watson stirred. By that point he found he had spent seven hours writing a four side report - and it was full of misspelled words. There was no way around making a clean copy before giving it to Lestrade, which annoyed him to no end - he hadn't had to do such a thing since childhood.

Watson stood up, dressed and looked over his shoulder.

"You wrote it down then?"

"Tried to."

"Want me to give it a check?"

Sherlock shied back, not really ready to have John read it. On the other hand he wanted it finished. Doing this had drained him and he was so tired, his head felt completely empty. Needing proofreading felt like an insult but he had to face reality, he was not in his right mind and Watson might spare him further embarrassment by doing so.

He offered the seat to his friend and shuffled over to the bed, shed the jacket and sank into it, grateful to be able to just lie flat. The bed was still warm and he curled into it, comforted by Watson's warmth.

 

The sun was setting when he woke and the room was rather dark. Watson was still sitting at the secretaire, looking pale and careworn. It was obvious he was burdened by some of the new details he had learned.

Lestrade entered and Sherlock realised his knock must have woken him.

"There's two police men downstairs. They are insisting to see you. Are you up to meeting them? I can't really put them off any longer" Lestrade asked Sherlock, who then tried to wipe the sleep from his face and sat up in bed.

"Tell them to come up," Sherlock mumbled without motivation. He was cold and miserable.

"Stay in bed," Watson advised him while he lit all the lamps in the room. Sherlock couldn't help but feel patronised. The gentle yellow lights of the lamps soothed him a bit, though.

"You want them to see that you are not fit for too much interviewing. So don't even try to mask how poor you feel," Watson added with knowing raise of his eyebrows.

If this was the way to keep this brief, he could try not to downplay it. He dragged the covers up to his chest and stuffed the pillows behind his back so he could sit leaning against the headboard.

Apparently, Lestrade and Watson were more up to date on the case than he was - at last Sherlock gathered that from how the beginning of the conversation went.

Detective Johnson introduced himself and then added, "Nice to see you are yourself and recovering," which unsettled Sherlock because apparently the man had seen him before and he remembered nothing about it.

Watson eased Sherlock's nervousness a bit by demanding an update on the proceedings first. But policemen objected because it might influence Holmes' report. Watson argued that he had written his statement down but they refused to give any information before they read it and decided they had no further questions. All this made Sherlock realise that holding back information was not entirely Watson's doing.

To his surprise, Watson held out a handwritten document and gave him a warning glance.

"You forgot to sign it, Holmes."

Sherlock found it was a neat copy of what he had tried to put into writing earlier.

He skim read it and found Watson had not only copied it but also a few details they had obtained in their earlier conversations. Additionally, Watson had smoothed it out but not changed it too much. He signed it, then handed the document to Johnson.

The men then took their time to read the entire report in silence and Sherlock felt his nervousness rise so much, he felt itchy all over.

Much to his relief they only had a few brief questions after that and soon Johnson agreed to give Sherlock an update.

Johnson reported that Superintendent Portmann had been arrested for kidnapping Holmes as well as Emilia Rowe, who had been found in the women's asylum. She was not in a good state - though better off than Holmes - but had refused treatment in any other hospital. Sherlock could absolutely relate and was glad that Watson had obviously saved him from such a fate, too.

Mrs Rowe was currently cared for by a private nurse at a safe house near the precinct and waited for the arrival of her husband to be, who had been informed by telegram that his fiancé had been found. She planned to go back to London as soon as possible. Unfortunately, the whereabouts of her mother were still unclear because Portmann Senior was not talking and they hadn't been able to find her in the women's asylum. Besides the kidnapping charges they would be able to accuse Portmann of malpractice and assault due to Sherlock's statement.

It was anticlimactic to learn about the investigation like this, and also somewhat disappointing to have the revelations of the case taken away from him after all the hardship he had endured. Not only felt he useless but the absence of the gratification of solving the case made his suffering even more senseless. Being on the victim side of a crime felt even worse than he expected. It took him a moment to realise that the unsettling sentiment he was experiencing might be feeling 'vulnerable' and 'abused'.  

Sherlock struggled to rest after their visitors left. The blanks in his mind, the intensity of his nameless predicaments, and not knowing Watson's thoughts about what he had copied unsettled him so much he worked himself in a bit of a state. The doctor had mercy on him and offered him another small dose of laudanum. After it was administered Sherlock drifted off, unaware of Watson's vigil.

 

April 2nd, 1867

The next morning Lestrade brought a clean shirt for Sherlock and he wore it and Watson's  trousers for their first breakfast downstairs. Holmes was well enough to deduce the maid's affair with the landlord's married brother, which caused a bit of an uproar in the kitchen.  The intense cravings were putting him on edge. On top of that aches and nausea where not improving things. His mood was hell on everybody else and although he was aware of it, he couldn't help it. When Lestrade left for the precinct (and to get Sherlock some shoes for the trip home), it seemed he was glad he could escape his mood for a bit.

 

Watson had spent the night watching Holmes and was too tired to argue when Holmes send him to nap in Lestrade's room. Sleep didn't come easy. The doctor was worried about his friend. There was no real procedure of weaning someone off the drugs Holmes had been given. Treatment of withdrawal was largely uninvestigated and every doctor did what they thought was a good idea, usually focussed on minimizing the symptoms. Overall, the medical community was only starting to begin to understand addiction. Unfortunately, Watson had more experience than most due to treating soldiers and witnessing them struggle when being weaned off drugs. It was nasty and he couldn't understand that some doctors still argued that addiction was nonsense. At least some of them were aware of it and had convinced the government to establish measures to limit opiate sales. It might mean that a lot of physicians would see a lot of actual withdrawal soon. Watson feared most physicians were ill prepared for it. There were no medications or anything that had been proven to help, yet.*2 Watson was reasonably worried about what he knew was ahead of Holmes.

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock had lunch on his own in the dining hall and after he returned to their room he found it took more out of him than he expected. Again, he had eaten way too much, driven by his newfound appetite. He changed back into the nightshirt and soon drifted into sleep. Being alone in the room subconsciously unsettled him and the resulting sleep was the opposite of restorative.

It didn't take long until Sherlock found himself awake and close to freaking out. He needed to go and check if Watson was still there and alright. But before he could get out of the bed, there was a knock on the door and Watson peeked his head in.

"You're up for a visitor?"

Sherlock frowned. His need for company suddenly switched to being afraid of surprises or more strangers invading his little refuge. And who would visit him? There was no one in this area he knew.

"Cover yourself, it is a lady," Watson informed him, not revealing what Sherlock was so desperate to know.

A sickly pale woman carefully stepped into the room, just as he dragged the duvet up to his chest.

It took him a moment to recognise her. It was Emilia Rowe. She looked defeated with her eyes dull and her back bent, and he couldn't help but ask himself if he looked the same to his friends, broken and hollow and old.

Nevertheless, what followed was a very informative visit, during which Sherlock learned the young woman's story, who brought it forth in a stoic and no-nonsense way. Nevertheless, her tears flowed freely and Sherlock found them more unsettling than he would ever admit, fought some of his own when she recounted her desperation, hopelessness, and the rough treatments she had been given. After being raised in a solid middle class home the reality of living in an asylum had been a complete shock to her and she was still shaken to the core about how patients were treated.

Although Sherlock struggled to open up about it, the connection they had due to their shared experience made it easier. Watson was in the room with them the entire time and he, too was moved by what she recounted, but also troubled by the little new details Sherlock now shared.

Sherlock's sensory issues worsened during her visit and he knew it was caused by stress. He felt ashamed when he forgot things the young woman had already explained and realised she repeated them for him.

 

After her departure, Sherlock felt worn out but also a bit lighter in a slightly disturbing way. He was glad she took the time to visit and share her experiences, which couldn't have been easy after she had undoubtedly already been through recounting it for the police and her fiancé. Aware that he would not have been ready to meet her yet he felt like a wimp, especially since she had been incarcerated for months.

Uneasy sleep overwhelmed him and spared him of thinking about it any more.

 

April 3rd, 1867

After an early breakfast the next morning, Watson surprised Sherlock with pre-arranged tickets for the evening train to London.  

Watson also informed him that Lestrade had been called back to London the evening before, due to recent developments on a case.

Although they could have taken a carriage right after breakfast, it was not an option according to Watson. Holmes was simply not well enough to travel by carriage and endure rocky roads, changing horses and possibly another night at a roadhouse. Going by train meant their departure was later in the day, but they would make it back to London the same night.

Aware that he was forced to spent another day in the area gave Sherlock the motivation to demand meeting Portmann to interview him. He hoped to learn what no interviewer had managed yet: the fate of Emilia's mother.

It was a dire task to travel to the police station and confront the man. Unfortunately, it also turned out to be futile. Despite Sherlock's best efforts, Portmann refused to talk, well aware that searching through every asylum in Britain just with a picture of the woman and without knowing the fake name she had been given would take years.

Sherlock hypothesised she was dead, otherwise Portmann would work with them in order to lighten his sentence. Revealing she was alive would help him; disclosing she was dead would do the opposite.

After the interview, Portmann's son Avery arrived with Emilia to give his statement. Much to his father's dismay he refused to meet him.

Avery was of course affected by the revelations of the misdeeds of his father but glad the matter was solved and he had Emilia back.

If the relationship with his mother could ever be repaired he was uncertain of. He explained to Sherlock, Watson and Johnson that although his father usually lived at the asylum grounds, his mother lived in their own house to take care of her sister. The London home, where Avery had grown up, had remained the official family home even after Portmann was appointed superintendent.

During their first meeting in Baker Street Avery had no clue what was going on and not deemed it important to mention that his father lived on the asylum grounds on weekdays, which left Holmes and Watson unaware of his position. Avery expressed his sorrow over skipping to tell them, well aware Holmes might have been located sooner if Watson had known.

The fact that Avery's mother he had lied to Holmes and Watson when they first interviewed her was telling. She mislead them because she definitely knew her husband would not come home after work and made them wait nevertheless. The fact that she organised some goons to attack them meant she knew what her husband had done to Emilia. If they had pre-arranged the attack in case someone investigating Emilia Rowe's disappearance would show up or if it was a spontaneous action on her part was unclear. Watson recalled that after the initial conversation with Avery's mother, right after they told her why they were there, she excused herself to do some urgent chores and offered them tea while they waited. Back then Sherlock assumed it was normal household organisation that needed to be done. Now, he was sure she must have telegrammed her husband and called for someone to help her with her plan. She returned and pretended to be fond of her son's choice of a wife. It was remarkable that in the short time she had been away she managed to summon men there who were willing to attack Watson and Holmes.

According to Avery she had been detained in London last night and Sherlock finally understood that must be why Lestrade had hurried back to town.

Only then did Sherlock realise that Watson must have given a statement earlier, too. Of course, it should have been obvious but somehow it escaped him. He was unable to put together even the simplest things and the profoundness of the failings of his mind made him space out for a bit. A worried Watson snapped his fingers before his eyes and brought him back to reality but his focus was so jumbled after that he struggled to even speak.

 

Back at the inn, Watson regretted that he had agreed to going to the police station, found it was a setback in Holmes' recovery. He found the interview left Holmes unhinged and more depressed than he already was. All he could do was convince Holmes to rest while he packed their luggage.

Instead, Sherlock just sat on the bed, staring into space. At least until Watson picked up the discarded asylum clothes, which Sherlock then took downstairs and threw unceremoniously into the lit fireplace. An action that stirred up some discontent from the innkeeper and his staff. Watson discretely pulled them away to pay their bill and left a generous tip while Sherlock sat on a stool in front of the fire and watched the dreaded blue fabrics burn.

He refused to leave before all of it had crumpled to ashes.

They arrived at the station just in time, by which Holmes looked ready to keel over. After they had boarded their compartment Watson tried to distract him with a conversation about what Holmes might enjoy after their return to London, like going to the opera or a concert.  Although Sherlock was eager to return to normal, he was too tired to think ahead or do any planning at all. He pulled of his shoes and sat sideways on the row of seats, leaning against the glass separating them from the corridor. Watson did not have the heart to remind him how inappropriate it was.

Soon, Holmes head sagged sideways against the headrest and he dozed of. Watson fetched a newspaper left behind by another passenger and read.

 

Two hours into the ride, Holmes was woken by a knock on the door. Avery and Emilia were waiting outside. She still looked ill but way better than before. Somehow she had managed to shed the defeated look in a day.

Sherlock invited them in for a bit, now curious about more details.

Emilia was apparently now in the state of processing in which she railed about how silly patients were treated and how bland the food was. The men let her rant while the meta department of Sherlock's mind informed him that at least he had landed himself in an era in which some doctors honestly tried to help asylum patients. He should feel lucky, that in the 1860s it was no longer the norm to beat patients to encourage evil spirits to leave the body or perform blistering and bloodletting to purge evil humours. He did not mention it out loud, nor did he manage to feel lucky.

In this particular case it had been a disadvantage that he always tried to keep pictures of himself out of the papers. If it was wider known how he looked, it might have saved him a lot of trouble because people would have recognised him. With no one knowing what he looked like, he could have landed in a morgue somewhere and his corpse sold to any medical institution to serve for anatomy practice, as it was normal in this era. No one would have ever known.

His mind sprung even more sarcasm at him when he realised that at least this way he would have partaken in gaining the medical knowledge he so often used as a detective.

An interesting way to close the circle, but a very small comfort. The ghosts of what might have been haunted him and he failed to separate the mere facts from his lived experience. These afterthoughts haunted him for the rest of the ride home, after Rowe and Portmann Junior left them with their best wishes for a speedy recovery. 

 


*1

If anyone is interested in the jelly topic, see these videos for more background information:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w6cnVs6fpuM

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZaL86RDGIU

 

*2

A few decades later drugs like heroin were advertised to be a substitute or even a non-addictive remedy when it came to soften the effects of withdrawal from opium.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I thought about splitting this into two chapters but after the long wait for an update I decided to make it an extra long one instead.
I have an emergency referral to hospital for tomorrow and I am quite nervous about it because of my negative experiences in the past. Despite spending my entire Sunday on editing, this chapter is probably a mess when it comes to enunciation, grammar and typos. The problem is I am suffering from vision distortions and have real problems to read because of it - on top of my nervousness.
One might argue that maybe then I should have waited with posting, but a) I haven't posted a chapter in ages, b) I needed a distraction today and c) I am hoping for some comments in the coming days to lift my spirits while being poked and prodded in hospital.

Chapter 44: Recovery - Part 4

Summary:

The boys return to 221b.

Chapter Text

 

 

April 3rd, 1867 - Wednesday

The train arrived in London at the scheduled time and at this time of night it wasn't difficult for Watson to find a cab to drive them to Baker Street. Despite the long intervals Holmes had spent asleep on the train, he was not as steady on his feet as Watson would have liked. Withdrawal was getting worse and travelling had taken a lot out of his friend.

Mrs Hudson greeted them and felt clearly rebuffed when Holmes just sluggishly responded to her enthusiastic greetings before he shuffled up the stairs without a word.

Watson stopped her when she was about to chastise him for his ignorance and promised her he would come down again soon to tell her about all that had happened, but first, he needed to get Holmes to bed. When she was about to protest in her caring and motherly way, he raised a hand and stopped her with eyebrows raised in warning. Finally, she understood that things were dire and allowed Watson to follow Holmes up the stairs.

Watson found the flat warm and lit and send a silent thank you to the heavens for being blessed with someone who cared so deeply about them as their landlady did.

Noises could be heard in the bedroom and Watson headed towards it. The door was wide open and Holmes was in the process of getting out of his trousers. All the other garments he had worn were already discarded all over the floor. Holmes stumbled when his foot got tangled in the trouser leg and Watson reached out to stabilise him. To his dismay, the doctor found Holmes was not only sweaty but also trembling from exhaustion. He helped him lie down, which his patient endured without protest.

Holmes curled up and pulled the blanket so far up only his face and curls were visible and it was clear Watson was dismissed when he mumbled, "Leave one light".

Despite the danger this posed, Watson was glad Holmes had uttered it, it showed he was not afraid to ask for the small comfort. Watson was sure that before all this, Holmes would have allowed him to kill the flame of the lamp and after he left relit it secretly, afraid to show any vulnerability.

"Of course. I will come in later and make sure it won't smoke," Watson declared and pattered the bump of Holmes' shoulder under the blanket - he couldn't help himself, it was the only means to show his support and understanding he had at hand. Reducing the laudanum doses was finally catching up with Holmes and Watson was not looking forward to the inevitable.

"Hmm," Holmes grunted and Watson left to talk to Mrs Hudson and maybe get served some well deserved hot tea.

 

Not even half an hour later he found himself back in Holmes' room. Loud clattering in the rooms above had alerted him that something was going on and he had hurried up the stairs - closely followed by their landlady.

He found Holmes kneeling in front of their pristine and richly decorated water closet, which had been installed last spring.*1 Holmes was retching piteously and tried to kick the door shut to keep them out when he became aware of their arrival. Of course, Watson had none of it and charged into the bathroom.

"Please," Holmes moaned, clearly asking to be left alone.

"Not happening," John informed him no nonsense and fetched a woollen blanket. The bathroom was too cold for someone just wearing underwear and it could take some time until the nausea receded enough to allow Holmes to return to his warm bed. He wrapped it around his friend, who pushed it off his shoulders immediately. Only then did the doctor realise that his friend probably couldn't stand the rough material clinging to his damp skin.

"Do you have ginger in the house?" he asked Mrs Hudson, not only to give her something to do, but also to give Holmes a bit more privacy. She nodded.

"Please make some weak tea from it, it will help with the nausea," he continued.  She bustled off and Watson wetted a washcloth before he knelt down next to his friend.

"Look at me," Watson urged and was glad to see Holmes comply. He lifted his head from his forearm, which was resting against the porcelain, but evaded Watson's gaze by looking up at the ceiling, well aware what the doctor needed to see. Holmes' pupils were dilated far more than the dim light of the room warranted.

The signs of laudanum withdrawal were obvious: lacrimation, excessive sweating, and nausea. Holmes was probably also suffering from muscle and stomach aches. It was only a question of time until diarrhoea and irritability would become additional issues. He must have felt pretty bad by the time they got home.

Holmes gagged. He hurried to get his head back over the bowl but the lack of sustenance meant he didn't produce anything, which was probably making things worse.

They spend the remainder of the night between the bathroom and Holmes' bed; only in the early hours of the morning Holmes was finally able to find sleep.

By the time he finally did, Watson stood in Holmes bedroom for quite some time, not sure what to do. After weeks of uncertainty and worry, he was once more overwhelmed by the fact that he had found the most important person in his life was still alive.  

Spending the past five days together in the same room had changed things between them. Of course he had taken care of Holmes when ill or after injuries, but never like this. The intense care and close monitoring while living in the same space hadn't been easy. However, the more time went on, the less fight it became that Holmes entrusted him with his care. The trust between them had grown and the distance between them had shrunken.
So much in fact that Watson felt the idea to just go upstairs and leave him alone felt wrong, so he stayed.

 

 

April 4th, 1867 - Monday

It wasn't until the next afternoon that Holmes was able to go to the living room for the first time. He miserably sat in his armchair by the warm fire, bundled up in his warmest dressing gown and a blanket to smoke a pipe. Watson had eaten lunch downstairs with Mrs Hudson to spare him the smells of food - an all too familiar routine by then.

Smoking soothed the raw mood Holmes was in only slightly and he returned to bed soon after.

 

April 8th, 1867 - Friday

Four highly uncomfortable days later they shared their first meal in the living room together in almost a month. For Sherlock it felt more like half a year. It was also the first time he was actually dressed. Not in a fancy way, though. His own wardrobe usually did not contain comfortable and loose fitting garments but he had lost weight and everything he owned was now slightly oversize. Watson had gone to the attic and found some old and well worn clothes from Sherlock's university days for him to wear. They had been washed so often they were soft and comfortable - and decades out of fashion. He didn't care about the latter. It felt good to wear his own garments and enjoy their softness.

He couldn't deny that sitting there again like this filled him with exceptionally strong sentiment. Although he was still miserable and in a lot of pain, he managed to converse with his friend and eat a bit of soup. Ever since his first day at the asylum he had longed for this (and Mrs Hudson's cooking). It lifted his spirits to be home again and eat with his friend.

After the meal Sherlock sat on his desk to review the notes on his unresolved cases. There were two, three if one counted the death of the maid who had been poisoned by not sufficiently diluted phenol. In the end, it was more likely her death was an accident than murder. Nevertheless, Sherlock hadn't filed it because whoever had written down the instructions hadn't been found. Another reason he had kept it between the unsolved ones was the parallels to another case: the frozen woman in the woods, killed by inhaling caustic fumes, which might have also been an accident. Someone had tried to hide her death by disposing her copse. The employers of the maid had also tried to get rid of her corpse to prevent a scandal.  Sherlock found it highly unlikely there was a connection other than the fact that someone else might have had the same problem - hide an accident to prevent a scandal.

The third case was the one of the sickly boy, who was found in a waste dump. Whatever had caused his death couldn't be determined and due to the recent illness the coroner (not Hooper, who might have done a better job) had deemed it natural causes or rather late occurring complications of the illness.  Sherlock assumed it was Anderson's usual incompetence that lead to the fact that the case was dropped.

They were having an after meal pipe when the doorbell rang. Roughly a minute later, Mrs Hudson came in, asking if they were ready to see a possible client. Watson said 'no' while Sherlock answered with 'yes' simultaneously.

"Holmes, look at you. You are in no state to receive visitors. Tell them to come back next week," Watson protested.

Sherlock sucked at his pipe. Watson was right. It was his first reflex to allow all cases to be submitted, no matter what. Probably his own version of running away from all things inconvenient.

Nevertheless Watson was right; he was tired.

Why did he never listen to his transport announcing the need for rest?

One reason was certainly that he had problems noticing it. Another might be that he had learned that admitting it meant he was deemed lazy or weak or selfish. Additionally, there were always hidden expectations and if he gave such an information, it would be used against him sooner or later. If he was honest with himself, he knew that solving cases was not only a kind of addiction but also an escape - from everything dreadful in his life: drugs, loneliness, depression, understanding the world, and whatever trauma was haunting him. So perhaps he was running to evade emotional pain, still, being aware of that did not provide him with an idea on how to process it instead.

Spending the past nights in misery and visited by nightmares brought back to him what he was currently really running from: reality. Despite his best efforts he had created a mirror image of trauma in his chosen reality; it was seeping in and he had no means to stop it.

He had dreamt of fire, locked doors and being abandoned. Even though he was awake now, those images lingered, especially those of fire. All those negative feelings were amplified by withdrawal, made the dreams more vivid, the emotions more intense - overwhelmingly intense. He found himself close to meltdown on several occasions and was not sure he wanted privacy in those situations or not. He just didn't know how to handle sentiment; it was like a storm he had to weather and no clue if it would fell him or how to get through. One of the reasons he had relapsed in the past was that he had never been able to figure out strategies to handle it adequately. Advice that helped normal people cope was completely useless to him and realising this had been a major landmark in his early life. He had tried many things - including drugs - to cope even though was still at a loss. Emotions were just debilitating.

Or was he suffering from a tendency to catastrophise?*2

The odd thing was, though, that although the harrowing emotions lingered, his memories of the past days were hazy and vague. He did know it had been miserable, but the days had kind of rushed past him. As if someone had pushed the fast forward button on an VCR tape they had sped by. He did remember things, but they were more like snapshots than entire sequences of events. Maybe he was just tired or maybe it was some form of dissociation.

Some part of him hoped that this was his body going through withdrawal in real life and that when he returned to it one day his body was finished with it. This had been part of the point of the entire escape to the Victorian era. Still, his hopes that it would actually work that way were slim. If he was unlucky, only a day or so had passed in real life by now. Maybe that was one reason why he had not even tried to return to real life, yet.

Admitting defeat at this point seemed not a too bad thing if Watson suggested it. Sherlock stood up and dragged himself back towards his bedroom.

"Send them away," he mumbled in Mrs Hudson's direction when he passed her.

His departure was accompanied by deafening silence.

He had almost reached the bedroom door when Watson came after him.

"Holmes, if you are desperate to have a case, maybe they can wait until you freshened up a bit," he suggested, clearly back paddling . Why the sudden change of direction though, escaped Sherlock's understanding.

"No, it's fine. You are right. I am tired," Sherlock muttered and rolled into his bed without shedding his dressing gown. The bed smelled and felt used. It was disgusting, really.

His teeth hurt.

The tightness in his head worsened it all.

Watson's steps faded and Sherlock cursed his inability to relax. He wanted to, his body was screaming from the tension.

So tired.

Although he wanted sleep, he knew finding it would be difficult. First, he needed to relax and he was unable to do even that. It took him a moment to realize that restlessness was part of withdrawal.

Trying to relax and fail made it even worse. Sherlock desperately tried to consciously breathe and allow his muscles to slacken to aid the process. Unfortunately, it didn't help at all.

Then suddenly, something unexpected happened, the mattress dipped from a heavy weight added to it. He didn't need to open his eyes to know Watson had sat down on the opposite side.

Movement.

Apparently, Watson had lifted his legs onto the bed.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes a bit.

Watson was sitting at the food end of the bed, leaning against the high footboard with a pillow between his back and the wood. He neither wore shoes nor the fine dress suit he had worn before, instead he had changed into comfortable woollen trousers and a loose fitting shirt. A book was open in his lab.

Sherlock suddenly remembered that this was not unfamiliar.  He had found Watson doing the same two nights ago - after one of his fire-haunted nightmares - but hadn't been sure if it was real or a dream in hindsight.

Not a dream, then. He allowed his eyes to close - only to open them again immediately.

Had he seen that right?

It was hard to discern in the dim light, but it seemed Watson's moustache was not there.

He blinked and shoved a bit of the blanket away.

The movement alerted Watson, who looked up.

No, there it was, the wretched facial hair. He had probably imagined it in a fit of wishful thinking.

"Hmmm," he answered the unspoken question clearly written on Watson's face and closed his eyes again.

The moustache had definitely not changed. But something had changed in the past week.

The time at the inn had blurred boundaries that had never really been set, that just existed due to social standards or the floor design of their flat. Something had been torn down in the past days, not that Sherlock was able to name it, yet some barriers were gone. Things had mingled. Things that had been private before were no longer, though they had never really been separate due to living together.

Having Watson around when he slept, having him in the room his bed was in, sleeping in the same bed (though not at the same time) and borrowing clothes had brought a new level of intimacy by normalising them, not because they weren't there before. They had done one or the other at some point before but it was an exception. This level of normalcy felt right. It kind of bared all…  or was it just because his own boundaries had been reset by the lack of privacy and free will the asylum had robbed from him?

This was more than a doctor watching over an ailing man.

This felt normal and relaxing, although or because boundaries were gone.

Abandoning  social norms Sherlock had never cared about was freeing. He was a man out of his time after all, no matter what time that might be.

Watson turned a page and the familiar sound took away more of his tension just by being present.

He was home.

Sherlock felt his breath slow down.

A few minutes later, when his friend stuffed his pipe, the ambience was so well acquainted  and cosy, he slipped into sleep without actively trying to.

 


 

*1 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flush_toilet#History

*2 Catastrophising:  having negative thoughts that spiral extremely fast to the worst case scenario.

There are theories (which I support) that say autistic people don't lack emotions but struggle to identify and manage their intense emotions. If you want to learn about that, find some good articles via google, I am not in the state to summarize it.

Chapter 45: Still day 8 (2016) - Evening

Summary:

Mycroft meets John at Baker Street.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

"Okay, sleep now. We'll talk about it later," John reassured him.

"No cham'er pots," Sherlock murmured and drifted off.

John's brows furrowed.

What the hell?

 

 

John gave the monitor displaying Sherlock's vital signs an acute glance. Everything was completely normal - 'awake normal' for someone bedridden and slowly moving into deeper sleep. No signs of agitation or distress.

Also, Sherlock's features were relaxed now, something they had rarely been in days - despite him being 'out' all the time, which confirmed that bringing him home had been the right decision.

Chamber pots and pipes… and him with a moustache…

Then it suddenly clicked in John's mind.

Oh, thank god.

All of those were clear indications where -  or better when - Sherlock's mind was wandering at the moment: the Victorian Era. 

Back when Sherlock had told him about the Ricoletti case, John struggled a bit to picture his technophilic friend in such an environment. At first, Sherlock was not eager to come forth with whatever he lived through in his mind after the plane had taken off. Chances were high the main reason for that was John's openly displayed anger about the relapse.

Over time, Sherlock opened up about it a bit here and there.

Although John never really understood the connection between the Moriarty-thing and the suffragette scheme, the more he learned about it, the more marvelled he was about how his friend's mind could create an entire scenario so vividly - and a bit amused how Sherlock had integrated John and Mary into it.

What John found a bit alarming though when he learned about it, was that Sherlock had hallucinated returning to the plane before he really did. Sherlock was not at all forthcoming about details concerning that first resurfacing. The only thing John knew was that apparently Sherlock tried to dig up Ricoletti's grave but John had not been part of that for some reason.

This certainly explained why Sherlock was double confused and not sure what was real when he did surface.

Mycroft and John theorised Sherlock had escaped deep into his mind when this not-waking-up thing started, but Sherlock's words were actual solid proof that his mind was safe and working.

John checked all the medical equipment and was satisfied when the displays showed Sherlock was sinking into deep sleep. After today's ordeal that was a good thing. As silently as possible, John left the room, closed the door and put the kettle on to make tea.

Where was everyone?

He peeked into the living room and found it empty, too. Not that he minded a bit of peace and quiet, the day had been stressful enough. On one hand John felt immensely relieved about the Victorian Era thing, on the other it showed how deep and unreachable Sherlock could go if he wanted to and it scared the living hell out him.

So the question why had a frustrating answer. In early 2014, John accompanied Sherlock to his PTSD therapy.*1 He learned a lot about his friend back then and knew Sherlock's emotions were intense, but he struggled to name, recognise and communicate them, which pretty much disabled him to handle them. Sherlock's ability to phrase feelings was limited because the descriptions of how he experienced them differed profoundly from the words everyone else would use, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Once John had understood that, things became a lot smoother between them.

When John poured boiling water over the herbal tea he heard footsteps on the stairs.

So much for peace.

Somehow he knew immediately who it was: Mycroft. It felt odd to be back in 221b, knowing the space so well he recognised people by the way they walked up the stairs. This was the third time he temporarily moved back in time of crisis and it felt like coming back to live at one's parents house in a way - familiar and as if this home was supposed to always be there.

"He woke up?" Mycroft asked without much introduction, although his tone of voice made clear it was more of a statement.

"Yeah. Tea?"

"Please." Mycroft - much to John's surprise - fetched himself a mug (not one of the posh teacups), fresh black tea, and placed the mug next to John's, who poured water into it. Seeing the domestic side of the man was odd. It felt out of character, and John wondered what Mycroft's private life was like. Obviously, Mycroft had a hell of a day and it was showing.

"Elaborate?" Mycroft asked when John didn't.

"We were right, he is hanging out in his mind palace, some Victorian Scene from what I heard."

"Oh, thank god," Mycroft sighed, took the mug and vanished into the living room. The question arised if the older Holmes had been secretly afraid of brain damage, but maybe they both had been, although John became more and more relaxed the more imaging results came back.

John followed him and found him in Sherlock's chair, looking tired and somewhat dishevelled. His perfectly tailored suit was rumpled and he looked as if he hadn't slept in days. It wasn't often that he allowed John to see him like this. Once when Sherlock came back, once when he was shot and now. His little brother being in distress seemed to be the only thing that send Mycroft into carelessness.

"Some world threatening crisis imminent you are not telling anyone about?" John tried to joke and sat down in his chair.

"In a way," Mycroft responded and John regretted his remark immediately. He was at his limit at how many crises he could handle at a time.

"Something I should know about?"

He really didn't want to know.

"No," Mycroft answered.

"Okay… Well at least at the home front, it's good news. He woke up - if only briefly," John tried to point out the only remotely positive thing that was currently available.

"Not really. Let's hope he hides in there because he fears he wouldn't be strong enough to withstand drugs. The alternative might be to evade experiencing all the grievances that await him in real life, which would pose a major problem in the long term."

John took a sip from his mug, a bit flustered by the complete lack of any kind of sugar-coating. People seemed to tiptoe around him these days but Mycroft was his typical self.

"As you know, my brother is very perceptive when it comes to understand other people's emotional pain," Mycroft continued. "At age six he finally understood the need to protect himself from being overwhelmed by his own empathy. Unfortunately, this often results in abrasive behaviour towards other people's feelings. The real problem is: he lacks the self-care that would enable him to walk away from something that destroys him. Which means, he feels your pain and is unable to distance himself from it."

John didn't comment. This was the usual don't-hurt-him-or-we'll-have-a-problem-speech, he expected sooner or later. Nevertheless, he knew it was true and he deserved to be reminded of it. Thing was, he got this a long time ago, after he learned the details of Sherlock's hiatus. At some point John had stepped in to protect Sherlock from himself by bracing him when it went to far. Mycroft had always known, probably another reason why he constantly tried to hammer it into Sherlock's head that caring was not an advantage.

It wasn't that John felt responsible per say - Sherlock was an adult well aware of cause and effect, but the mess they were in at this very moment was the direct result of John's behaviour. It had needed Mary's tape for him to finally understand that continuing to blame Sherlock would kill him. Because Sherlock wouldn't stop until he 'saved' him; his friend didn't know when or how to stop. Consequently, John would kill them both if he didn't get his act together. At this point, all he had left was to hope Sherlock's 'coma' wasn't in fact Sherlock going over the point of no return.

"Most people would say he is the most selfish person they know…. but unfortunately, he has always put your needs before his. His loyalty might kill him one day. His already underdeveloped self-preservation seems to take a vacation when it comes to you. This is the second time Sherlock has gone too far saving you and this is the price he pays. His loyalty goes way too far."

"No need to tell me I don't deserve it, I already know… I am not the only one he is loyal to, he would do the same for you," John said, then winced when he realised it might be interpreted as justification.

"I am family," Mycroft said in a slightly condescending tone.

"And he is the best friend I ever had," John riposted. "Friends are the family we chose."

"Which is why I asked you to look after him. Because I knew he would not tell you to 'fuck off' as he usually does with me - and you failed," Mycroft added snidely.

"I did,"  John said ruefully. "But I will do my best to rectify that."

"Let's hope we will both get the chance. Because he can't climb out of this pit on his own and as long as he is in there we have no means to drag him out. His emotional pain is so deep and consuming that he might think death is a relief and welcoming the misery to end. In a way he used Smith as a tool so no one could blame him for dying by his own hand."

John's heart seemed to skip a beat. He knew the tape from the hospital was bad, but he hadn't heard it himself, yet.

Was this the conclusion Mycroft had drawn after listening to it?

So, this was why they were having this conversation. Mycroft deemed his brother suicidal and ghost-Mary agreed with him.

He suddenly felt the urgent need to know what exactly had been spoken between Smith and Sherlock before he finally showed up to break down the door.

"I want a copy of the Smith's hospital confession tape," John stated, aware it would be hard to listen to.

"You know, I am not sure that is a wise idea in your current state," Mycroft had the nerve to state.

"I want that tape," John insisted, slightly pissed about being patronised.

"Very well. But the problem we should be most concerned about at the moment is that the concept of reaching out to get help when he is struggling does not exist in Sherlock's mindset."

Mycroft's statement was in line with how John perceived it. In the beginning John had thought it was because Sherlock was convinced he was superior and neither needed help nor deemed anyone capable to assist properly.

"I'm afraid, this is based on poor experiences with people doing more harm than good. And they did so because they didn't bother to even try to understand how his mind works - or had no clue about autism at all."

John knew all this but he didn't interrupt the older Holmes.

"The little self-preservation he subconsciously has manifests in staying away from it rather than risking more damage," Mycroft continued. "It is very unfortunate that the only area in which he seems to implement self-preservation happens to be the wrong one."

Mycroft was right. This was - in a way - the same thing. The only person Sherlock might trust enough to actually consider asking for help had abandoned him and he was (subconsciously) too scorched to reach out now, too afraid to receive a blow he wouldn't survive. So he had opted for the only option available - retreated into a safe space to wait it out. Isolation was already Sherlock's mode of operandum when they first met. As long as he knew Sherlock, it has been very hard to lure him out when he feels overwhelmed or depressed. Sherlock had warned him that there were episodes when he didn't speak at all or shut down interacting with the world.

Mycroft took a deep breath and something that had been more of an inkling these past years was suddenly at the forefront of John's mind. He had always had the impression Mycroft was tight lipped about something in Sherlock's past.

This became more apparent during Sherlock's PTSD therapy. Something from the past Sherlock couldn't name was looming. One example was when the therapist asked why Sherlock was sure he was not worth to be cared for and that no one wouldn't miss him. It was obviously past trauma at work, but Sherlock couldn't pinpoint it. Usually, he could remember every fucking detail of his own history vividly and also recall when and why in his childhood he had made this or that decision or developed a behaviour strategy to compensate in the future. But there was this grey area that was not easily established. Recalling-and-knowing-every-freaking-detail-about-everything-that-happened-Sherlock was unable to answer very important questions the therapist asked.

"Well, he never had friends to turn to in times of crisis. Now that he has, he doesn't know how to do it," Mycroft said with raised eyebrows, as if reading John's thoughts.

It was true that Sherlock lacked the wealth of social experience most people naturally gain by growing up and he for sure didn't know how to handle friends. John always assumed it was because he never had a circle of friends he could hang out with, have fun with, and rely on, never felt as if he belonged. Sherlock not only didn't expect anyone to care, he also failed to identify certain behaviours as 'care'. John had assumed it was because no one ever had - until he met Sherlock's parents. After that it all made less sense instead of more. His family background seemed normal and loving, which should mean Sherlock must have had that carefree time as a child where his family was just there for him and looked out for him (at least until he was confronted with the rest of humanity and all the complicated problems of existing in this world). Something was missing, definitely. The hallucinations Sherlock had a few days ago might just be caused by the drugs or they could be linked to that missing piece of Sherlock's history as virtual-Mary suggested.

John decided this was the moment to do a bit of poking.

"You know, that is a very odd narrative and over time I have heard this from him and you," he stated, "And I wonder why that is. He's almost forty. How can anybody who cares as deeply as he cares for me, Mary, Rosie, our friends - and you - have never met another person in his life who even tried to come really close to him until recently? I doubt he has always been the way he is now. His behaviour can't just be the result of the rejection I assume he has experienced in his teen years. The trauma therapist was quite convinced there must be something else but all attempts to work it out failed."

"I am well aware of that, I read the report," Mycroft said in a slightly bored tone.

"Of course you did. So, what happened before he turned six?"

John could literally see Mycroft's walls come up; his expression changed to neutral-carved-in- stone.

Bingo.

Now it was John's turn to raise his eyebrows.

Mycroft noticed of course and for a moment he seemed angry with himself for letting his guard down. He took a careful sip from his mug, obviously to gather some time to decide how he wanted to answer.

"Nothing… The older he got, the more he understood how the world worked and that was the result. Developed a depression due to this understanding." Mycroft's tone was so carefully neutral that John sensed he was deliberately vague.

"The more he learned, the more he lost interest in… people. It is a common problem of autistics that human interaction confronts them with misery, hostility and pain. Sherlock's mind is his greatest asset - an simultaneously his greatest curse," Mycroft explained, put his mug on the octagon table and stood up.

Hadn't John just pointed out that he and the therapist were sure it was not just that?

Mycroft was employing a tactic John had seen utilized by politicians so often he couldn't miss it and it unnerved him.

One of the things Sherlock recalled during therapy had been that he didn't have any of the good times that normally came with being a teenager, only the frustrating ones (which he did remember in detail) while constantly feeling lost. A lack of friends was certainly one reason for it, but John has been haunted by the idea that there must be more -  a lot more. This was just one of Mycroft's diversion tactics.

"What is it you are not telling me?" John probed. "Your reaction says there is something and you are well aware of it."

"If there is, I am not the person you should ask about it," Mycroft responded.

"I just told you he doesn't know and you know that." The conversation was going in circles and John felt profoundly annoyed by it. "And don't pretend you are worried about his privacy, when normally you just waltz over it." John felt his anger rise and his tone was a reflection of it.

"I assure you, I only ignore it when he is risking his life or sanity to do something stupid," Mycroft's demonstratively calm tone was rubbing John the wrong way even more. "I guess I better leave and allow you to cool off."

With that, Mycroft was heading towards the door. John felt he was about to explode but managed somehow to bite his lower lip so hard he would feel it for at least a day to keep it in check. Putting more of his anger at display would just worsen his situation.

"The schedules for the nurses and other caregivers are on the kitchen table," Mycroft pointed out.

John blew out air to release some of his tension.

"He is on suicide watch from now on," were Mycroft's last words before he vanished down the stairs.

Fuck.

That was not how John had hoped this conversation would go. Due to the fact that Mycroft evaded this topic whenever it came up in the past he had meant to address it carefully this time - and failed miserably.

Shit.

John sank back into his armchair.

Shit, shit, shit.

And there it was, the urge to get a beer or whiskey - or any booze.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his face with both hands until it hurt.

Before he really had time to process Mycroft's visit he heard steps on the stairs again.

"Now, how about some late dinner, dear? I made curry," Mrs Hudson greeted him. The female nurse followed her in but headed past them to Sherlock's room. John had already forgotten her name.

Not eager to eat, but also not eager to refuse her kind offer he nodded. At the moment any distraction from his cravings was good. He knew he should eat and Sherlock was in good hands, Mycroft only employed the best.

John followed Mrs Hudson downstairs.

 

Almost an hour later John climbed the stairs and peeked his head into Sherlock's room. Marlies - Mrs Hudson had reminded him - was shaking the bag containing Sherlock's enteral nutrition in preparation for it to go into the pump. She was a tall androgynous looking woman that slightly reminded John of a stringy teenager, although she was probably in her early forties. She seemed to be a bit underweight and was at least a head taller than John. Her hair colour was very similar to his own and was - as his own - starting to grey.

"He is fine," she stated, noticing his gaze.

"Yeah… Need help with anything?" John felt useless. He could be a nurse aid if that was giving him at least a bit of purpose.

"No… At least not now. But I was told to remind you to read that to him," she pointed at a paper folder on the bedside table with one long slim finger while the rest of her hands were busy adding a few medications to the feeding solution.

John felt a painful stab in his chest, reminded of Mary preparing medication at the surgery. It was the little things that constantly reminded him of her. God, he hadn't been to work since she died and at the moment he wondered if he would ever work there again.

Lost in thoughts, the meaning of her words escaped him.

"What?"

"You are supposed to read it to him," she explained.

John knew of course what he was supposed to do with cold cases delivered to them these days, it just took his brain a moment to recognise it as one of those folders because it didn't came in the usual Scotland Yard design.

"I'll be finished in a minute," Marlies said and lifted the head of Sherlock's bed before she loaded the feeding bag into the pump.

Meanwhile John went to wash his hands - because that was what a doctor did before attending to a patient.

When he came back, the nurse was finished.

"I'll be in the top floor guest room if you need me. I have the monitoring equipment with me in case one of his alarms goes off. I'll check on him throughout the night and flush the tube in the morning. You don't need to worry about any of the medical care. If you want to read his medical files, though, they are in the case binder on the kitchen table. Get some sleep. Good night, Dr Watson," she gave him an encouraging little smile and left.

John doubted he would sleep - especially without having a drink before trying it, but he kept his mouth shut.

At least this way he had something to do.

He dragged the kitchen chair waiting in the corner over to the bed and sank into it with a sigh. All he felt these days was tired and old. The kitchen chairs weren't the most comfortable seating with the minimalistic back rest, so he got up again and exchanged it for one of the living room chairs. Maybe tomorrow he could drag his armchair in here for the night vigils ahead.

The moment he sat down again, he noticed there was one more bag of liquids than earlier hanging on the IV stand. He frowned and stood up for the second time. A quiet moan escaped his lips when his joints protested.

God, not drinking was a bitch.

Cursing silently, he walked into the kitchen and opened the case binder.

It took him a moment to decipher the handwritten notes and he found there were instructions to give Sherlock additional liquids to prevent a headache resulting from the spinal tab they had done at the hospital to do a CSF analysis.*2 He sighed.

Hopefully, Sherlock had been too much out of it to feel it. Lumbar punctures weren't fun.

Back in Sherlock's room he gently touched Sherlock's forearm to alert him to his presence.

"I am here, Sherlock. And if you have nothing better to do we could go through one of those case files," he announced.

John sat in the chair and tried to find a relaxing position, then slipped out of his house slippers to lift his feet onto the bed - or maybe it was because he needed to feel a bit more connected to his friend and this was the only means of distant contact that felt appropriate at the moment. He nudged Sherlock's calf with his big toe.

"Are you listening?"

Might as well make the monstrosity of a hospital bed part of their home by using it as if it was just a normal piece of furniture.

John started reading.

"Okay, so this case seems to be about a veteran, who lost a leg in the war but died from a mysterious cause, not his injury…"

 

 

 


*1 This happens in my story 'Define Vulnerability'

*2 CSF analysis = Cerebrospinal fluid analysis, for more information visit: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cerebrospinal_fluid

Notes:

When I initially added the fact that Sherlock receives enteral nutrition into this story I had no idea that only a bit over a year later (yes, it has been that long, sigh) I would be the one learning how to handle parenteral feeding and all the necessary equipment one day.
I am sorry my updates are so slow at the moment and that my writing is probably worse than ever grammar-wise. It is just 'post it with all the mistakes' or not posting at all and at the moment I think the first is the better option. Taking care of my mother takes up most of my free time. Additionally all the new bad experiences surrounding my mother's cancer treatment trigger me when I write hospital stuff these days, so I try to get chapters out even if they are in a bit of a rougher form than usual. Sorry.

Chapter 46: April 10th, 1867 - Wednesday - Morning

Summary:

A new case.

Notes:

I can't believe it took me this long to update. Thank you for your patience.
Un-beta-ed, sorry. :(

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

"The victim was found dead this morning by his landlady. He was a veteran. His name is Fernsby," Lestrade explained when Sherlock knelt down next to the body of a haggard man in his fifties. Fernsby was lying on his side, next to a sofa on a dull green carpet. He was fully clothed and his position suggested, he had just laid down.

Lestrade had called them in two hours ago and Sherlock refused to let his lingering headache and other ailments prevent him from investigating a case.

This was the first time they visited a crime scene after the asylum. Getting there hadn't been easy due to the heavy fog that plagued the city. Weather like this was quite unusual for mid April. The air was crisp and that at least helped Sherlock's headache a bit - that, and three cups of coffee he had before their departure.*1

"Is there anything you can provide I can't see - or smell?" Sherlock grouched. The odour of the flat had been bugging him since they entered. It vaguely reminded him of a mixture of ammonia and cold canned bamboo sprouts. Although, he was fond of them in hot take out meals, this scent was disgusting.

"What?" Lestrade asked, clearly confused.

"The scent? Dear Lord, can't you smell it?"

Watson, Lestrade and the three other policemen present, stopped what they were doing to take a sniff.

Lestrade frowned. "Yeah, there is something, but it is subtle."

"Subtle?" Sherlock parroted in disbelief. He didn't dare to take a deeper breath in fear it might provoke his gag reflex.

"I can smell it, wondered about it, too when we came in," a young Constable announced. Lestrade introduced him as Bagley.

"Any signs of enuresis?" Sherlock addressed Watson.

"None, none at all," his friend answered after checking the corpse and the bedroom.

"His war memorabilia is on the mantle, his spare leg in the hall by the coat rack and he must have held a high rank because he could afford housing like this," Sherlock thought out loud.

"Spare leg? What?" Bagley chimed in and stood with them.

"Obviously, he is wearing a prosthesis, one of high quality." Sherlock knocked gently against the men's outstretched lower leg and it sounded wooden. "… and he owned a spare one. Doctor?"

"Oh!" Bagley said. He seemed eager to be involved - maybe a bit too much.

"Colonel," Watson answered the prompt and Sherlock nodded gratefully in his direction. Of course John would be able to recognise his rank from the pins without having to think.

"Watson, kindly remove the false leg to check for sepsis or other medical issues that might be connected to an old wound but invisible to the untrained eye… No other signs of what might have caused his death as far as I can see," Sherlock added with disappointment.

On a normal day, conclusions would have just jumped him the moment he entered a crime scene. Now, he had to make an effort to actually detect them and despite the fact that he did, he found none. It was frustrating.

"Good God, I am not sure I can do that without removing his trousers first, Holmes," Watson frowned. Doesnft

"Then do it. Constable, help him," Sherlock ordered and waved the man nearer. Watson gave him an unnerved look. Sherlock never really had a strong sense for modesty, but being institutionalised had apparently taken away even the bit he had.

"Yes, Sir," Bagley answered nevertheless and knelt down next to John.

"No, wait, I think I can undo it like this," Watson folded the wide trousers leg up and fiddled with the lacing. A moment later, he carefully pulled the prosthesis free.

"Well, that is a fine piece of craftsmanship," Watson praised and handed the prosthetic leg to Holmes before he inspected the stump. The leg had been amputated beneath the knee and  looked perfectly fine for a stump.

"And that is a very well healed stump considering he probably lost his foot in the war." Watson reached down to take a closer look and feel around the edges. Bagley leaned in to see, too.

"Some surgeon took extra care to make sure the stump would work well with a prosthesis. Not something that can be done on the battlefield. This was done in a modern hospital with anaesthesia,"*² Watson explained.

"And he survived the 'modern' hospital, too, I perceive" Sherlock added sarcastically, referring to the fact that operating rooms were still the dirtiest place in a hospital, which put the outcome of even a successful operation at risk.*³ Infection during recovery remained the biggest hazard. At this point in time, the broad public was well aware that a patient was more likely to die because they went to a hospital instead of not doing so. It was safer to just stay home and take your chances. Holmes had never been fond of hospitals and his recent experiences made it even worse.

"Only to die by a mysterious cause alone at home," Lestrade added.

"So you haven't deduced what killed him, yet?" Watson answered Holmes with an equal dose of sarcasm.

"Unfortunately, no," Sherlock murmured absentmindedly and stood. He went over to the mantelpiece.

"Maybe he died of the same cause all those dogs did. Might be something in the air?" Bagley suggested.

"Constable, arrange his transport and make sure Hooper gets the case," Lestrade said to gently get his eagerness out of the way.

Bagley was about to leave when Holmes stopped him.

"Dogs?"

"Some young lad came in this morning, stated there were a lot of dead dogs in the area. Was afraid for his own dog. Seemed to think it was an unusual high number," Lestrade explained. "It's clearly a subjective thing. Dogs lie dead in the streets all the time. And once you actually own a dog, you pay attention to it."

"But Sir, he was not the first. There was another Lady who came in and she also reported an abnormal amount of all kinds of pets found dead in the past months. And they, too where from this area," Bagley chimed in.

"It's nothing, Bagley. People come in with all sorts of odd observations. We can't take care of all of that. Now go and make the arrangements," Lestrade repeated, clearly to protect him from being ridiculed by Holmes.

Sherlock said nothing, but looked after Bagley vanishing down the stairs with narrowed eyes, before he turned his attention to the rest of the living space.

"He's eager to learn, a bit too eager sometimes. The enthusiasm of the young," Lestrade sighed.

"Eager to learn is good - much better than the opposite," Watson said while inspecting the corpse further.

"There's a box of pills here." Sherlock picked the small metal box up from the mantelpiece and opened it, then showed its content to Watson. The box was two thirds filled with tiny round pills of unequal sizes, but all clearly made of the same dark mixture.  

Bagley reappeared. "Hearse is already here, boss." He joined them looking at the content of the small tin canister.

"Looks like some of those quack cure-alls if you ask me," Watson huffed.

"So it seems. I will take those for analysis," Sherlock addressed Lestrade and continued to search a nearby drawer.

"Do what you must. Constable, make a proper list of what Holmes takes," Lestrade ordered to keep the man busy.

"Quack? Wait, are you saying those don't help?" the constable asked with a slightly indignant tone.

"That man is a doctor and when he says 'quack', chances are high he means it, Constable," Lestrade pointed at Watson with raised eyebrows.

"Someone in your family takes those, I surmise?" Sherlock turned around and scrutinized the man. His uniform was worn but clean and obviously not ironed by an experienced person - so chances were high his mother wasn't alive. He was not wearing a wedding ring, so no wife, which means father or sibling. A household without a woman would give the laundry to a professional cleaner who would do a better job at ironing.

"Your sister," Sherlock concluded. He was not oblivious to the fact that he had had just deduced something automatically in a long time. 

"But… but the apothecary is a doctor and he swears they will cure her," Bagley continued, completely unphased by the deductions Sherlock had just made. "They cost her a small fortune and contain secret Indian herbs and remedies. She swears on them."

 "Unfortunately, you don't exactly need a license to call yourself a doctor or practise medicine, Constable," Watson explained. "Chances are high these pills only contain cheap ingredients or well known drugs that won't cure her at all, just empty her pockets. 'Secret' is just a marketing trick to impress customers. Most of them are made of soap powder, which acts as a laxative," Watson carefully added.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and remembered that it was still forty-two years until the British Medical Association would publish a book that listed the ingredients and manufacturing costs of so called 'cure-alls' that would drastically change the view of the public about this type of medication. It was quite sad in his opinion that even in 2016 secret treatments and medications 'big pharma don't want you to know about' were hyped and sold - and people still fell for it. Not that Sherlock thought modern pharmacy companies were saints, quite the opposite in fact, but those modern quacks were even worse.  

Unfortunately, the cause of the problem was also still the same: Science had no real answers to certain problems. Trying something that seemed far less horrifying than live-altering surgery (which might not even save the patient) when there was a painless and cheaper offer, was - of course - the option the sick and desperate would go for.

As a chemist, Sherlock was well aware that during the past fifteen years, medicines had changed from a traditional approach (using mostly herbs) to a chemical one. Everything that might result in the desired effects was put to use. At first glance, certain chemicals seemed to help, when in reality, they just suppressed the symptoms. In the long run, the side effects could get worse than the disease although it wasn't really treated; for example, arsenic in baby teething powders or tobacco as a cure for asthma. Many unsuspecting clients were poisoned on a daily basis.

"Son, as I said, no professional qualifications are needed to run a pharmacy. Not everyone who claims they are a doctor actually have proper medical education," Watson continued. "At the moment, apothecaries can experiment all they like and develop new 'treatments', for better or for worse. They are salesman and free to invent stuff. They are not obliged to test anything properly. The problem is, a lot of them don't know what they are doing. If you are lucky, they do no harm. There are no regulations about ingredients of medicines and they can advertise them to their liking. Some don't even have basic education about the chemicals they use - at least not yet."

Watson was right. One of the biggest problems of the Victorian era was, that anyone could concoct anything and sell it - and make any claims they contrived. The past decade had been a free for all when it came to inventing things, not only in the health business. Economy thrived not only due to the absence of rules about product testing before selling but also because the additional lack of rules about advertisements. Producers could claim their product did anything, even though it was never actually proven.

Poor Bagley seemed to be close to a panic attack after learning the realities of the trade and Watson gently took him by the arm to offer a bit of comfort.

"It has been a worry for actual doctors for a while now. Hopefully all this will be a problem of the past once the pharmacy act comes into action next year," Watson tried to reassure him. "This law will make it mandatory that pharmacists have to prove they know their trade. At the moment it is more of a voluntary thing."

"Hopefully it will prevent customers from serving as guinea pigs and make remedies - at least a bit - less deadly," Holmes added in a sarcastic tone that resulted in an 'shut-up' movement from Watson.   

"You think these might have killed him?" Bagley gave the box of pills another horrified glance.

"Certainly, I will test those, only then we will know more. Until then it is only a possibility of hundreds." Sherlock answered. "He might have eaten something wrong, has come into contact with unhealthy green dye, has had a heart attack or has an injury or illness that is not visible to the naked eye. So, lets not draw immature conclusions. Poisoning is certainly one of the options… Lestrade, we need to find out if he has an heir, or life insurance - if he has any, find out who the beneficiary is. Life insurances are in high demand as long as poisons are easily available. Watson, please take a sample from his hideous moustache right above his upper lip, there might be traces of whatever he ingested clinging to those hairs."

Watson once more knelt down next to the body to do as asked, then looked up at Holmes.

"Hideous?" he asked with raised eyebrows. The colonel was wearing his facial hair in almost the exact same style Watson did.

Sherlock knew the craze about a wide variety of luxuriant beards, sculpted moustaches and extravagant sideburns was at it's high in the Victorian Era. Some sources credited it to British soldiers, who grew facial hair to keep warm during the Crimean War in the 1850s and brought the habit back home. He couldn't help himself, he just wasn't fond of beards. Not on himself and not on people he was close to. His dislike of how it felt to wear one (the constant irritation caused by the sensory input the hairs provided) and the fact that food might get caught in them was what he found most unappetizing. Not to mention the risk to singe it, it getting caught in something or the smell of care products.

Soon, beards would fall victim to the craze about the germ theory. People like Bowers*4, published articles that stated: 'There is no way of computing the number of bacteria and noxious germs that may lurk in the Amazonian jungles of a well-whiskered face, but their number must be legion.' He was sure a wide variety 'of infectious diseases can be, and undoubtedly are, transmitted via the whisker route'.

However, the fact that things got caught in beards could be helpful in solving cases, so he didn't mind their existence in general. He knew his comment aimed at teasing Watson for the moustache he had grown. Uttering insults like this was not very professional, but his patience was cut short and it had just slipped out.  

A moment later he wondered what made him prefer 'his' doctor clean shaven and why he believed it was his right to criticise the fact that Watson wore one these days.

"But what about my sister?" Bagley dragged him out of his musings about facial hair. He was unusually prone to getting lost in his slow and detailed mental fact checks these days. Maybe it was just his subconscious exploring his reverting faculties, or maybe it felt good that he was able to do it again.

"She can't afford to consult a real doctor?" Watson asked while he cut off the lower ends of the colonel's moustache without disfiguring it too much. He collected them in a folded piece of paper.

"No," the man said in a low voice and looked ashamed. Watson stood up and stepped closer to the man, putting the pair of surgical scissors he was always carrying back into their case.

"Right. Tell her to stop taking the pills and to come by to see me. Free of charge," Watson offered in a low voice and handed his card to the man. Only rich people could afford doctors, every one else had no other option than to consult a pharmacist with their health issues. Obviously, his noble friend hated seeing people suffer and therefore he often treated patients for free, something Sherlock adored him for because they both shared a strong antipathy for the crap about rich gentleman's lives being more valuable than poor worker's lives.

"But first take a sample of that green carpet - without using your hands - and send it to Hooper, too," Sherlock suggested.

"Without using my hands?" Bagley looked puzzled.

The first challenge in every case was always to determine which death was accidental and which wasn't - a rather profound task due to the era's complete lack of safety precautions. Nevertheless, Sherlock doubted this was a case of accidental arsenic poison. That would have been too easy. The problem was already widely known since 1851, when the selling of arsenic had been regulated due to mounting fatalities.

"Just do it," Sherlock stated impatiently. His headache was gaining momentum. Additionally, he slowly began to realise that something else was creeping into his awareness: a deep dark need made itself known.

Cravings.

Despite being aware they could last weeks after the last dose of a drug, they sneaked up on him and cut his patience short in the worst of moments.

Watson stepped in to do the task instead, this time using his tweezers. The constable was clearly a bit shaken by all he had just learned and out of his depth why and how to master the task without proper tools.

Unnerved, Sherlock started walking up and down the room to chase away his uneasiness. He couldn't help but vigorously rub his thumbs against the sides of his middle fingers, too.

"Holmes?" Watson tried to get his attention, probably not for the first time according to his tone.

"What!" he retorted, not even trying to disguise his poor mood.

"Are we finished?"

"No, I just started! How am I supposed to--"

"Uh, let's not dwindle and get through with it speedily," Watson interrupted him.

"Well, as soon as we are finished here, I need to find the apothecary, who made those," Sherlock announced. It would mean some legwork since the writing on the box only contained the name of the pills and a ridiculously long list of what they would be good for: from curing consumption and gout to malaria and eczema. At this point in time there was also - of course - no law that medication containers required manufacturer information.  

Another reason was apothecary receipts were business secrets. No pharmacist would unveil what they blended into their cures, fearing their remedies wouldn't sell without a good dose of mystery. And of course they needed to avoid the risk of someone copying their valuable 'medication'.

Wordlessly, Sherlock went back to searching for more clues. The longer they spent in the flat, the more unnerved he became. He felt unsettled by people moving around behind him. It distracted him. Since his return from the asylum, he found himself weary to things that happened behind his back, which manifested in a need to carefully glance over his shoulder now and then.

It was almost an hour later before Sherlock realised it made no sense to continue and by then they were non the wiser. Sherlock failed miserably to find the source of the smell or any hint about a possible cause of death. His ability to think, to draw conclusions and take in the scene before him was still heavily compromised. He was slow. Things didn't register as they should and he feared he might have failed to notice the most basic details. It felt as if his deduction skills had turned blind. He had definitely crowed too soon when he noticed he deducted the constable's sister.

 

Watson insisted they returned to Baker Street for a lunch break before calling on pharmacies. At first, Sherlock wasn't happy about it, but during the ride back to Baker Street he found an urgent need to be home. Due to this need, the trip felt even slower and more agonising than it was. The assault on his sense of smell by the stink of manure, waste, cesspools and people made him nauseous and he realised that his nose definitely preferred the well aired countryside. It seemed the cab moved from one cloud of stench into the next.

Since it worsened by the minute, Sherlock had to close his eyes and focus on not gagging. A fierce stomach ache had joined the unnerving headache to plague him. By the time they reached Baker Street, his sight was blurry and he was neither able to talk nor to really hear what Watson was saying. His sense of smell was overriding his other senses.  

What did not escape his mind though was that John carefully helped him into the building and out of his coat. Watson also send Mrs Hudson away when she pestered them about which kind of tea they wanted for lunch.

The fog had not only taken over London, but also his mind. He hated being reminded by his weak flesh that he could not simply overrule it and continue as if nothing had happened, that he could not just will his issues out of existence, that he was forced to endure his vulnerability and incompetence.

As if it was nothing out of the ordinary, Watson continued to guide him to his room. Sherlock's resolve broke the moment he sat on his bed, trembling all over; and he begged John to ease his pains with laudanum.

Instead, his friend came back with an infusion of valerian root - in an invalid feeding cup, which resulted in Sherlock loudly cursing his friend, his own inability to hold a cup, or go buy some morphine by himself. Not to mention that working on the case was off the table in his current state. He couldn't even manage to sit on the bed without the pillows propping him up.

Unfazed by it, Watson endured his rants patiently before he gently forced him to drink, by then, Sherlock was frustrated beyond words and had little choice but to give in to his firm care.

"Take a nap, my dear fellow," he was told by Watson after the doctor made him lie flat and pulled the heavy duvet over him. All Sherlock wanted in that moment was to scream and smash something, nevertheless the only thing his incapacitated transport managed was to clench his hands into fists. Meanwhile, the doctor turned to the window and closed the curtains. Despite being out of his mind with need and sensory input and disgust about himself, Sherlock's focus was drawn to something odd. Watson looked different when he returned to the bed.

Realising that his friend's moustache was gone took him a ridiculously long amount of time; he blinked furiously in an attempt to clear his vision.

"Shhhh. You are alright. I've got you," Watson whispered and rested his hand on Sherlock's forehead.

The touch was such an intimate and tender gesture Sherlock felt he didn't deserve after the abuse he had just shouted at his friend. His transport wanted to shake it off and longed for more at the same time. He squirmed with frustration.

"It's okay. I know this is the withdrawal flaring up. Good Lord, it's having you in a tight grip at this moment. I do believe it will get better. Be patient and don't worry about it…. Relax," Watson muttered. His friend had never been patient when it came to his drug habits and had in fact been quite rough on some occasions when expressing his disapproval. But this time he was surprisingly gentle about it all.

Sherlock tried to follow his instructions while he looked at him through half lidded eyes. It must have been an illusion because now the moustache was firmly back in place.

"Sleep," Watson repeated.

Once more, Sherlock fell asleep guarded by his not-clean-shaven doctor.

 


 

 

*1 Sherlock's headache is a side effect of the spinal tab that was done at the hospital (2016), but of course he doesn't know that. Patients are advised to lie down and drink a lot after the procedure. Caffeine is also said to help with this kind of headache.

*² In Europe, the first amputation under modern anaesthesia was done by Robert Liston, on December 21st, 1846 at the University College Hospital.

*³ Joseph Lister's famous articles about washing hands before an operation and sterilising surgical instruments was published on March 16th, 1867 in The Lancet and it fundamentally changed medicine. Title of the article: “An Address on the Antiseptic System of Treatment in Surgery”
Source: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2895849/

*4 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edwin_F._Bowers
I am not a scientist and I can't verify if beards contribute to the spread of disease, but here is an article from 2020 that states they don't:
https://www.vox.com/the-goods/2020/3/30/21195447/beard-pandemic-coronavirus-masks-1918-spanish-flu-tuberculosis

 

Notes:

This took me ages and I am very sorry it did.
The major reason was that my mother died a few months ago and then I moved house to live with my father.
Due to all the stress I spent weeks and weeks just staring at this and the upcoming chapters and not being able to do any productive work on them. I do hope I can manage to return to regular updates now. The next 8 chapters are written and 'only' need some sorting out and fine tuning.
Thank you to everyone who stayed with me and all the encouraging feedback. This fandom kept me sane during the past months. Thank you all ˂3

Chapter 47: April 10th, 1867 - Wednesday - Early afternoon

Notes:

Un-beta-ed, hope you can ignore my grammar mistakes. Feel free to point them out. English is not my native tongue and I am happy to learn.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

A long nap later, Sherlock still felt drained but at least ready to eat. They were having their after lunch tea when Mrs Hudson entered and announced a visitor. Watson nodded and a woman in her early thirties, who was carrying a toddler, entered the living room.

It was immediately clear to Sherlock that she wasn't used to walking around holding the child. That, as well as her expensive perfume and upscale robe made it clear she usually relied on a nanny and at least one maid to care for her offspring.

Next, he noticed that the toddler not only had a sick complexion but appeared to be quite lethargic. The ungainly olive colour of his mother's dress even accentuated his skin tone.

Wasn't he (yes, he, his clothing made it quite clear it was a boy) supposed to behave like Rosie did at that age? Active and curious to a degree that kept all parents on their toes all day?

"What happened to him?" Sherlock asked before the woman even had the chance to introduce herself.

"Holmes, please. Where are your manners?" Watson took over introductions and prepared a cup of tea for her. Mrs Chloe Hunter - as she introduced herself - accepted the cup but didn't drink; balancing the child with one hand and the cup with the other. Unlike Mary, who easily managed to hold her daughter while cooking, feeding her and having a video call at the same time.

"My son is the reason why I am came back today, Mr Holmes," she started.

So, she was the same person who had been send away earlier.

"Please do explain," Sherlock encouraged her in a friendly tone, but he had to force himself to sound patient, because he was still feeling quite unnerved after his episode a few hours earlier. Her perfume made his nasal cavities feel stuffed with itching wool that seemed to also scratch his brain.

"I am the mother of five daughters and he is our only son, the pride of my family. My husband needs an heir to take over the family business and we were so happy that we were finally gifted with a boy." She clutched the extravagant cross around her neck to demonstrate who she deemed gave her that 'gift'.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. What if her son grew up to be an atheist or philosopher and resent the business? Also, her conformism with this era's view of the value of women and men repulsed him. It was even worse in this decade than in had been in 1898. At times, the mental gymnastics his mind did to remember 1898 as the past (although it was actually the future) was a bit confusing. But since Mary had been alive then and was now dead and he and Watson remembered it, he had decided to think of 1898 as their past.

"My son has been sick repeatedly in the past months. It comes in waves and no doctor was able to find the cause of his ailments. Our last physician noticed there's an odd regularity to his bouts of illness and suggested a special diet. We tried, but the illness came back," she paused briefly. Her grating voice was like a squeaky door and Sherlock could feel it tint the air and affect his stomach. She talked with barely even showing the need to breathe, which was astounding considering her corset looked way too tight for even the current sense of fashion.

"My husband runs large manufacturing plants and he certainly has enemies," she continued. "There was a thread to our children's life... and eight months ago there was an attempt to kidnap one of our daughters, which she barely escaped. We assume it was for ransom, but we don't know for sure. We have been living in fear these past few months, but my husband prevented me from asking for your services. But he asked me to seek your advice last week. We are desperate."

Sherlock frowned. This era's medicine was still more guesswork than real science. Although it was  heading in the right direction, many things were still heavily influenced by superstition; treatments were mostly poking around in the dark.

"Dr Watson, could you examine the child, see if there's anything obvious?" Holmes asked.

"Of course," John stood up and took the boy from her.

"How old is he?"

"Two and a half years."

Watson raised his eyebrows. Even though children in the Victorian Era were smaller and weighted less on average due to poorer nutrients this boy seemed way too small.

"Yes, we have been told he should have grown more at this age," Mrs Hunter explained. "He is clumsy and doesn't eat well."

"Vomiting? Diarrhoea?" Watson wanted to know.

"Constipation."

The doctor laid the child down on his back - on the living room table.

Sherlock stared at them. The picture was so much how their life had been 'before'.

Both Watson parents had often winded Rosie on that living room table. It was the easiest way to do it in 221b and the one he had kept free of experiments and dangerous items as soon as he understood that it was the couple's preferred place to do it.

Watching Watson with the baby was painful, as was remembering these carefree days now. Everything had shifted. The life they all had was gone.

Lost in his thoughts, he must have stared into nothingness for some time, because he didn't notice John coming over until he gently nudged his shoulder.

"Holmes, are you with me?"

Sherlock knew that a pained expression had settled on his face. The loss of Mary was still so fresh and agonising. In contrast, Watson didn't seem affected at all by handling the toddler, he never had a daughter.

Slowly, Sherlock took a deep breath and gulped down the uncomfortable pressure raising in his windpipe. He nodded, which prompted Watson to immediately return to the child that wasn't even trying to move enough to be in danger to fall off the table. Something the Watson parents had been very meticulous in teaching him: Never leave a baby alone on an elevated surface.   

"How long has this illness affected him?" Watson addressed the mother.

"Roughly eight months... I don't know how to say it, but I fear he might be somehow poisoned. I suspect one of our daughters to have done it," she explained, not holding back on sounding dramatic now.

"Please, do tell us how exactly she has displayed ill will towards him," Sherlock asked, dreading to hear her voice answering, but there was no way around it if they wanted information. Maybe he should send her away and ask her husband to come. He scolded himself for being unnerved. After all, he had endured in the past years, his creature comforts shouldn't be this prevalent.

"She is very jealous because he is a boy  and so much more valuable than the girls," came Mrs Hunter's vague explanation, which was not really an answer to the 'how'. "And she thinks boys and girls should be treated equally, which is ridiculous of course. I suspect she got these silly opinions from one of our former nursemaids. We fired her, of course. Nevertheless, my husband doubts my daughter would actually harm her brother," Mrs Hunter rattled off. "But he followed my wishes to send her and one of her sisters off to a very well-known school for ladies," she continued, "where she will be taught the values a woman of her status needs to know."

Sherlock had to bite his lip to not react to her condescending tone by informing her that she obviously lacked the mental faculties to understand his demand to know the details. The fact that there was a distinct lack of 'how' the daughter had displayed ill-will meant there probably wasn't much real evidence.

"But still, the illness keeps coming back," she continued, "and I now fear it might be one of my husband's associates who is doing this, so that someone else will inherit the business... or maybe my brother-in-law, who always wanted in on what my husband has built. Unfortunately, my brother in law is kind of an odd lunatic, who argues the workers aren't paid enough and that their father wouldn't have wanted that for the business."

Sherlock frowned. "May I ask, did your husband built his business or did he inherit it?"

"What a ridiculous question," she discounted the question and Sherlock wondered how much her husband had actually done for their wealth and how much was just the luck of the first born.

"Also, his brother lacks the deep faith in God every sane person should have, which is amazingly stupid for a man of his status, of course. He is a professor, you know. One might think professors are supposed to be intelligent. But that man would ruin the business with his stupid antics. He should be put in an insane asylum. You see Mr Holmes, there are plenty of people who would benefit from my son's demise and if this goes on, I fear he won't survive to the end of the year."

Sherlock was taken aback by almost all of her views - and the fact that she just ignored ideas that didn't suit her. The fact that she thought it best to lock away people who didn't share her views also hit a nerve. But before he could put any of that into more direct insults, Watson stepped in and while he carefully lifted the child into a sitting position he assured her that they would of course take her case.

Sherlock ground his teeth, he didn't feel like doing this at all and would tell John so the moment she was out of the door. Watson complied with way too many of the era's stupid attitudes and at the moment he had no patience left for a mother that might be getting what she deserved for treating her daughters like rubbish… and she was, he had deduced that from her expression when she talked about them and her gestures. She didn't cherish facts or intelligence but jumped to false conclusion she liked because she wanted to use those she didn't like as a scapegoat, those who didn't share her views and only existed as a waste product of her desires. He wanted to have nothing to do with people who deemed favouritism and double standards normal. Her behaviour repulsed him and he wished people like this weren't bothering him.

"You must help me. My son will die if you don't!"

Obviously she had no problem using coercion, too.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Thank you for bringing this to our attention. As for the health of your son, Holmes needs to see the living arrangements and I need to examine him further. We will come to your home tonight to take a look at the living space and assess the general situation. We need to exclude environmental influences."

"I will not take this case," Sherlock clarified and stood up. "Since you don't need me here, Dr Watson, I am in my room, smoking. To protect that child from my 'unhealthy fumes'," he recited something John had once said when he had smoked in the living room before Rosie and Mary came over.

As he walked away (deliberately not wishing Mrs Hunter a 'Good Day'), he heard a confused "Unhealthy fumes?" from Watson before he closed the door.

For a moment, he leaned against the wooden frame, cursing the world and everything, including John. He was sure John would reassure her they would take the case and try to convince him as soon as she left.

It made his turmoil worse, that even Watson would urge him to do things he didn't want to. The feeling of being powerless before a doctor…

It was a trigger, Sherlock realised with a sharp tinge of dismay.

In order to feel less cooped up and relieving his headache, he headed over to the window to open it - and nearly stumbled when another sharp tinge - this time a physical one - shot through his leg.

He cursed. The wound was healing but slower than it should. Now and then it was acting up, viciously reminding him it was there.

Sherlock opened the window, but instead of bringing in fresh air, the fog outside was so thick, it seemed to pour inside. Instead of alleviating the feeling of being encaged, it felt invasive. Sherlock closed the window again and let himself fall into the bed, fumbling for the cigarettes on the nightstand.

Only then he realized how favourable lying flat felt. He had dozed off before he even had time to find his matches.

 

 

Sherlock jerked awake and sucked in a horrified breath, caught in the dire sensation that he had heard John scream in distress. He found his friend sitting on his bed, seemingly well.

He exhaled and tried to remember what he had dreamt.

"Holmes, you really do need a vacation," John murmured; he found the doctor was counting his (probably racing) heart rate.

"Go away." Sherlock pulled away his hand.

"Not happening. How about going to Cornwall? I heard Poldhu Bay*1 is nice."

"NO!" Sherlock erupted and sat up. He was still angry about how Watson had tried to make him take the case. Besides, a change of scenery wouldn't help. Wherever he went, his dark thoughts and cravings would follow him. "I do not need a vacation, and even if, we will not travel there! We have two cases."

"Two? What's the second?"

Sherlock stared at him in disbelieve.

"What do you mean? The colonel and the annoying green woman with the sick toddler that were here just…." He looked at the wall clock, "… an hour ago. The boy seemed... drugged. Have you found any clues on the child? "

Watson stared at him.

"Are you delusional? Yes, we investigated the case of the colonel with the wooden leg… and you…" Watson pointed to the door, which made no sense. "…went straight to bed and slept until now." He pointed at Sherlock's bed. "We had no visitors today!"

How very diplomatic to call having a withdrawal caused breakdown 'going to bed'. But that was not what had Sherlock staring at him in confusion.

"What?"

Sherlock tried to get past him and out of the bed, which he had been lying in still dressed. His friend blocked his way, pressed down on his shoulder to make him lie down again. Sherlock struggled against it with a new wave of anger about being patronised and the weakening dizziness that threatened to overcome him once more.

"Holmes, you are worrying me. Get some more rest. We will talk about it later," Watson stated. What did resolve Sherlock's resistance and his anger was the fact that his friend laid a gentle hand on his forehead and thereby effectively convinced him to lie down.

Sherlock closed his eyes. The affectionate touch so intimate and full of care he wanted to surrender to it. His tiredness did the rest. He sank back into the cushions.

 

 

Watson woke him some time later with a gentle knock on his door.

"We have an appointment."

"What?" Sherlock said, still half asleep.

"The woman with the sick child. We meet them tonight."

Sherlock sat up and stared at his friend. Black dots were dancing in his sight and he squeezed his eyes shut to chase them away.

"You just…" he cleared his throat, "You just told me two hours ago they don't exist. You told me they were a delusion. Could you make up your mind?" he was wide awake suddenly. This was alarming.

"You must have dreamt that, my dear fellow. I definitely did not," Watson informed him. "I am worried about this, you know… Also, you  were quite rude. I know the past month was tough and I understand you need time to recover. But that poor woman-"

"The only thing poor about her is her attitude," Sherlock interrupted, now getting more and more unnerved.

Watson, now also aware something was off, responded, "You can't just go on as if nothing happened. You need to recuperate. Maybe we should go on a vacation."

Sherlock knew for a fact that he did not dream this. Suggesting it was, was an insult to his intellect.

Before he had the chance to yell a frustrated 'no!' his mind hit the brakes.

Full stop.

He had wished he could evade dealing with this case. And then *puff* the case was gone. The same with Watson's dreadful moustache.

Had these been short episodes of him regaining control over his mind palace?

But why was that bit of control now taken away again, then?

Why this case?

And why was the thought of dealing with an obnoxious mother a topic he fought so much?

"Holmes? You do realise this might actually be an interesting case? And one that brings prestige and even a bit money to pay the rent? That family is wealthy."

"Wealth is irrelevant."

But the fact that the mind palace kept shoving it in his face probably wasn't.

"To you, obviously! But we do need to pay the rent or we will get Mrs Hudson in trouble. They are expecting us, so get dressed. I think you should rest, but at the same time I understand that you need an a distraction from whatever is stressing you out."

Why was this question of taking a case or not such a conundrum these days, Sherlock wondered.

"I see many children in this state nowadays, way more than before I left for the war, it might be caused by the constantly worsening air of the city. There are so many different things that could be wrong with him, I need to examine him further."

"We should test his blood for vitamin deficiency," Sherlock said absentmindedly, still occupied by his meta analysis of what was happening.

"What? How?" Watson stammered.

Right, wrong century... this wouldn't be happening for ages. Sherlock rolled his eyes and moved past him to get dressed. Watson allowed it with a sigh.

 

 

Reaching the family's house proved to be endeavouring. The fog was still slowing down traffic.

It turned out to describe the son as the 'pride of the family' was a bit of an understatement. The small child lived a live of almost ridiculous luxury, and although his sisters lived in the same household and dwelled in similar accommodations, it was quite obvious at first glance that they didn't receive the same amount of care. There was in fact one nanny for all the girls that looked overworked and a bit dishevelled and a single one who looked dressed to the nines for the boy. Also, the clothes and toys of the girls were clearly worn out, one might argue that it was simply because he was a boy, and he was the youngest, but Sherlock's keen eyes noticed immediately that the amount spent on the boy equalled the amount spent on all the girls together.

All the items in his nursery were new and the discrepancy was clearly present in the girls behaviour. The mother was quite rigorous with them - the youngest girl only a year older than the boy – was constantly rebuked. The girls were friendly on the surface, but the underlying frustration about the inequity was bleeding through.

The more Sherlock observed them, the clearer it became to him how sad they were and how much they suffered from their mother's behaviour. Observing them bestowed an intense wave of sensations/feelings on him he failed to name.

Process of elimination.

It surely wasn't pity.

Of course he didn't like gender inequality, but it wasn't that either.

Was it empathy for their sadness about being lesser and negligible?

But then he would be eager to solve this and use the gratefulness towards him to point out he wanted more equality for the children of the family instead of money. It would probably be a drop in a bucket, but better than nothing.

He found his head was starting to ache and more obscure emotions were piling up; and he still didn't know what was happening, only that he felt thoroughly uncomfortable being in this situation.

Somehow, he felt his despise was not really about the gender inequality. There was more. Like a dark creature waking up in the deep. Like knowing really bad things were heading his way.   

When Sherlock found his uneasiness was turning into distress, he tried to hide it by searching the boy's nursery in detail.

At least there were neither green wallpapers nor bright green toys.

"What are those?" he asked the mother, who had followed him into the room together with Watson, when he spotted a drawer full of what seemed to be medicines.

"Oh, that's the medication we give him... as well as some things to improve his health... Help his digestion, you know?"

Sherlock picked up another one of the containers and as expected, it neither listed what was in it nor who made it. What was interesting, though was that the pill boxes were from various brands. Among them was one that had a label with exactly the same ornamental yellow and red pattern as the one of the colonel's pills. In contrast though, this one had carefully calligraphed letters integrated into the ornaments.

'Claycura' it read.

Odd. Was that indicating it contained healing clay?

Of course, what the pills were good for was actually written on the box. Sherlock frowned. This box was definitely newer than the colonel's. Maybe the producer had redesigned the package to acquire more brand recognition?

"Where did you get those?"

"Our local pharmacies."

"Why do you use those if you can afford an actual doctor? And why different brands? There is a danger of drug interactions," Sherlock continued to question.

"Oh. Yes, the pharmacists pointed out we should stick to their brands to make sure they worked best. But even our doctor doesn't know what he suffers from so in addition to the medications he prescribed we bought some that promised to help in case it is cancer and some that were especially good for treating his constipation."

"Right. The more the merrier," Sherlock huffed sarcastically. "Do you remember where you bought this particular tin?" He held up the yellow-red box.

"No."

"What are you doing?" she shrieked when Sherlock swooped all the small metal containers – there must be at least fifteen – into his topper and headed out of the room.

"I need to talk to those pharmacists," Sherlock explained, well aware that it was not the first time he came to this conclusion but had until now not managed to execute his plan.

It was important, why hadn't he done it, yet?

Executive dysfunction was definitely one of his issues these days.

"Those are quite expensive, so please bring them back once you are finished," Mrs Hunter asked him, which made Sherlock wonder if they were not as wealthy as they pretended.

"I will do so, though I am not sure you'll really want them back by then."

 

Although Sherlock felt spent and was barely able to concentrate on anything by the time they were back in a cab. The pain in his leg had doubled and drew his thoughts back to something related to that wound that happened in the asylum. He tried to evade thinking about his time there. Whenever memories of it came up, he shoved them away forcefully. But this time he recollected a discussion between two of the carers. While they treated his leg, they had discussed the so-called pharmacy act. It would ensure pharmacists are educated and that they know how to mix proper remedies. Not only had the carers discussed it, he had then later read an article about it in a newspaper.*2 This topic seemed to follow him around, too. Maybe he should pay more attention to it. He set a mental reminder to check on it later - after he analysed what ingredients were in the pills.

 

When they exited the cab in front of Baker Street, Holmes' attention was drawn to a newspaper boy, barely visible in the dense fog, screaming the evening headline down the street.

"Decorated colonel dies under mysterious circumstances! Read all about it!"

He and Watson exchanged knowing looks before Watson disappeared into the mist to get a copy while Sherlock tugged his coat tighter around himself. The cold and damp was bothering him more than usual and he turned to the door to unlock it in the almost desperate attempt to seek the warmth and safety of 'home'.

 

 


 

 

*1

Everyone familiar with the original ACD Sherlock Holmes stories might recognize this as a bow to the story itself as well as Granada Holmes' choices in 'The Devil's Foot'.

 

*2

This happened in chapters 27 and 31 if anyone wants to go back an re-read it.

Notes:

I can't believe I wrote this chapter more than three years ago and also that it has taken me over six months to update this story. *facepalm*
There were some complicated 'case-things' I needed to get right and it took me ages. Also, I am struggling with some form of writer's block. I am very sad that I am so slow these days.
While painting my last (unposted) work for Inktober, I got stuck and felt the need to work on this story instead. Feel free to visit my tumblr where I posted all my Sherlock Inktober works.

Chapter 48: Day 8 - Late Evening

Summary:

John is hit hard by his past actions.

Notes:

No deaths in here, but Trigger warning for suicide as a topic from the Culverton-chokes-Sherlock-and-Sherlock-allows-it-scene in 'The Lying Detective'.
This gets kind of intense, skip it if this might trigger you. If the scene did, this will probably, too.

Chapter Text

After John had read case files to Sherlock for almost an hour, his throat started to feel parched from speaking so much. He headed to the kitchen to get some water and while pouring it, he heard someone at the front door downstairs. He stepped into the stairwell. Before he could listen in, the front door closed again and Marlies came up the stairs carrying a large brown envelope.

"This was delivered for you. I was told you are expecting it," she held out the envelope and John realised with a tinge of dread that Mycroft must have - against his better judgement - sent him a copy of the Culverton hospital tape from as he requested.

Inhaling deeply, he took it out of her hands and without a glance back headed up the stairs to his room.

Although he had asked for this, his heartbeat seemed to close up his throat in presentiment. On one hand, he needed to listen to it, on the other he knew it would not easy.

Inside the envelope he found an unlabeled CD. He firmly locked the door to his room and booted his laptop.

 

The recording started with silence. It lasted so long, John checked if the sound was turned on. While listening to the stillness, he wondered if Mycroft was right; if this was a good time to confront himself with this. But before he could really think about it, his attention was drawn back when some soft noises could be heard and Sherlock's taped voice whispered, 'How did you get in?'

Smith must have entered. John held his breath and turned up the volume.
Smith answered in an equally low voice, 'Policeman outside, you mean? Come on. Can’t you guess?'
'Secret door,'
Sherlock stated.
'I built this whole wing. Kept firing the architect and builders so no-one knew quite h-how it all fitted together. I can slip in and out anywhere I like, you know ... when I get the urge,' Smith agreed.
'H. H. Holmes,' Sherlock said, which confused John for a moment.
'Murder castle, but done right,' Culverton explained and John remembered the story. A serial killer hotel in the US, designed to 'harvest' bodies at a time when selling them would bring a fortune.

'I have a question for you. Why are you here? It’s like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me,' Smith continued. 'Why?'
'You know why I’m here,' Sherlock stated matter of faculty.
'I’d like to hear you say it… Say it for me, please.'
'I want you to kill me,'
Sherlock answered and the breath froze in John's lungs. He pressed the pause button. Some part of him had expected it, had known Sherlock's intention must have been communicated, but to hear Sherlock state it as clearly as this was extremely unsettling. He took a few deep breaths before he felt ready to continue.

God, this was hard.

'If you increase the dosage four or five times ...' Sherlock suggested. '... toxic shock should shut me down within about an hour.'
Steps can be heard and Smith answered, 'Then I restore the settings. Everyone assumes it was a fault, or you just gave up the ghost.'
'Yes.'
'You’re rather good at this.'
Shuffling of fabrics before Smith continued, 'Before we start ... tell me how you feel.'
'I feel scared,'
Sherlock's answer was soft and up to this point John had hoped Sherlock was acting but now he could hear it: the actual fear in his friend's voice.

Smith scoffs before he continues, 'Be more specific… You only get to do this the once.'
'I’m ... scared of dying,'
Sherlock pressed out and John's hand flew to his mouth to keep his own pain inside. He was well aware that experiencing this kind of fear in the face of death meant the memory of it will never leave - and neither will the fear of experiencing this special brand of fear again. It forever haunts anyone who ever faced it in a traumatic situation.
'You wanted this, though,' Smith said.
'I have ... reasons,' was Sherlock's reply and John lowered his head, tears started to collect in his eyes. He was the fucking reason.  
'But you don’t actually want to die,' Smith made sure.
'No,' Sherlock agreed and John felt relief flood him.
'Good,' Smith said with glee in his voice,' Say that for me. Say it.'
'I don’t want to die,'
Sherlock clarified.
'And again.'
'I don’t want to die,' Sherlock repeated a bit clearer and louder.
'Once more for luck,' Smith demanded, that bastard.
'I don’t want to die. I don’t ...' Sherlock seemed to choke on his own tears at this point and John did, too. '... don’t want to die.'
The next word almost made John lose his stomach content. 'Lovely,' Smith uttered. Then continued, 'Here it comes.'
Some low beeps followed and John assumed Smith was changing settings on one of the syringe drivers. John desperately hoped to hear himself come in any moment.

'So tell me: why are we doing this? To what do I owe the pleasure?' Smith dragged it out.
'I wanted to hear your confession; needed to know I was right.'
'But why do you need to die?'
'The mortuary; your favourite room,'
was Sherlock's cryptic reply. But it made sense when he continued, 'You talk to the dead. You make your confession to them… Why do you do it?'
'Why do I kill? It’s-It’s not about hatred or-or revenge. I’m not a dark person. It’s ... killing human beings ... it just makes me ... incredibly happy … You know i-i-in films when-when you see dead people pretending to be dead and it’s just living people lying down? That’s not what dead people look like. Dead people look like things. I like to make people into things. Then you can own them.'

God, that bastard. But he had a point. Dead people often do look like objects. Its how John knew during the war who to turn to help and who was beyond it. The deceased just look 'different'. He had found that deeply unsettling once he was able to see it. Of course, he always made sure by checking because it certainly isn't a good idea to use this 'gut feeling' to asses if patients had perished; but in dire situations, when things had to happen fast it might have saved a few lives to not spent time on those beyond help.

'You know what? I’m getting a little impatient,' Smith muttered and he must have used the remote to move the bed into a flat position because John could hear the motor humming for a few seconds.

It made John sick to his stomach when he realised that in this very moment Sherlock must have desperately hoped for him to burst through the door.

God, Sherlock's nerves… or was he already losing hope at this point? Or had he accepted his fate and was hoping for it to be over soon?
'Take a big breath if you want,' Smith suggested. 'Murder is a very difficult addiction to manage. People don’t realise how much work goes into it. You have to be careful... but if-if you’re rich or famous and loved, it’s amazing what people are prepared to ignore. There’s always someone desperate, about to go missing ...'

At this point John could hear Sherlock struggling and it broke his resolve. He had to forcibly stifle a quiet sob by pressing his right fist against his mouth.
'... and no-one wants to suspect murder if it’s easier to suspect something else! I just have to ration myself; choose the right heart to stop.'

Sherlock's struggles intensified and the barely audible heart monitor in the background announced a sharp spike in heart beat.

'Please, maintain eye contact. Maintain eye contact,' Smith demanded from the man he is choking to death. 'Maintain eye contact. Please. I like to watch it ... happen.'

By now, Sherlock's metabolism was probably releasing catecholamines that kick in the body’s fight-or-flight response, which was evident in more struggling. Part of John was relieved that he in fact did struggle instead of just surrendering. The knowledge that at this point Sherlock must have been seriously panicking finally turned John's stomach. Just in time, he managed to pull the lid off the waste bin and he emptied his stomach into it.

'And off we ... pop,' Smith said some very long moments later (which John used to fetch some tissues to wipe his mouth). Smith's tone was nasty and suddenly, the struggling noises died down - except the heart monitor in the background, which announced Sherlock's slowing heart rate. It had been more than a minute and Sherlock was probably losing consciousness due to the lack of oxygen flow to the brain.

God, this minute must have been torture for Sherlock, hoping or maybe mentally begging for someone to interrupt.

John knew that from this point on the clock was ticking. He looked at the screen's clock.  Sherlock had four to five minutes until cardiac arrest. Oxygen deprivation to the brain gets serious after roughly four minutes, that is when the brain damage starts. Another four to six minutes later death is likely to occur. Suffocation is a slow and agonising death.

The almost silence was dreadful to listen to. John could hear the faint sound of the heart monitor in the background, constantly slowing down, and he prayed that his past self would hurry because he couldn't listen to this much longer.

It dragged on and with every second that passed, John felt sicker. He had to stifle another gag, not only that, he himself also felt like he was choking.

Why the fuck had it taken him so long to get there!

Sherlock had probably lost consciousness believing it was too late, realising John didn't care or wouldn’t be in time.

The silence on the tape dragged on and John wondered if it had stopped for some reason but then he heard a small satisfied grunt from Smith and he couldn't stifle another sob escape his mouth.

And the silence went on.

Then finally, two bumps in the distance and noise erupted in the room.

Suddenly, Sherlock could be heard painfully gasping for air.

'Mr Holmes! You okay?' It was the officer who actually addressed Sherlock first.
'What were you doing to him?' John heard his own stupid voice. He hit the pause button again. At this point he felt the overwhelming need to throw the laptop against the wall or anything really… or hit something. The irony was that his anger had caused this situation and here he was, about to give in to it again. A wave of physical discomfort washed over him. He couldn't really pinpoint it, but he felt so sick, he found sitting upright was too much work. It felt so goddamn awful, he slid off the chair onto the ground.

More bile came up. This time he was so uncoordinated, he missed the waste bin and hurled onto the carpet.

God, what kind of fucking arsehole was he?

His ignorance had almost killed the only person left that really cared about him, had driven him to launch a suicide mission.

This had been close - way too close.

The image of Sherlock lying in that hospital bed, defeated, bearing the marks of his violence and only half conscious would haunt him for the rest of his days.

John heaved again, disgusted about who he had become, what a sorry pathetic excuse for a human being he was.

What had he done?

It was probably the worst thing he had done in his entire life. He had turned from healer to perpetrator. His status had changed by turning into 'aggressor', something that collided miserably with his self-image as someone who saved from and soothed pain. Now, he was the cause of pain and trauma. Something he had all his life sworn not to turn into. His behaviour had pushed Sherlock into almost committing suicide for real. His stupid anger... and there was no way to take it back, no way to fix this. The damage he had done was not repairable.
Part of him envied Sherlock, who found a way to not experience the aftermath of this mess. John's own desire to not feel all of this was overwhelming. Reality was just cruel, as was existing in general. Everything that he had deemed 'normal' and that was what existence was supposed to be had vanished from his life for a second time. Stability was an illusion. Everything good in his life was gone.

Just when he finally thought he had rebuilt his life with a steady job, good friends, a wife and a daughter, solving crimes with his best friend so satisfy his incidental need for an adrenaline rush. It all had been wiped away by one tiny bullet and his own stupid anger. The first was not his fault, the latter definitely was. He had deemed himself a decent person until Mary died, but he wasn't any longer. He was an arsehole, a stupid drunk, who was hallucinating his dead wife and whose fury damaged everyone in close proximity. Nothing would ever be the same, he had made sure of that. Just like his fucking monster of a father. He was no better. He would do the same damage to Rosie his father had done to Harry and himself.

All this misery was not worth the trouble of existing and the rest of the world would probably be better off without him.

John understood Sherlock's escape into his mental bolt hole, more than he had any right to; understood why Sherlock was making himself unavailable after he had run his transport into the ground in one last ditch effort to fix things. Sherlock had gone to Culverton with the intention to galvanise John to save him. But now he had gone somewhere where John couldn't follow. It was clear he was neither expecting anyone to come after him nor was he allowing it by the simple nature of his retreat. No one could follow him there, this retreat was absolute.

John's own need to just not experience all this and hide in a hole to hope for better times was overwhelming but unfortunately his only means to reach something remotely similar was via liquor.

God, he wanted it right now. Drink himself into a stupor to never wake up from.

With a violently trembling hand he wiped his mouth and crawled to the foot of his bed. The bottle of cheap vodka he had hidden there a few days earlier must be somewhere. It was supposed to be for emergencies. John had brought it in while Sherlock was still in hospital and hid it in an old cardboard box with spare clothes Sherlock had kept for him and Mary in case of a sleepover.

Much to his dismay, he couldn’t find it. Irritated, he rummaged around in the box and disturbed the heap of clothes in there. A waft of Mary's deodorant mixed with her own unique smell hit his nose and a thick wave of exasperation caused him to furiously turn the box upside down. He franticly searched through the content spilled on the floor, but the bottle wasn't there. It was gone. Mycroft's fucking goons had obviously not only removed all of Sherlock's transgressions but his ones, too - of course they had.

Helplessly trembling from exhaustion, anger and guilt he curled up on the floor.

It was his own fault, half of this situation. He deserved to be miserable for what he had done.

For a few moments he tried to get up, tried to come up with a plan how to sneak out and buy a new bottle and smuggle it upstairs because the need to numb himself was overwhelming, but his body failed him. The nights of heavy drinking had taken their toll. Too shaky to even stand on his legs, he collapsed midway to the door, panting. He knew he would drink if he would have been physically able to procure any alcohol. Being aware of this worsened his misery because his earlier decision to restrain himself had failed already.

He deserved this, deserved not to find any comfort at all.

Bit by bit, his thoughts were spiralling downward and it wasn't long until he lost all control. Numbly, he fumbled for his duvet on the bed to drag it down and over himself.

Although he felt cold, he was also so hot, he was drenched in sweat.

The only thing he was able to hold onto was to keep silent - no need to be heard. It would only mean the presence of people he didn't want to see. The fabric muffled his stifled sobs as he completely lost himself in the inescapable horror of his situation.

 

He didn't know how long he had been there on the floor, only that at some point all the sorrow had overwhelmed him so much that he lost all sense of time.

It barely registered to his mind, when the fabric encasing him was moved away; he was still completely occupied by helplessly drifting in the ugliest feelings he ever had to endure about himself.

Only when cool air and fresh oxygen hit his face he distantly recognised something was happening and reacted by covering his face with his arms.

Fingers wrapped around his wrist and rested there. It took him a long moment to understand that this also meant he was not alone any longer. His brain seemed to be in a stupor.    

Shit.

"Dr Watson, I need you to breathe for me. Come on, you know the drill, take a deep slow breath," someone said.

It took him quite some time to realise he was probably choking on his own mucus and tears. A weak cough and he cleared his mouth. The aftertaste of vomit was still there. Some part of his mind was too light-headed and fed up with his situation it blatantly refused to acknowledge what was happening.

"Go away," he moaned, it was a pitiful noise he produced, maybe even a whine.

"You need to calm down. You're not getting enough oxygen."

What the fuck. Why didn't they leave him alone for god's sake!

"GO AWAY," he panted and tried to turn away, shove away the unwelcome touch. But the hands pulled him into a halfway sitting position and leaned him against the bed.

"I need you to slow down, now!" the voice ordered.

"Fuck. Don't touch me. Just fucking leave," he slurred and tried to weakly batter the hands away. He still felt so very sick. Physically sick. He could remember the only time he had felt this bad in his life before. After Sherlock jumped. He did not want to feel like this, he wanted it to end.

"Can't do, sorry," Marlies replied, no nonsense. "Not letting anyone choke on my watch." Nevertheless, the hands vanished and John managed to drag his knees up to hide his face.

For a few moments there was blissful silence.

She must have left.

Which - without his consent, his body used to once more underline how displeased it was about his mental state. He gagged again but was so disoriented that when bile came up, he made a mess on the blanket.

"Jesus, John," another distant voice said, but John was beyond caring or listening. The fog of self-loathing and misery was too thick, outside input barely penetrated.

"Here, drink this."

His head was lifted up and the rim of a glass was pressed against his lips and he even failed to understand what it meant. Cold wetness followed, without conscious thought his body reacted and drank.

After that, he lost himself in his misery again to a degree that only brief snapshots of what was happening around him penetrated. At some point the liquid came back up.

It took eternities until he finally escaped into nothingness.

 

"Well, shit," Greg cursed, when John lost the last bit of body tension and sagged sideways against him. He had sat down next to his friend, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, though John didn't seem to be really aware. At least he was not fighting them any longer.

Greg gently lowered John sideways to the ground and tilted his head back to see his face. It was so blotchy and swollen John was barely recognisable, his eyes were almost swollen shut. He must have rubbed them vigorously.

Marlies came back, carrying a medical bag. She went to work and checked John's pulse, then nodded grimly before she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

Greg did see people in dire distress regularly, people on the end of their tether, but seeing a good friend like this was hard. This was particularly ugly and messy.

The moment he himself had heard the tape he had known that once John was back to his senses and listened to it, the shit would hit the fan. Apparently, Mycroft shared that inkling because he had informed Greg that John requested the recording and when it would be delivered. Greg had dropped everything and hurried over to Baker Street.

Marlies finished the BP reading and seemed not particularly happy about it. She then started to unpeel the soiled blankets from around John.

"This does not smell as if he drank," she stated without battering an eyelash about the stench itself.

"Well, at least that is some good news," Greg said in a sarcastic tone while he helped her remove John's shirt. Although the doctor seemed to be completely out, John's breathing was laboured, his hands were trembling, and his fingers were tightly curled around his thumbs. His hands stayed that way even when his limb arms were rearranged. It seemed oddly vulnerable and simultaneously was a sign of the misery still with him even in sleep.

"Yeah," she agreed. "The not so good news is he is probably suffering from alcohol withdrawal syndrome. His BP is too high, his pulse is elevated, he seemed confused and irritable and he is sweating profoundly. I will call in the doctor to have him checked over. He might need close monitoring," with that she vanished into the hall and moments later was talking to someone on the phone.

For a moment, Greg just stood there, helpless, then he decided to start cleaning up the mess. First he opened the window and then he gathered all the soiled fabrics in a heap near the door.

Barely five minutes had passed when Marlies returned with a bowl of water, washcloths and towels.

"The doctor will be here in 15. Can you stay with Sherlock while I clean him up?" She asked Greg, who nodded and went downstairs to check on their other patient.

 

Half an hour later, Marlies peeked into Sherlock's room.

"Sherlock alright?" she wanted to know.

"Unresponsive, but he seems quite restless. The noises he makes with his teeth are a bit unsettling," Greg muttered.

"I noticed that, too. He is grinding his teeth. Although Dr Watson wasn't really loud, it must have penetrated," she said. "I wouldn't have heard. I only pricked my ears when he tensed up, held his breath and minutely turned his head as if trying to hear something. Only then did I hear very faint noises from upstairs and went to investigate."

"Yeah, he can hear everything. Hyper sensitive hearing thing. Not always a blessing. So, how's John?"

"Physical, not too bad. Doctor administered benzodiazepines and vitamin supplements to help him through this."

"I'll stay with him. He needs a friend, I guess," Greg offered and stood up.

"Alright, I'll be here with Sherlock. Call me if you need anything," she said and busied herself with checking over Sherlock.

Greg was halfway to the door, when he noticed that since he entered the room roughly thirty minutes earlier, the only movements Sherlock had done were the teeth grinding and his eyes going back and forth behind his closed lids.

"It's eerie… He doesn't really move, does he?" Greg pointed at Sherlock.

"No, he doesn't. That and the thegosis are both causes of concern. Normally, a person would turn in their sleep, but for some reason he doesn't. A physical therapist will come by tomorrow to see what can be done to prevent muscle wasting and bed sores." She administered something to Sherlock's IV and made some notes.

"I'll come up in an hour to check on John. Better not leave him alone any longer," she added.

"Right. Ta," Greg headed back upstairs to John's room.

 

 

 

 


 

 

A/N:

A few days after posting this chapter I painted art for it.

"The image of Sherlock lying in that hospital bed, defeated, bearing the marks of his violence and only half conscious would haunt him for the rest of his days."

Sherlock in a hospital bed in TLD

Do NOT post my art on other sites/social media or use in any way without my written permission.

Visit my tumblr or bluesky to see all my fanart, handles in my profile picture.

 

 


 

A/N: I am not a big fan of including large stretches of original dialogue from the show into my fics. I think it makes reading boring and tempts readers to skip it (me included). But I made an exception for this chapter because I think the dialogue was too important to summarize or skip.

Chapter Text

Not a new chapter.

Just added this to let anyone interested know I added artwork to the last chapter.

Please don't comment on this chapter, I will delete it soon.

 

 

Notes:

Feedback makes my day. :) Constructive criticism welcome.