Day one
The first experience was the best. He still remembers it, the feeling of the sedatives coursing through his veins; as they gently hushed his over-worked mind. The sensation of bliss that blurred his logic and eased the pain until he could open his eyes and return back to black and white reality; his only source of happiness: artificial happiness.
That's exactly how he felt now; safe, at ease, with some moments of reality that would frighten him back to submission. The sound of Mycroft's cry in shock, his mother's soft singing, the smell of his own puke as he laid over it, the sound of many people mocking and jeering the young genius, for seemingly being a genius; these things frightened him and the experience only makes it ten thousand times worse.
Maybe this experience isn't going to be like the first.
In the dazzling and clean hospital, the doctors work their magic on him. Flushed his system of the dangerous toxins, which he implanted, with water; cleaned his skin and draped his body with sheets of fabric. Tricked his organs into thinking they were clean, tricked his mind into thinking that it was safe for him to awake.
They only encouraged the drug use though. Why give him the medication if they want him to recover; to steer clear from the substances? The constant use of these… medications made it impossible for him to awake for most of the time; despite the resilience his system developed. Occasionally he would have visitors, Mycroft, his mother, the nurses and the doctors.
During his bouts of visiting reality he could always hear how lucky he is to have survived the trip. His life was spared. His organs were, too, spared. His mind, his logic, was also spared, unfortunately. He was responding perfectly to treatment. Soon, he will be as good as new and ready to face the harsh reality.
Today was a rather unusual day for Sherlock Holmes. Today he fully awoke to reality, no medication allowed, no sweet morphine dripped through his veins. Maybe he was hell.
Hell. Yes that seemed logical. The whole environment felt too depressing to feel somewhat normal and he was constantly being checked on after every five minutes; particularly by nurses and doctors, particularly by Nurse Donovan and Doctor Lestrade. They always smiled and ask the teen if he needs anything and it's annoying because all he really wanted was to be left alone or to be taken back home; two things that they wouldn't allow. It's like he was a tourist attraction and they were the tourists.
But there was this one point where he was left completely alone; only to hear Donovan barking orders around to everyone, because that's what she was, a person who liked to order others around; a barker if you must. And it turned out he really was in a hospital and not in hell.
But not any special part of the hospital; he was placed in the psychiatric ward. The place where they keep the people who set buildings on fire and talk to eleven imaginary friends; the place for the nutjobs, the lost causes, the insane; and Sherlock definitely was not insane.
Well someone must have thought he was insane, because there he was, lying on the hospital bed of the psychiatric ward. He bets it was Mycroft. He always overreacts. He knew they wouldn't let him out until he explained why he did what he did and they weren't going to tell him yet; he read it from Donovan's folder.
He just happened to pick up the chart, curious to know what was in the contents and saw the words highlighted, bold, and in capital letters: "PSYCHIATRIC WARD" (which happened to have been the title of the same sheet that had his details in.)
Much to his poor timing, Nurse Donovan walked in right at that time, her smile erased from her face when she saw Sherlock holding her files.
"You're not supposed to be looking at that," she said, and waited for an apology (an apology she was definitely not going to get)
"I'm in the psych ward?" he asked disbelievingly, only for the nurse to ignore him altogether.
"It's time for your medication."
"No. not until I get a decent explanation as to why I'm here."
"I think you know why you're here."
"Not in the mental health ward, no. maybe if I was in a drug rehabilitation centre; I would have understood. But definitely not here," there was no response.
"I'm not crazy," he added.
"No one said you are," she added, measuring the medicines.
"Not according to that file, apparently I'm so crazy I belong in this madhouse." She finished sorting his medicines and put in the drawer beside his bed.
"I think it's best if you see doctor Lestrade," she mentioned before leaving with her files, to this doctor.
She came back a minute later with some guy. He was tall, with silver hair and brown eyes.
"I'm Doctor Lestrade," he introduced himself, held out his hand.
"Why am I in the madhouse?"
"You're not in a madhouse, you're in a hospital. And you're in here because we're worried that you're worried about something," he casually explained.
"What? That's nonsense, nothing is bothering me," Sherlock tried to reassure the man in his usual manipulative way, but the doctor just stared at the teenager, expressionless, almost impossible for him to deduce.
"Where's my brother, call him for me and please tell him that I'd like to go home," he added.
"I'm afraid I cannot do that. You need to stay here a bit longer before you can leave."
"How long?" Sherlock asked.
"At least a month."
"A month? What am I meant to do in here for a whole month? I have school, an education to build, people to see, do things that teenagers do!" he retorted.
"Don't worry about it; I heard you're pretty good at tests. I'll see you in the evening," he looked at the teen for a second, and then headed off to wherever he came from.
After he left, Donovan returned with this other man that radiated vibes of annoyance. His name was Anderson, and he didn't even bother with the happy faces that the rest of staff clearly forced.
"I need to ask you a few questions," he began, pulled a chair beside Sherlock's bed.
"Have you ever taken class A drugs?" he asked, and turned his head to the side like a bird. A very arrogant and nosy bird.
The silence prompted Anderson to continue with his questions.
"You know, Crack, Weed, Marijuana, Meth…" he was cut off by Sherlock's grunt.
"Yes, I know what class A drugs are," he sighed. And that's how the session went, Anderson asking more than a little personal question, with Sherlock rudely cutting him off. He had to admit, he was disappointed that the man didn't grow red with fury with those snide comments; he supposed they get used to talking to crazy people.
Not that he was crazy, oh hell no.
"I'll just go and get doctor Lestrade," he informed snootily before taking his files and leaving.
Oh no, not doctor Lestrade! Is that all the staff seem to do? Call the doctor when they don't know what else to say?
"You are not being very helpful with this," Lestrade called.
"Helpful? You guys are professionals who would you need my help?"
"We only want to help you."
"Help me? Then get me out of here! I'm fine and you all are just keeping me here for your own sadistic pleasure," Sherlock pouted.
"No, we are keeping you here because you attempted suicide two weeks before. You may think you're okay but you definitely aren't. and you can keep denying it as you long as you want, but you only have three weeks to tell us what's wrong so we can help you," Sherlock was taken aback, and could only watch the doctor watch him.
"What am I going to be doing here for three weeks?"
"Determine the cause of your breakdown and help you recover. You'll also be participating in group sessions with other patients amongst many other therapy sessions and treatment."
"Other patients?"
"Yes, you'll be meeting them tomorrow."
"And do what? Sing songs and tell each other bed time stories?"
"If you want. Most of them just sit there in silence. Anyway I have other things to do. I guess we'll continue with your sessions when you're more co-operative."
"Good luck with that," Sherlock called after as he left.
They're definitely wrong. Sherlock's did not try and attempt suicide. He never attempted anything because he'd always succeed. This was a big mistake and Sherlock Holmes had to prove to them that he's sane; it would only take a matter of days.
Oh, if only he knew how wrong he was.