A/N: Hi! This my little AU fic, in which John is a mental ward doctor and Sherlock is his patient. This will have lots of angst, I believe. I hope you enjoy!
"Doctor Watson to Ward Three, Doctor Watson to Ward Three." John nearly jumped off of his chair, his head springing up from its once-slumped position. Although the work of a mental ward psychiatrist was usually quite…interesting, to say the least, today had been not so remarkable. John was extremely grateful for something, anything to do.
"Coming," He replied, his words somewhat muffled by the crappy pager speakers. As he was walking, it truly sunk in that he was going to Ward Three. Ward Three, or just Three, for short, was where all the really screwed up people went. John knew he shouldn't say "screwed up," but there was no other way to put it. That was where the people who cut their faces with scissors went. The crazies, as kids like to say. Perhaps today wasn't going to be so dull after all.
Sherlock had lost his will to fight. He could punch or kick or scream but he knew none of those things would work. All he could do was walk down the cold, bleached corridors and hang his head in defeat. They had already stripped him of everything, including his precious lighter. Of course his lighter. That was the reason he was in this place, after all. The lighter, the flames, the burns. Sherlock was fire, always burning, eternal. He did not belong in this icy, flickering fluorescent lights, chemical-scoured hospital. Sherlock did not belong in hell.
Some people, most actually, thought of hell as fire. For Sherlock, fire was heaven. It kept his mind clear. It fascinated him, the way the flames danced, the way they smelled when they scorched his alabaster skin, how they lit his cigarettes, how the smoke curled in wisps around his face, how the flame changed color if you added certain chemicals. He loved fire, and fire loved him.
Sherlock knew that burning yourself was not a good idea. He knew. He knew when he started, he knew when Mycroft yelled at him and dragged him to this horrid place. Sherlock wanted to strangle Mycroft, tell him he should never have brought him here. To this hell. I DO NOT BELONG IN HELL.
John walked past Wards One and Two and entered the calming cerulean halls of Ward Three. Another staff member, one whose name he did not know, ushered him into one of the side rooms, where the psychiatrist worked one-on-one with the patient. He could only speculate at who his patient would be today. John didn't expect a young man who looked completely normal (well, if ivory skin, raven hair and azure eyes was normal.) He glanced at the unnamed staff member in confusion. John couldn't see anything obviously wrong with the man in front of him. He could be someone who hallucinates, but those were usually in Ward Two. In general, non-visible mental disorders were in Wards One and Two. His colleague mouthed a single word at him. "Pyromaniac."