((Hey, welcome to my fanfic~ I've submitted to before, but ended up having to leave my old account behind… This was a random idea I had, inspired by events in my life that nearly happened.
There is going to be eventual Sherlock/John, but it's not going to be heavy or explicit. But this is rated 'T' for some mature themes that will be running around in the story.
Oh, I also have a tumblr account. My username on there is ena-ena and I will most likely will be posting art on that account inspired by this fanfic. I already have a few drawings done that will be posted. So if you're interested, keep an eye on it~ Anyways, enough chatter from me, I hope you enjoy this! -EE )
"Do you know why you're here?"
"The FBI. The FBI is after me, they want to know what I know. But it's not safe… for them to… Um…"
He takes mental note of how she continuously shifts in her chair, how she anxiously twirls her fingers in her knotted hair, and how her gaze darts around the plainly decorated room. "The American FBI?" he asks, glancing down at the notes from her previous sessions.
"Yes. Yes, ever since I was fifty-nine."
"Mrs Ferriston, you are forty-one years old."
"Exactly! That's why they want me! I'm aging the opposite, and moving backwards in time! I was born in the future! And things were changed, let me tell you, ever since I met those dinosaur men."
He pauses, looking into her eyes as she stares at him through her coke-bottle glasses with an excited smile. Her hair is now even more knotted than it was when she first stepped in.
"Alright," Sherlock Holmes sighs, writing down a stronger prescription for her. "I think we're done for today."
-Behind my smile is everything that you will never understand.-
Sherlock is broken out of deep thought as a manila folder is slapped down onto the desk he's sitting behind. He looks up to see Lestrade standing there, an almost expectant look on his face. "New case for you," he simply says.
"I'm already up to my maximum quota," Sherlock informs him, though Lestrade should be fully aware of that.
"We're giving two of your patients to Anderson," Lestrade replies.
"Annie Ferriston?"
"… Yes, that's one of them, actually."
"At least Anderson likes dinosaurs."
"What?"
"Nothing. Poor bastards," Sherlock sighs, going to pick up and open the folder he was given. He only glances over the main facts of diagnosis and the date of commitment. His eyes flick back up to his favorite hospital case manager. "PTSD?"
He catches Lestrade in the act of trying to sneak away and avoid conflict. "Yes," he huffs, already able to guess what was coming next.
"Boring. You know I don't take cases like this," he says, closing the folder and thrusting it in Lestrade's direction.
"Holmes…"
"Give him to Donovan."
"Sherlock…"
"You know which cases I take. Give me those who believe in conspiracies. The dredge of society. The murderers."
Lestrade goes silent, standing there awkwardly as they stare each other down. "You need to take a better look at that case, then," he says, raising an eyebrow as he finally leaves.
Sherlock frowns in frustration, opening up the folder and reading the reason he was being sent here.
He finally cracks a slightly pleased smile.
-You are never as lonely as you feel, or alone as you think.-
"How are you adjusting here?"
He was given a day to get used to the daily routine, and observed so that preliminary medication could be applied.
"Good… Good, all right." He's tapping his fingers on his knee as he slouches forward in his chair. He licks his lips, either out of habit or nervousness.
"Do you think you belong here?" Sherlock calmly asks without accusation.
"Oh yes, right along with that man who has an unnatural love of how the nervous system reacts to being poked, and the lady who shrieks whenever she's touched." He's trying to joke, trying to be upbeat and optimistic. He most likely believes that if he's agreeable, he will be able to get out of here faster.
"What's your name?"
"You know my name. You know everything about me, though you haven't met me." He's looking at the clipboard of paperwork that Sherlock is holding on his lap.
"I actually don't know every detail about you, though I have taken in some details from observation," Sherlock answers. He sets his clipboard aside, noticing the negative first impression it's probably giving off.
"Like what?" He looks genuinely curious and interested, versus the apprehension Sherlock is typically met with when expressing his unusual skill set.
"You were occupied in military service in either Iraq or Afghanistan. You were a doctor. You don't truly need that cane you've been using."
"You read all that in my files ahead of time."
"No, I only read the very basic facts when given new cases. It makes my job so much more interesting."
"So how were you able to piece those statements together from observing me?"
"First of all, your hands and wrists are tanned from exposure to sun. It's currently August. It's been a very warm summer, to where wearing anything long-sleeved would be unnatural. If you were wearing a t-shirt, or something with short sleeves, your tan would not begin at your wrists. You have been wearing something with long sleeves. The most probable attire is a protective military uniform. Most of the conflict going on that requires military attention is in either Iraq or Afghanistan, where it is particularly sunny. Your hair is short, neat, and well-kept, characteristic of someone who has been under the influence of military regulations. When you first met me, you examined me up and down, most likely to determine if I had any sort of apparent medical issues. Typical soldiers tend to assess the face and eyes, looking for an expression or demeanor that would determine how much of a threat a stranger is. You are a soldier, but under the medical division. And your limp is psychosomatic. I can tell that you weren't injured in your leg, but you have been injured somewhere enough to have you discharged," Sherlock firmly expresses, going a little overboard. Well, it's safe to assume that his patient will take this at least relatively well, based on his previous expression of interest.
"That was… amazing. Brilliant," he replied, his eyes widening as he allows a small smile to grace his lips.
"I'm glad you think so. Most reactions I gain are typically expressed very differently," Sherlock admits.
"What do others typically say?"
"'Piss off'."
He lets out a slight chuckle while Sherlock begins to think that he's going to enjoy this case.
"I think that will do for today," Sherlock says, standing up and going to shake his new patient's hand. Fortunately, he feels at ease enough to return the friendly gesture. "I'll be checking in on you, Mr. Watson."
"Just… John, please. I would be much more comfortable with being called that."
-The sun can rise and set. If your sun had set, don't worry. I'm your moon. I can give you a light through the darkness.-
The next time Sherlock sees John, it's the next day, while in the middle of a stroll during creative therapy time. While some residents listen to music or to stories being read aloud, others inhabit the arts and crafts section.
John is there, idly sitting in front of an untouched, torn-out coloring book page, crayons in a Tupperware container nearby. He has a relatively sullen look of displeasure on his face as he stares down at the page. Sherlock decides to take time out of his 'busy' schedule to visit him. John looks up at his doctor as he takes an empty seat across from him at the plastic table.
"Not one for participating in the arts?" Sherlock asks in an attempt to chat.
"No, not really. But more against being treated like an elementary school student," he sighs, looking down.
"Completely understandable," Sherlock agrees, glancing around the room at the other patients having a blast with the same activity. "You don't like music or stories, either?"
"I don't mind music. And again, I prefer to not be treated like a child," he explains, the latter statement referring to the circle currently sitting down across the room in front of a staff member reading a picture book.
"Would you prefer reading something on your own?"
"Yes, that would be much better. Actually, do you have any recent newspapers?"
Newspapers tend to provide articles and picture about the country's status and progress in the war. Sherlock decides it would be best to avoid that subject matter, since there's no telling what John's reaction would be at this early stage in his treatment. "We don't. But we have a library with quite a few books."
"Good enough." John shrugs, not too upset about it for the moment.
Sherlock nods with a reassuring smile. He and John stand up, Sherlock starting to lead him in the right direction. They walk not incredibly far down a nearby hall, stopping in front of a locked door with a 'Library' sign attached to it. It's dark in the room as Sherlock detaches a ring of keys from his belt, unlocking and opening the door.
"Is this alright? Will I be getting you in trouble?" John worriedly asks, hesitant to step inside.
"One thing you may not know about me is that I am always in trouble," Sherlock states with an amused tone. "And now you know."
John lets out a slight chuckle. The sound of that reassures Sherlock, and gives him a slight feeling of optimism over how easily the treatment might progress.
Even though he knows that John won't be discharged for a very long time.