I AM SHERLOCKED

Chapter One:

This story begins with grief, desperation, and lastly, regret.

"Only permitted persons past this point, sir."

I stammered while digging around in my coat pocket for the card I had been given. My hands couldn't identify the card from whatever else I was carrying; possibly a handkerchief, probably my wallet, the hard and cold surface of my lighter, and a carton of cigarettes. Finally, I managed to brush my fingers against the glossy side of the security card and take it out of my collection of self-identity. Lately, I'd been associating myself more with my cigarettes than my wallet.

I flashed the flimsy thing at the man. The dim lighting of the fluorescent bulbs shone off the back of the card. It was at this point I noticed my hand was shaking. I willed my hold to still, but it was no use. He looked at it, merely a glance, and let me pass through. The building I had just been allowed into was notorious for its security and secrecy. It was a government building. A psych ward, really.

I fumbled afterwards, gathering my briefcase and trying to return the card to my pocket with admitted difficulty. I tried a nervous smile, even an awkward chuckle at my incompetence, but no one seemed amused. No one except my sorry self.

I was escorted further into the obscure building. It didn't have much to show for its reputation, but I suppose I wasn't the first to walk down that hallway-escorted, I mean. This was probably a common occurrence, with visiting family and friends. Even doctors. Surely, there was a reason even they had nothing to tell of these dark, and even dank, corridors of cement and closed off places.

Everything was exaggerated in this frightening institute. I heard no one but myself and the two men, following and leading, beside me. The sounds of our shoes echoed off the empty halls like we were the first signs of life in a long time.

I worried about the others here. I knew there were others. There had to be others. How was it to live in this place? What was it like to be confined to these plain and listening walls. Even to speak must sound like a gunshot in the world I had flashed a card in order to get in to.

I did not hear a word as we walked and walked. Further and further I was led into the heart of the abyss. My dread heightened the louder our footsteps became. I got the sense I was entering into a hollow place. The belly of a hungry beast. Only, it wasn't exactly the location that frightened me most.

"Right in here, sir."

Here meant an isolated room. There was no furniture, except for a metal chair bolted to the floor. Another chair was against the far opposite wall. Mirrors covered the entire surface of the four walls, and when I stepped into the room, I could see many of me standing there staring back, each with the look of trepidation I felt in my stomach. I swallowed with more effort than I'd liked to admit, and placed my briefcase down on the floor beside the twin, unbolted chair.

"Wait right here and don't move. I will warn you, if you move towards him, I cannot promise what will happen."

I looked up at the man, the moment that had haunted my thoughts nearly come opening my eyes wide. I felt my hands begin to tremble and I folded them over in front of me. My mouth went horribly dry and I couldn't recall a time I had felt more fearful for what came next. Not even in the war.

"Do you understand?"

I opened my mouth, lips parting and forming words that weren't even spoken. I closed my eyes, working my jaw and chewing the inside of my cheek like a madman. I reorganized my thoughts and sent a small force of air through my larynx to clear my throat of the horror that blocked it. "I understand," I opened my eyes.

I caught my own expression in the mirror as he turned to leave. My face was blanched completely and my pupils were pinheads in a sea of gray. Everything about my face was white; plain as day. Everything. My inability to take proper care of my facial hair with the gray shadow smothering my jaw; my inability to sleep with large bags under my eyes, each a blaring, fleshy red; my inability to calm myself with upturned brows even when I felt no way to correct them; my shaking hands were a glaringly obvious sign of my affliction; my unkempt clothes, wrinkled and messily done; my loss of appetite and the way the shadows cut into my cheek, more sharply than ever.

There was more, too. Far, much more. And all of it, every single thing, would be seen, examined, and known by him as soon as he stepped in through that door.

I thought about bolting. This door was not yet locked. I heard no confirmation of this. I could pack everything up and leave right now. It had been a valiant effort on my part, but this was far enough. I could just take the easy way out. There was honor in that still. Anyone who knew the things I did would agree with me on that. I wasn't here for me.

I was called here. It had not been on my own accord I came to this forsaken labyrinth of impending anxiety and apprehension. All this had been for someone else's request. But not just anyone's.

Mycroft's.

"He doesn't respond, and when he does, it's nothing coherent or intelligent at all. Whatever happened that day has left him completely changed. I'll never rightly admit he was stable before, but he certainly isn't now."

The date he was referring to was sometime in late fall. I can still remember the cold air turning my nose red and making my ears throb. My mind had been a whirlwind of confusion and nothing had made sense that day. That's what I remember most of all. None of it made sense. I had been everywhere and back again.

If only I had stayed.

I remember pulling up into the street, heart pounding all the way. I opened the door of the cab and put the phone to my ear. I remember thinking at that point that I could get inside the hospital and then it would all be done with. He'd be there, just as I had left him.

"Hello?"

"John…"

"Hey, Sherlock! You okay?" I had started running, hopes high. It's alright. Everything's going to be alright.

"Turn around, and walk back they way you came-"

"I'm coming in!"

"Just…! Just… do as I ask."

At the tone in his voice, I stopped. "Please." I was an idiot. I would do anything for him, and he had known it.

"Where?" I had asked. Where.

"There. Stop there."

"Sherlock.."

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

With my back turned to him, I finally turned to look up and see his figure standing there. I could barely see his face. "Oh god…"

"I...I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology…" He opened his mouth to speak again and I could already feel the dread mounting. "It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me… I...invented Moriarty.

The words hurt more than a bullet to the shoulder.

"Why are you saying this?"

He looked down at me. His voice sounded like he was in tears.

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock…"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly… in fact tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes…"

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up! The first time we met. The first time we met, you knew all about my sister, huh?"

"Nobody could be that clever-"

"You could!" and he laughed. A pained laugh that still haunted me.

"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. Just a trick. It's just a magic trick."

"No! Holmes, Stop it now!"

"No! Stay exactly where you are! Don't move!" His voice had turned hostile. Demanding.

"All right," I put my hands in the air, a surrender. Why did I listen?

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?" He had his hand out as if he were holding me back himself. Is that possible?

"Do what?"

"This phone call...it's uh…" shut up, Sherlock… Shut up… "It's my note." Silence. "It's what people do, don't they?" More silence. "Leave a note…"

I knew the answer, but all I could do was just shake my head. "Leave a note when?" I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted to make absolutely certain. I wanted to hear Sherlock, the great consulting detective, say it.

"Good-bye, John."

"No, don't."

Sherlock threw the phone aside. He took his eyes off me and looked to the sky. He extended his hands out.

"SHERLOCK!"

"Well, what a surprise."

My eyes opened wide. I was sitting in the chair, my figure hunched over with my face buried in my hands. I could only see my shoes through the gaps of my fingers. I hadn't heard him come in. My thoughts about running had all but disappeared when I had begun to recall that fated day.

Only the recognizable baritone could bring me back from that.

I looked up and saw him sitting across from me. He was chained to the chair, both wrists and ankles strapped down tightly. His same mop of dark brown hair sat tousled and wild. His skin was sickly pale and his eyes were red and blood shot. His cheeks had sharpened from the stress he must have undergone, but it was him.

Sherlock.

The newest patient of the mental institute.

Mycroft's words came back to me.

"I'll never rightly admit he was stable before, but he certainly isn't now. John, you're the only one alive he may remember. The only one he might respond to." He had leaned closer to me at that moment, his eyes in genuine concern. "You were the last one to see Sherlock Holmes alive."

I looked in the familiar blue, but the bloody veins streaking across made it hard to remember exactly what they had looked like.

"I have a visitor," the baritone rumbled again.

I was searching for him. Underneath the grime and abused-look, there must be something hiding. Something I can recognize with who he was. But the grin he gave me was nothing short of disturbing; nothing less than what Moriarty what have done. I can see his dark eyes moving in the recesses of the blue, slashed with red. I can only see the madman as whomever sits across from me tilts his head like a viper in waiting.

I've been staring at him this entire time, but I can't find the words to say. I can feel him looking over every inch of me and isolating everything about me and storing him in that head of his.

My eyes lift from his eyes to the bandage wrapped around his forehead and I resist the urge to let tears slip past. My eyes have begun to water. Whether it's because I haven't been blinking or I suddenly feel a surge of painful memories flying back to me, I don't know. All I know is there is a man that looks like Sherlock smiling wickedly at me from across the room. There are reflections of him everywhere, but they all reflect something devious.

"Do you…" my voice was barely audible, and my throat was scratchy. "Do you remember me?" I crossed my arms in front of my chest, feeling more threatened than I had ever felt before. I breathed a small dose of courage through my nose, willing my senses to calm, feeling my heart begin to lapse into another episode of overloading emotions.

Calm down. Calm down…

"You? Remember you?"

A part of me hopes he doesn't. That would end any future meetings with this man. Yet, I'm holding my breath. I'm on the edge of my seat, my hands gripping tightly, wrapping myself in a constricting hold but it wasn't comforting enough. I'm doing everything I can not to run to him and shake his shoulders.

It's me. It's John. You're old flat-mate? We used to solve crimes together. We used to laugh together. Do you remember? Laughing?

"No."

My defense melted. My jaw was flexing and unflexing, holding back my tongue and tears. I closed my eyes, unable to look at this man any longer. I had begun to reach down to gather my briefcase when I stopped cold.

"But I remember a man by the name of John Hamish Watson."

My name. He remembers my name…

"You know me then. That's my name. You just said my name," words were flying out of my mouth faster than I could help it.

Sherlock remembers me! He remembers-

"No. I said I remember a man by the name of John Hamish Watson. You're not him. You're a shell of him. A shattered, broken piece of what once was Dr. Watson. You're nothing like he was. But that's a good thing, isn't it? John Watson was stupidity at its finest. He'd do everything I said without question. He wasn't a person, he was a dog-hungry to please its master. He'd do anything. If I had asked him to jump off that roof with me, I'm sure he would have. If I had asked him to come up and save me, oh, there's no question.

"I still remember his face when I told him my little ploy about being a fake-which is all true, of course. A loyal dog, betrayed by his own master. Yet, he still listened. I told him stay, and my, what a good boy he was. He stayed." Someone, using Sherlock's voice, laughed. A maniacal, diabolical, chilling laugh. It was too far gone to be considered healthy, but too genuine to be considered a lie.

I balled my fists, tears beginning to tear down my face and defense, torrents at a time. I had begun to take deep breaths, my hands pushing down against my sides. I was using every bit of strength I had not to get up from my chair and close the distance between that man and my fists.

"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up!"

The man leaned forwards, his bonds straining audibly against the force. "You still call for your master, don't you? I wonder. If I told you to stop crying, would you be able to? I'm sure you'd make every effort to. But see now, you're not John Watson. You're just his corpse, wandering listlessly without someone to give you direction. Is that why you've come crawling back? Only you could be so pathetic."

"I said shut up!" The chair slammed back against the wall, the mirror shattering where the chair had connected with it. The entire wall hadn't been compromised, but enough of it was damaged and broken that anyone who looked at it could see it wasn't just any regular mirror.

"Ah, so the dog does bark. But does it bite?" the man grinned. His eyes were latched on to mine like a deranged predator. "Seems we're being watched, pup. I hope the fact this will be on record won't be too embarrassing for you."

I grabbed the briefcase, thousands of emotions swelling in my head, my heart pounding in my ears. Yet, all I could hear was his hysterical laugh as I grabbed for the door, yanking and pulling with all my might but to no avail. They had locked it when Sherlock was brought in, and now I was at his total mercy.

"Open the goddamn door!" I screamed.

"I look forward to our next visit, Watson."

At the mention of my name, I risked a sideways glance in the maniac's direction, but instantly regretted it when we locked eyes and I lingered for a moment too long.

"Don't worry, you'll be back."

The door opened and I shoved my way into the hallway, saying nothing, just walking as fast as I could.

I was on the verge of more tears, but anger had found its way into my heart and dominated my actions. Anger and fear. Anger because he was right.

And fear, because he was so goddamn right.

As I stormed down the halls, brief-case in hand and the other shaking with tremors, I winced with each step. I found it difficult to walk. A shooting pain traveled its way up my entire body with each step. I staggered, limping towards the exit. I could nearly reach there. I was just past the security desk. The man said something to me, but I couldn't hear. The pain and the shock were coursing through me like the adrenaline, and I had to blink out the black that began to invade my vision, threatening me with the inevitability I was going to black out.

I took another step, and I felt my body crash to the ground. I heard something ringing in my ear, and I was suddenly back at that day. I was struggling to get up and people were crowding around me. I was trying to push them away, the ringing blanketing my thoughts and pain everywhere.

"No, he's my friend…"

"Stay down, it's all right-"

"No! He's my friend!"

"Somebody call the ambulance!"

"Sherlock…"

And I was enveloped in darkness.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I realize some of this, if not all, might be slightly Out of Character. I apologize in advance. Because there is no basis to really base this on, I can't predict what the characters might have done if in this situation. I appreciate you reading this and hope you enjoy! :]