Chapter 1

It was as if a fog had passed over me that cold December night. One minute, I had a gun in my hand. The next, someone dove on top of me, prying the gun from my fingers. In those next few hours, I could only remember being put in an uncomfortable hospital bed, which killed me more than the gun ever could. Through the blinding white light, I could barely make out a strange lady, a social worker, or so it seemed.

"So your name is John Watson?" she inquired.

"Yes" I replied.

"And how old are you?"

"16. Why are you asking me all these questions? You obviously have the information in front of you."

"To see how you are responding to this stressful event." That social worker was totally bullshitting me. She was sitting close to where my bed was and

I was starting to become suspicious. I look down to see what she is writing: has trust issues.

"I have trust issues?"

"Well, you just read my notes upside down." Her neutrality was absolutely awe inspiring and irritating all at once. She tilted her notes up so that I couldn't see them. "How long have you been suicidal?"

"Um, three months."

"And how did you feel during your attempt?"

"Like I was in a haze and was just an empty vessel. I felt like a cell conscious of its condition of becoming cancerous. I felt like it was necessary." I

stammered. Those words felt so strange coming from my mouth, and I was afraid to let go of them.

"John, I am recommending that you receive inpatient treatment at our hospital. You seemed to have come at the right time because there is only one more male bed available in the short term unit for adolescents."

"How long is short term?" I wondered.

"It could be between five days and an entire month," she remarked while gathering her things. "Good night and good luck."

With that last remark, she gave me a small glance of sympathy and left. My mind started to race. I, John Watson, a teenager who was only slightly off the mark of the correct level of normalcy, was being admitted to a loony bin? Sure, I did have my problems: my sister had just come out as a lesbian, my family had issues financially, my parents were having problems with their marriage and that I felt depressed. I could not bear to tell my parents, let alone anyone else, that I felt that way. Therapy and medicine were very expensive and time consuming. They would start to worry about me, and this would be a burden that I could not have born. I felt like I had to protect them.

Within the next hour, a nurse and a police officer wheeled me to the psychiatric wing. They wrapped me with warm blankets because it was a bloody cold night and they had to maneuver around the snow. As I was wheeled into the actual mental hospital building, I was pretty shocked that it was happening. It felt as if I was imagining it from my death bed or in a vision or something not real. Then, finally, they unlocked the door to the unit. There was only one hall to it with a nurses' station in the middle. There were many doors along each hallway. Some were bedrooms, others rooms where our activities happened and two on either side of the nurses' station were exits. Those who escorted me departed and I was lead once more to a room in which my dad was already sitting. It looked like a conference room, except with dingy hospital tile on the floor.

Thus began the lengthy process of checking in. I was interrogated for the next hour and a half. I swear that the nurse added 15 minutes to it since I had a such hard time understanding her thick African accent. She asked me questions about my depression and who I was and my circumstances. I began to tire, for now it was late at night, but one question stood out to me in particular.

"What is your sexual orientation?"

My mind blanked out on this question. Ever since my sister came out, it kind of spurred these thoughts like: What if I'm not straight either? I have never consciously been attracted to a guy before. If I am… gay (or any other orientation for that matter), what will my parents think? Does some of my depression come from this?

"Um, I don't know"

She looked at me for a second and said, "That's okay. We just ask."

After the interrogation and a body check, a nurse took me to my room. I remember that he and the other nurses/personnel were bickering about who should take me. As we walked down that hall together, I wondered why they asked this question. It is very personal after all. Then, I saw the door. A nametag was on the right of the frame. Sherlock Holmes was the name. Damn, I thought, with a name like that, you have to be screwed up. The nurse seemed to struggle with his keys as he opened the door.

In this room, there were two beds, two dressers, a window, and a desk, but the part that I laid my eyes on first was a silhouette. It was in a fetal position facing the wall. Despite his position, he still looked tall and his curls were apparent.

"Piss off Mike," came from the dark silhouette with a voice to match.

"Jesus, stop swearing Sherlock," He then motioned for me to walk in.

"Guess what I deduce. You are a twat. Thanks for the new roommate." Spoke him, the epitome of sarcasm and arrogance. With this, I started to fumble with my sheets in a sort of twitching manner despite aching for my bed.

"His name is John, by the way," remarked of the nurse, who promptly shut the door, giving me another sympathetic look. Damn, I thought, if get one more sympathetic look, I will punch a wall.

"Um, Hello"

"Turn on the light that is closest to the ground," He grumbled.

"Well, who pissed in your cheerios?" I snapped while finding the switch. He then oriented his body towards me.

"Suicide, like most of the others, only slightly less boring."

"Excuse me."

"You have entered this hospital because you tried to commit suicide, mostly because of events that have happened in your personal life."

"How the-"

"Your demeanor, the way you carry yourself how you handled your sheets, and the bags under your eyes et cetera. You have all the dead giveaways of someone who has depression with some anxiety. You are shocked that you are here and are worried about something. I say your personal life because your skin and eyes don't show that, so personal life must be the reason." A slight smile crept up on his face. I predicted then that he would grow up to become one of those detective type people.

"Now, let me return the question to you since, unlike you, I am not a psychic. How did you end up here?"

"One, I am not a bloody psychic. I don't guess like they do. Two, I'm not telling you."

"Why not? We will be rooming together for God knows how long and why would I have a single reason to tell anyone outside this place?"

"Fine, Drugs, which drove me to a suicide attempt."

"Hey, you said that people in here that tried suicide are boring. What makes them any different from you?"

"Their minds are so much more placid than mine. My mind runs as fast as a sports car whereas theirs moves as slow as a bicycle. " I roll my eyes at this. Pretentious bastard. This comment spurred a silence that lasted for a few minutes. It felt wrong, like there was a barrier between us that should not exist.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What exactly happens here?"

"It's really boring and repetitive, just therapeutic activities, all day every day. Welcome to the sovereign nation of the cage."

Lovely, I thought. Just. So. Fucking. Lovely.

"Is the food here bad?"

"Incredibly. One patient here had a panic attack when he first saw the food, but he is a complete idiot. He lowers the IQ of the whole unit just by breathing in it."

"What the fuck?" I said, trying to keep my voice down.

"I know."

"What is his name?"

"Anderson," Sherlock spat out. "Philip Anderson. He hates me and I hate him."

There was another pause. Words were escaping me, escaping the anxiety and intimidation that I was feeling. I did not want to anger Sherlock Holmes.

"Good night Sherlock"

No response.

In that moment, I realized that there was something about Sherlock that blocked me from hating him. I think that at the beginning, I had sensed his good side. Even though it was hidden behind layers of steel and logic, I could feel it in my whole being, which kept me wondering who he really was.