John still couldn't believe what Mycroft had told him. He stared at the government official from his hospital bed shaking his head violently, despite how it made his head ache. "No. I didn't try to kill myself, Mycroft. I don't care what the so called evidence says." He had no memory of doing such a thing, much less a reason to have done it.
The government official looked at his brother's boyfriend with the barest hint of a sad smile. "You were found in your room with an empty prescription bottle in your hand. The evidence is quite compelling. Surely you can see that? The number of pills pumped from your stomach combined with the suicide note in your own handwriting are rather difficult to dismiss." He couldn't fathom why the doctor would try to argue the point, it was actually quite pitiable.
"I want to see the note," John demanded. It simply couldn't be in his handwriting. "I didn't write it. Surely Sherlock..."
"My brother has confirmed it is your handwriting, John," Mycroft told him in a no nonsense tone. "We both know what that means, don't we?" His brother didn't make mistakes.
"But I didn't do it!" the doctor grabbed his pounding head. "I didn't. I'm not depressed. I'm not even frustrated with anything that's going on in my life. Life is good right now." He didn't understand how this could be happening to him. It didn't make sense. "I need to talk to Sherlock. Why isn't he here?" He felt a moment of hope. "He's investigating, isn't he? He can tell something's wrong. That it was a setup. Someone tried to kill me." That had to be it. The detective would find the truth. That's what he did. He could count on Sherlock.
"We both know that's nonsense, based on the evidence." Mycroft twirlled his umbrella, "Sherlock is rather... distraught. He doesn't understand how you could do this, try to commit suicide. He doesn't understand why you didn't talk to him. He's hurt and angry. I wouldn't expect to see him any time soon if I were you. It's going to take him some time to come to terms with what you have done."
"What I have done!" He barked a mirthless laugh, then let his head drop back to the pillow. This was just fucking fantastic. "What about Greg? I assume he was brought in on the case since he knows me?"
"Gregory is keeping this off the record; however, don't think we're going to treat this lightly. You will remain here until your bodily functions have stabilised and, whilst here, you will be assigned a psychologist from the home office. Your sessions with her will be off the official record. You will be allowed to return home only on her say so."
"I hate psychologists," the doctor complained. "You didn't like my last one as I recall."
"She wasn't an appropriate choice for you. This one will be." Mycroft stood and prepared to take his leave. "It would be best for everyone involved if you stop denying what you've done, John. It will be best for you." With that, the government official left John to his thoughts.
John rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He was so completely fucked. He hadn't tried to kill himself and no one, not even Sherlock believed him. The question was, what had really happened and who was out to get him?