A/N: Sherlock, 17. Mycroft, 24. John, 19, Molly 20, Moriarty 18, Lestrade, 31.

The Bad Things We Do

Alternate Universe

Written By: Sophie Quinn

Ask him why, and Sherlock will never give you an answer that you'll like. He will give you an answer, most certainly, but it will infuriate you, frustrate you, confuse you, annoy you, eventually it will cease to surprise you and when you're at the very end of your rope, he will smile and it will sadden you. The smile never reaches his eyes, you see. It will crinkle his cheeks, brighten his teeth, crease the edges of his brow and cause his chin to tilt up ever so slightly, but that brilliance of his grin will never show in the pale blue of his gaze. He will stare at you as you sit annoyed, confused, frustrated, and infuriated at him, and that stare will be empty.

The latest in a long string of people to learn this was a woman of her forties with bits of gray edging out along her temples, wrinkles at her eyes magnified by the strength of her prescription glasses and her thin lips pressed tightly together in a precise frown. A therapist, Sherlock's latest, the edge of her pen paused momentarily on her notepad, the careful handwriting stretching out over the white surface like cracks in a thin layer of ice. Words like 'anti-social', 'manic depressive', 'prone to self-harm', and 'troubled' scratched out alongside 'obsessive compulsive', 'sociopath', and 'dangerous'. Her long, knobby fingers twitching as she shifted beneath his piercing gaze.

He did little more than arch up a brow, and shift his lanky limbs out a bit more along the length of the leather sofa in her office. Unruly curls falling away from his brow, his lips parting ever so slightly as he craned his neck to watch her more directly. She jotted notes, he said nothing and they remained that way as the clock on the wall continued to tick the seconds passing them by. Sherlock was acutely aware of the vigilant timepiece, and the grin at his lips curled up ever so slightly as the hands fell into place to announce the hour.

"Five O'clock, Doctor." He muttered, swinging his legs from the arm of the couch as he stood with absolute grace and determination. Fetching his coat from the hook at the back of the door, he flung it over his shoulders with a flourish, pausing only to adjust the collar in the reflection of a picture frame. "I think that is all for one day, don't you? My brother will be here momentarily to pick me up and I mustn't keep him waiting."

"I am afraid not, Sherlock." Her voice was steeled and it was enough to cause him a moment of hesitation, his fingertips stilled over the woolen fabric of his jacket and his brow peaking slightly. "He isn't coming, not this time."

"What?" He turned so sharply that the tails of his coat spun out behind him, his eyes narrowed almost dangerously at the woman before him.

"You need help, Sherlock, help that you have not been able to get from your other therapists, and help you're not getting from me." She sighed softly as she stood, the notepad hissing along her desk as she slid it away and lay the pen atop the pages. "There is a taxi waiting outside to take you to Wellington."

"Wellington?" He blinked slightly, bringing a hand up as the sudden need to scratch the disbelief from his skull consumed him. "Wellington. You can't just send me off to Wellington. It's a madhouse!"

"It's a hospital, and I am not sending you. Your brother, as your legal guardian, has signed the commitment paperwork. Mycroft just wants what is best for you, Sherlock. You're seventeen... you have your whole life ahead of you. We both just want you to get better."

"There is nothing wrong with me." Sherlock scoffed, the emptiness within his cold, blue gaze, deepening with every word that fell from her thin lips. Every consonant, every vowel, cutting at him deeper than any blade he had ever pressed into his pale skin. He said little else, if nothing at all, as she continued speaking to him. Her words drifting off as he clenched his fists, dug his fingernails deeply into his palms, and tried to draw from the faint twinge of pain a solid sensation that he could focus. "There is nothing wrong with me!"

"Sherlock..." Her voice remained calm, her tone stayed even, and as she perched against the edge of her desk, she even managed a comforting smile. "You swallowed a whole bottle of painkillers."

"I had a headache."

"..with an entire bottle of vodka."

He grinned slightly, his eyes snapping up to meet her own as he watched her from beneath his eye lashes. She remained steady, letting a soft breath shift past her lips as the emptiness in his eyes sent tremors along her spine. "It was a bad headache."

"The taxi is waiting, Sherlock. It will take you directly to Wellington, with strict instructions not to stop anywhere along the way so don't get any ideas. Your doctor will meet you once you arrive and you will be staying there until you get the help that you need." She shook her head slightly, finally moving away from the stability of her desk to open the door to her office, one hand stretched out as she gestured for him to exit. "It really is for the best, Sherlock."

"Out of sight, out of mind, Doctor? I have no doubts that this will be for the best for you.. and for Mycroft." He didn't bother to grin, and barely found it in himself to snap a glare at her as he approached the waiting cabbie and slid despondently into the back seat. With steady hands he slid the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, ignoring the boldly printed sign mere inches from his face that proclaimed the vehicle to be non-smoking. Resting the filter between his lips, he flicked his thumb at his lighter and lit the tip. The cabbie only glanced at him as the engine roared to life, the wisps of blue tobacco smoke whipping out of the cracked window while the scenery slowly changed and all that was familiar, vanished.

Wellington Rehabilitation and Asylum was little more than a glorified prison for those that society deemed to be a little bit too 'off' for the normal lock ups. Bars adorned every window, and heavy locks kept every entrance sealed securely both day and night. A large iron fence surrounded the small, well-kept grounds and the only way to approach the building itself was through a small gate at the end of a very long, very foreboding pathway. Massive trees surrounded the property outside the line of metal spikes, the towering limbs were covered so thickly in leaves that not a breath of wind managed to breach the hospital. The stillness of air as a result was all together on the edge of being terrifying in itself, it's only positive note was that it made it relatively easy to light a cigarette as Sherlock stood waiting just outside the small entrance gate.

He was midway through his fifth drag when he had entertained the idea of simply making a run for the trees, escaping the entire affair all together and living on his own somewhere to the south. Maybe a nice place in Cardiff under an assumed name, something normal like Micheal, or even Aaron. He held the filter of his cigarette between his lips, pulling in a deep drag before letting the blue smoke drift lazily out from his lungs. It burned slightly, but that was alright as it was just a precursor to the vague tingle that numbed the edge of his lips and sent the corner of his vision swimming.

Idle thoughts of escape shattering as the faint click of leather against the stone walk way echoed closer, and the jingling of keys against the hip of whomever approached sang in the silence. He turned to regard the blond man with another deep pull at the filter, sizing him up in one languid glance as he felt the other's gaze drift over his own lanky form. They regarded each other for a moment as the gate was unlocked and slowly swung open, but neither thought to say a word. What would they say, in those moments, that would hold any weight? Nice weather we're having. Love what you've done with the place. Prison decor goes fantastically with the color of your uniform, really brings out the blue in your eyes.

"This way, Mr. Holmes." The blond muttered, gesturing slightly towards the path that would lead Sherlock to his incarceration. "You'll have time to finish that, there's no smoking inside the buildings. There is also no use of mobile phones, if you have one on you. Personal calls can be made during the designated times and then it's only for ten minutes. Visitors must check in at the front desk, all visitors must be approved."

Sherlock scoffed, letting the cigarette burn slowly between his fingertips. "Who would want to visit someone like me?"

He received a sad little smile in response and nothing more, the jingling of the keys filling the void when the conversation drifted off. Sherlock toyed with the idea of lighting up another cigarette as they approached the brick building if only to prolong the very last minutes of freedom before he was locked away for good. It wasn't likely that he would ever be let out again, he knew what sort of influence Mycroft could have even at a the beginning of his political career. If his dear elder brother wanted nothing to do with him, then he would disappear and there was little he could do to stop it, short from breaking into a sprint.

"I was all state in track.." The blond said suddenly, a lazy grin on his lips as he hesitated in opening the locks to the hospital entrance. "In case you were thinking of running off. I was all state in track, so I'm faster than I look."

"Do people often run?" He raised a brow, his hands plunging deep within the pockets of his jacket.

"No. Not really, but you had that look about you." The blond shifted the keys in his hand long enough to offer a handshake, a gesture that earned a confused twist of Sherlock's brow as he did little more than glance down at the proffered appendage. "Greg Lestrade."

"Is it customary to be so friendly with the inmates, Lestrade?"

"Not at all. I'm not even supposed to talk to the patients outside of the usual list of rules and regulations."

"You're not a doctor."

"Just an intern, mostly an orderly. I keep things tidy and safe as possible, but there's no harm in a little civility now and then, I think, and you looked like you could use a friend."

Sherlock scoffed, his lips tightening for a moment as he flicked out the small pack of smokes from his pocket and lit one deftly. "I don't make friends,Lestrade, and if I did, it certainly wouldn't be with someone like you."

"...Right.." He frowned, lowering the hand that was being held out for a shake as he fumbled through the keys for the proper one to fit the lock. It slid into place and clicked open loudly as the silence around them grew thick. He shot one more glance up at the young brunette behind him, motioning idly towards the smoldering cigarette. "Put it out and get inside. You have to be processed."

Molly Hooper was a young but experienced nurse. She had been subjected to all manner of injuries, both accidental and self inflicted, and she had assisted in treating numerous emergency incidents that tried both her skills and her nerves. She was calm and collected in the worst of situations, a level head on her shoulders and determination gleaming in her eyes. Very few things could startle her and very few things could cause her surprise. Not to say that she was impervious to a good shock to the nervous system, as like any warm blooded human being, she had her weaknesses. Small furry rodents running towards her bare feet, jumpy little spiders inches away from her face, or the tips of her fingers brushing against something unidentified as she felt beneath the cabinet for a dropped pen, were all things that could cause Molly Hooper to yelp quietly and much to her embarrassment. Everything else, she could most definitely, without a doubt, absolutely, handle without the least bit of insecurities.

At least, this is what she tried to convince herself of whenever she looked at her own reflection and saw nothing but wide-eyed, mousy Molly Hooper staring back, looking as if the slightest noise would cause her to jump straight out of her skin.

Greg gave a tap to the thick safety-glass window that kept Molly separated from the male patience of the minimum security wing, and she did just that. Her yelp bordered on a squeal of terror as she spun around and sent a glass jar of cotton balls spilling about on the tiles. The sound drew the attention of several teenage boys milling about the room, and a few of the orderlies in charge of keeping them all complacent. Sherlock didn't glance her way, even as she started apologizing profusely despite having done nothing wrong in the situation. His attention was trained on a boy around his own age, dark hair and piercing eyes, leering at him from across the room. The look, positively murderous, did not falter from Sherlock's lanky form even as the other boys grew momentarily loud and rambunctious in the wake of Molly's horrified scream.

Sherlock stared back, unwavering.

"Molly, really, it's alright. I startled you. Again. I should have known better." Greg was trying his best to reassure the young woman, settling instead for pulling in a steady breath to keep from joining in her own frantic twitching. "Don't even worry about it. Look, there is a new patient that needs to be processed. The usual affair, check his vitals and make sure all the paperwork is filled out properly, inventory his personals, and I'll get him into appropriate clothing before taking him to his room. You've been here a month, it will be simple."

Perhaps it was the sound of his voice, a calm in the cacophony of chaos, but Molly visibly stilled, smiled softly, and nodded. "Alright, Greg."

The heavy door to her small exam room clicked loudly as the latch was unlocked from within, and Greg did little more than hold out a hand to indicate that Sherlock should enter. The lanky teen, all curly hair and lean limbs, was far too distracted with his current staring competition with the boy across the room to notice and it took several repeats in Greg's calming baritone to snap his attention back where it belonged.

The exam itself was routine and Sherlock rolled his eyes as often as possible as Molly checked his vitals, made notes regarding his medical history, and gave him a sad little smile every time he regaled her and Greg with every encounter of an overdose of pills, a binge of alcohol, or the reasons why his pale skin was littered with fading scars of a razor blade.

"I am crazy." He said suddenly as Molly's thin lips turned down again, her unasked inquiries as to why someone so young would be so self-destructive ringing loudly in the silence of the room. "Completely out of my mind, beyond redemption, incurable. Isn't that why I am here? It would be so much more cost effective for the government if people like me were all destroyed, wouldn't it? But there are things like ethics and moral codes. Better to lock us away and forget where the key has been hidden."

Molly found herself stilled by his words, sharp and biting, full of nameless accusations towards anyone that wasn't currently being processed for in-patient care. Greg seemed unfazed, as if this wasn't the first mad man, or teenager as it were, to come up with such ludicrous ideologies. He merely held out Sherlock's shirt, waited for him to take it, and turned slightly to unlock the door that had latched behind them. "Don't forget the paperwork, Molly. I will bring you some tea once Sherlock is settled in."

Settled in, Sherlock mused as he slowly worked the buttons of his shirt back into place. Settled in. As if he was checking into a weekend bed and breakfast, though, he was certain the experience wouldn't differ all that much. Mummy had taken him and Mycroft to a quaint little place in the country one summer, and it shared many similarities with Wellington. Full of eccentric people, none of which truly wished to be there, likely substandard food, uncomfortable beds, and a ridiculous schedule of activities meant to stimulate the guestsand to keep the experience from falling into stagnation. He sighed softly as Greg led the way, pausing only for a moment at a locked cabinet that held varying sizes of the exact same style of t-shirt, elastic waistband trousers, slip on shoes, white socks, and ghastly pants. With no more than a glance at Sherlock's lean figure, he pulled out several of each article of clothing and immediately held them out for the younger boy to take. "You'll be wearing these. Standard issue uniforms given to all patients unless regulation approved clothing is sent by your family."

Sherlock scoffed, eyeing the horrific ensemble with a glare meant to set the fabric ablaze. When it failed to ignite, or even smolder, he reluctantly took the bundle from Greg's waiting hands and scowled further at the rough texture and low thread count. He would rather wrap himself in sandpaper and roll about in a pile of steel wool than have to wear these scratchy fabrics, every day, for the rest of his life. "I will not."

Greg stopped the moment Sherlock did and glanced back at him as he heard the clothing hit the floor with a muffled thud. One of the shoes toppled off a bit, but neither moved to retrieve the items. "They are standard issue, Sherlock."

"They are tortuous and obscene, and I will not be wearing them." Folding his arms over his chest, he lifted his chin and clenched his teeth together. A long, strange moment of silence passed between them and Greg did little more than raise a brow in curious amazement.

"Alright." Greg stated simply, his compliance with the refusal earning a momentary flicker of surprise across Sherlock's features. "Then you can walk around in the nude."

"Don't be childish." He scoffed at the idea, eyeing the clothing with absolute disdain before he simply walked away from them. He could hear Lestrade following him after a moment, a second's glance over his shoulder confirmed the orderly to be carrying the previously discarded outfit. It only took a few paces for Greg to overcome Sherlock's long gait, passing him by as he regained the lead down the hallway. He rolled his eyes dramatically and followed after.

They stopped when they came to a simple room with no more than a twin sized bed, a small wardrobe, and a plain writing desk shoved against a far corner. There was little room to walk around and it reaffirmed the idea that this was less a hospital and more of a prison. Idly, he glanced at the door to see if it locked from the outside, completely unsurprised when he found a heavy bolt latched to the exterior, but no latch on the inside to keep people from wandering in. There was no doubt in his mind that it would be used several times throughout his little stay at Wellington, and he was almost looking forward to finding out if he could discover a means to break free from it.

"Lights out at nine, breakfast at six, then you'll be given a schedule that is specific to you. I may coincide with some of the others, but most of the time you will be taking part in therapy, group sessions, activities. Lunch is at noon and dinner at six in the evening. You are free to use the bathrooms at any time, as well as the showers, but you must request an escort and will not be allowed on your own at any time without supervision." Greg continued with a list of regulations that seemed so rehearsed, Sherlock presumed he had said it a thousand times before. "You're allowed phone time on request, if you've earned the privilege. No patients are allowed off grounds, but there are times, weather permitting, when we all go outside for a bit. If you want to smoke, you need to request an escort for that too. No one is allowed out of the building between eight in the evening and seven in the morning. Medications are distributed after breakfast and again before lights out, you are required to take them so please do not cause any trouble by refusing. If you don't take them willingly, you will be given your prescribed dosage by hypodermic. Any unruly behavior and you may be restrained until you are able to compose yourself in a calm and orderly fashion. Follow the rules, attend your therapy sessions, group meetings, partake in activities, and you'll be out of here before you know it."

"Is that all?" He fought the urge to tear at his own hair, long bony fingers curling violently into his palms as every restriction grated further into his nerves.

"I am not leaving until you are properly dressed." Greg nearly smirked, one hand held out for the garments. Sherlock glanced over at him, a half beat of tense silence passing between them before he started stripping off all of his clothing. Angry tugs at buttons and frustrated pulls at the sleeves, making every movement seem unnecessarily violent. He tossed his pack of cigarettes onto the writing desk, not bothering to ask if he was allowed to keep the lighter as he figured if buttons were a danger, something that could start fires was certainly forbidden. A dull shiver passed over his exposed skin and Greg motioned towards the wardrobe. "There are a few extra blankets in the bottom drawer to keep you warm until you decide to dress in the appropriate uniform."

As he turned to leave with Sherlock's clothing hanging over one arm, Greg paused just inside the door frame and regarded him with a glance and a smile before he disappeared all together. It took the span of a slow breath from his lips before Sherlock was off the mattress and ripping off the overly starched sheet so he could wrap it around his shoulders. The makeshift toga did little for warmth but it was suitable for modesty as he awkwardly shuffled to the writing desk to fetch his cigarettes. He wondered briefly, as he flicked one from the paper box and slid the packet of matches from inside, how long it would take before someone came running to scold him. He hadn't even finished exhaling the first bit of noxious blue smoke before there was a light tapping at his door frame.

"Naughty, Naughty.." The intense stare of the boy his age had not faltered in the slightest as Sherlock turned to regard him, taking a slow and pointed drag from the filter as if to say 'I really could care less'. or perhaps 'I am not here for good behavior.' "You're going to be trouble, aren't you? Bringing defiance and excitement to our little party of misfits?"

"I don't see how it is any of your concern."

"Love the outfit."

"This old thing?"

The boy grinned, a dark shadow flickering through his gaze as he breached the threshold to Sherlock's room and took three purposeful steps towards him. Slender fingers on an unwavering hand reached out and plucked the cigarette from his own grasp. "This is a terrible habit. These will kill you, you know."

The boy with the dark hair, dangerous eyes and a soft Irish accent, took a slow and almost sexual drag from Sherlock's cigarette. His eyes closed slowly, and his lips parted as he exhaled with a low and vulgar moan. Sherlock did little more than watch with his sheet-toga wrapped tightly around his skinny frame and his fingers twitching against each other. A singular brow raised as the cigarette was offered back to him, but he made no move to take it.

"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock pushed an impatient breath from his lungs, turning to focus his gaze on what lay beyond the barred window behind the writing desk. The view wasn't much, though he could see a great deal of the enclosed courtyard and a rather large grouping of the looming trees.

"This is the start of a beautiful friendship, Sherlock." He crooned softly, slowly moving closer until Sherlock could feel his breath against the exposed skin of his shoulder. "You and I were made for each other.."

The boy was gone from his room nearly as fast as he arrived, and Sherlock was left with a cigarette that had slowly begun to smother itself out on the tile flooring. He let a slow breath pass his lips, one hand clutching the sheet around his shoulders, the other slinking out from beneath the fabric to tangle up into his unruly curls. The sudden silence brought an unforgiving headache to the forefront of his skull and the severity of it was nearly blinding. He tried to block out the throbbing behind his eyes, too many thoughts raging in his already overactive mind. Sherlock needed to find something to distract himself, something to occupy his subconscious before his brain simply imploded and killed him.

Pointedly refusing to don himself in the atrocious clothing provided by Lestrade, Sherlock shifted the sheet slightly to lift it from the floor and made cautious steps back into the hall. There were faint sounds of trilling laughter echoing softly from the common room where patients were allowed to gather, and silence reached out to him from the opposite direction. Though it was stimulation he sought, there was little that was appealing to him in being socialwith those that certainly had a reason to be committed.

From the silence broke two very hushed, very hesitant, notes played clearly on a clarinet. They were not followed by any more for several beats, but when the subsequent music began to play, Sherlock found himself entranced. It was skilled, if not a bit cautious, and almost hauntingly beautiful in its depressive melody. He found himself moving towards it without an active thought telling his feet which direction to go; lured along by a mysterious song being played by mysterious hands. Hands, which he discovered upon peering past a barely cracked open door, belonged to a very small, very blond boy who was nearly drowning in the most hideous jumper he had ever seen.

Sherlock knew instantly that the jumper came from a family member, though it was not intended for the boy, himself. It was far too large and had been hastily repaired in several places, including the ends of the sleeves which were worn down nearly threadbare. He tilted his head to the side slightly as he nudged the door open further, leaning within for a better look. The hinges gave a ghastly squeak and in a flash the clarinet was dropped and Sherlock was met with two very blue, very wide, and very startled eyes, staring at him.

As if he had suddenly cornered a wild rabbit, Sherlock moved into the room slowly and made a wide circle away from the door. He was followed with every step that his bare feet slapped against the tile, the startled stare constant and unblinking even as Sherlock neared a chair and lowered himself into it. Neither boy said a word to the other, both just watching and waiting for something to happen, some catalyst that would push the other into reacting. When no explosive event sparked action, the boy with the mop of curly blond hair leaned down to retrieve the dropped clarinet and set it carefully back within its case.

"You don't have to stop." Sherlock muttered, almost hoping that the odd little musician would continue to play if only because he sought out a selfish distraction. There was an almost unnoticeable struggle painted across the boy's face as he lightly fingered the instrument, letting the pad of his thumb lightly caress over the silver keys and chrome accents. He shook his head and sent blond curls flipping about, his surprised gaze breaking way to one of infinite sadness.

"We're not s'posed to play the instruments..." He nearly whispered, a half beat of hesitation between closing the case and lovingly taking up the clarinet once more before heavy footsteps in the hall had him snapping the cover closed. Sherlock watched as he quickly shoved the case back into a cabinet, his brow twitching as he took note of a severe and awkward limp impeding the boy's progress as he rushed away from it.

"John?" Lestrade pushed the door open completely, raising a surprised brow at finding Sherlock sitting so casually within, wrapped up in nothing but a sheet. "John, we have discussed this...back to your room, and Sherlock, a bed sheet is not an appropriate substitute for the uniform."

"I don't see why not, it's provided by the hospital." He raised his chin slightly, pushing himself up from the chair, completely aware of the faintest of grins that curled the down turned lips of his mysterious musician. The boy, John, did not linger any longer and slowly limped his way past Lestrade. Greg only waited until he was out of earshot to let a sigh fall from his lips, the weary hand rubbing at his forehead again as he regarded Sherlock as one would regard a petulant child.

"If you wish to be defiant and make this difficult on yourself, by all means, but don't interfere with the treatment of the other patients."

"I wasn't interfering."

"What do you call this then?"

"Socializing."

"Yeah well, it won't do you much good to socialize with that one. He hasn't said a word in four years, now get back to your room, get dressed and I will take you down to the mess hall. It's time for the evening meal." Lestrade shook his head and heaved another lengthy sigh, stepping back as he held the door open. Sherlock made his way from the room without a word and with little argument, much to Greg's surprise. He even went directly to his bedroom and picked up the discarded bundle of offending clothes and set about dressing himself within the scratchy fabric.

Curious and worthy of further examination, Sherlock was so preoccupied by this sudden puzzle that he hadn't set aside the brain processes required to refuse submission any further. He was certain, without a doubt, clear as crystal and loud as the rolling thunder, that the boy who had not said a word in four years, had definitely spoke to him.

But why?

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