Truth-Denials

by Harlian

[['Hesitantly, Sherlock lifted his hand up to brush John's shoulder, feeling the soft fabric of the jumper under his fingertips. John's eyes closed. "Is this real?" he whispered hoarsely, gathering more fabric in his hand and taking a step forward. "No," John replied quietly.']] Sherlock/Shutter Island mashup fic, originally written for the FuckyeahJohnlockfanfic Halloween contest.

Truths/Denials

Well, love is insanity. It is the taking over of a rational and lucid mind by delusion and self-destruction. You lose yourself, you have no power over yourself, you can't even think straight- Marilyn French

Sherlock Holmes hated everything.

Of course, for the majority of his rushed 29 years, the youngest Holmes rarely found happiness in anything, besides the occasional triple serial murder or managing to make his elder brother grimace at an insult concerning his weight. Most of his abundant free time was spent complaining about how bored he was, inserting some form of, not always legal, drugs into his body, indulging on morbid thoughts of death, and so on. Despite things improving drastically for a good few years after meeting his first true friend John, everything was starting to crash into a magnificently huge pile of awful events. The fact that the detective was now stuck in a small train carriage with an incredibly nosy red faced old woman who asked far too many questions for his liking didn't help.

"Where are you off to, dear?" she asked sweetly, a mask of innocence barely hiding the way she loved to greedily suck up gossip or information. She, Sherlock noted, was simply what Mrs Hudson would have been reduced to if he hadn't sent her husband to prison. Bored, and bitchy. What a combination.

"Dartmoor? To see family? A girlfriend maybe?" A smile now, revealing a set of horrid yellow teeth. Sherlock's mouth tightened into a white line and he tried his best to not snap at her, fixating his gaze outside at the passing fields of the countryside. Did she ever stop asking questions?

"Actually," he replied coolly and shortly, "I don't have a girlfriend." Hopefully that would put an end to the interrogation.

"I don't believe it. A young, good looking man like you? There must be someone." That was the last straw. Bristling, Sherlock snapped his face to stare down the woman, bitterly spitting out the retort in between hot, angry breaths, despite his calm composure;

"He's dead."

One scandalised stare, either at his rudeness or the fact that it was a he, not a she, and a heartbeat later, the woman excused herself from the carriage to find a more desirable passenger to spend the next half an hour with. Sherlock shook off the looks from the other passengers, and returned his gaze to the passing sheep and cattle in their fields.

Sherlock Holmes hated everything.

When Mycroft had first asked him to come to Baskerville Asylum, Sherlock had of course, partially to rile up his brother, and partially because he was feeling particularly suicidal over John's death, refused. Unfortunately, when your brother is the British government, and he has at hand several dozen bodyguards, all professionally trained and dangerous, he'll always manage to convince you one way or another. So; here was 'The Case' according to his dear brother; Irene Adler had escaped from Baskerville Asylum, although nobody knew how or why. Her cell was locked, Mycroft informed him over the mobile, almost as if she had disappeared into thin air. Truth be told, Sherlock's interests had been piqued; a vanishing woman? A remote, unknown, military prison/asylum? It was almost Christmas. But John wasn't here and it felt all... wrong. Like a part of him had been missing. This was to be his first case since the murder.

Murder. Everyone said it was an accident, but it wasn't. Moriarty had killed John, and Sherlock knew it, even if nobody would believe him. Bile rose within him whenever he thought of the injustice. Of course it was Moriarty; who else would it be? Forcing the thoughts down, Sherlock breathed in and out slowly, just like someone had told him to do whenever he got worked up over the inquest. Not that anyone thought there was an inquest. It was to be Sherlock's battle, and Sherlock's battle alone; he'd find Moriarty some day, and kill him for what he had done. But now was not the time. Right now he was driving to Baskerville.

Lestrade was to meet him outside, and they'd investigate together. If Sherlock had calculated correctly, they wouldn't have to stay more than twelve hours. Then everything would be wrapped up and good. And Sherlock could go home to resume his newly revisited recreational drug habit, not that Mycroft hadn't tried to stop him before.

And then he spotted it for the first time; Baskerville. Part prison, part mental hospital, part government facility. An interesting mix, but not unrelated, if Sherlock was correct. Experiments on prisoners had been long illegalized, but perhaps it hadn't all been vanquished. What surprised Sherlock was that Mycroft had allowed him near such a place at all if there was the chance that they'd be found out. Not that Sherlock planned to. The asylum loomed over his rented car, and Sherlock finally got a good look at the place. Built into a restored Norman castle, with a tall, striking and rather out of place tower sticking out of the south wing like a pimple on a beautiful face. The place was absolutely teeming with military guards and soldiers and other infantry nonsense. The bastion was quite thin but tall, and the detective suspected that it continued even further underground. Surrounding the strange tower was several smaller buildings, strikingly modern and the place where the workers stayed. Therefore; Sherlock returned his focus to the castle; that must be the prison.

This would be more fun than he originally thought.

Lestrade stood awkwardly trying to occupy himself before the entrance gate, attempting feebly to avoid the strange looks the guards were directing his way. Parking before the gates, and exiting the red car smoothly, Sherlock strode up to Lestrade, who suddenly seemed relieved, like he had found a missing child and was glad that they had made it back to their parent in one piece.

"You don't give me enough credit, Lestrade," Sherlock greeted in his usual low rumbling voice with a small smirk as he reached the detective inspector. A breath of relief escaped Greg's mouth and for a moment he looked like he wanted to hug Sherlock (Out of pity?) before composing himself and busying himself with taking his official I.D. from his pocket.

"I'm just worried about you. I haven't seen you... seen you well in a few weeks, Sherlock," the detective inspector explained, averting his eyes as the poor adjective was used. Well. As if Sherlock had been sick, or something. Not like he had been traumatised over the death of his best friend, or like he had been high for a week straight at one point. In truth, Sherlock was a mess, his hair even more haywire than usual, and bags under his eyes.

"Thank you for the sentiment, not that it'll do any good," Sherlock replied stiffly, pulling his own I.D. from his coat pocket as the guards approached. Lestrade was staring at him, mouth slightly agape, like he was seeing a ghost.

"How... How long has it been, Sherlock?" he asked quietly, as a tall Asian guard (divorced, financial troubles, owns two cats) gestured for their identification.

"A month," came the reply as Sherlock passed over his own drivers licence to the second guard, a young but balding man with a stain on his shirt (cheating on his girlfriend). Lestrade's mouth opened into a small, surprised O shape, before he quickly collected himself and resumed a normal expression. But Sherlock had seen it, and he frowned, looking at Lestrade with interest.

"Something the matter?" he queried, the guard handing him back the licence with a sceptical face. Lestrade hesitated and opened his mouth to answer, before the gates started to emit a loud buzzing noise, and swung open painfully slow. From the point where he stood, Sherlock could see his brother (accompanied by an umbrella as per usual) and an elderly man who was at least sixty, striding towards them both, deep into conversation. Talking about something boring, no doubt. Probably about finance and politics and not the fact that John was dead and it was all that occupied Sherlock's mind palace these days and that if he were anyone else he'd be crying at the mere thought of the good doctor and the way that his eyes used to crinkle up when he laughed.

"Sherlock," Mycroft greeted as they reached hearing distance, pronouncing the er for far too long and treating the lock like it were a funny joke, his face an odd combination of a repressed sneeze and sneer. Before Sherlock had the chance to retort some clever and/or rude comeback about his older brother's weight, Lestrade interrupted loudly.

"He's been through enough. Stop acting childish, both of you." A strange hesitation stood long and awkward between the brothers as they thought of how best to politely tell Lestrade to stop sticking his nose in other people's business, when a small, but crisp chuckle broke out from nowhere. The elderly man, in a fine tailored blue pinstriped suit, was beaming at the two Holmes'.

"Sibling rivalry... Reminds me of myself and my sister. You must be Mr. Holmes," he smiled, eyes crinkled up (but in a non-friendly way; not like how John's had) and extending his wrinkled hand out for Sherlock to shake. The detective reluctantly took the small frail hand in his gloved one; the grip was surprisingly strong.

"I'm Mr. Wayland, the boss if you may, here at Baskerville. Please, call me David. I set this hospital up from the young age of-"

"Hospital?" Sherlock snorted immediately, letting go of the hand immediately and straightening up, glaring at Wayland down his nose; he could sense Lestrade and Mycroft shouting at curse words at him telepathically. "Mr. Wayland, what you have here is not a hospital, and the title clearly states so; this is an asylum for mentally unstable criminals, and not a very good one at that. What sort of experiments do you practice on them?"

"What my brother means is-" Mycroft started, before being waved down by Wayland, who was politely laughing off the comment. Sherlock felt fury bubbling within him. Wayland laughed far too much for his liking. Something about him just screamed enemy.

"Mr. Holmes, rest assured, here in Baskerville, despite online rumours, there are no experiments. All our patients are treated well, even given freedom. Look at James over there." Wayland's hand flew in the direction of a thin, pale man barely over the age of eighteen, watering some plants near the entrance of the castle. Sherlock's attention was drawn to the shackles binding his feet instantaneously.

"Freedom with shackles? Sounds like paradise," Sherlock countered at once, in a condescending voice. A tense stillness passed over the group, before another nervous chortle came from Wayland.

"Shall we, then? We should get you some tea," Wayland offered politely with a small smile in Sherlock's direction as he started to slowly make his way over to the prison, Lestrade trailing after like a lost puppy. As Sherlock went to follow, Mycroft clasped him by the shoulder strongly, stabbing a look of pure fury at him.

"Sherlock, you may not care about this at all, but your actions will have consequences. Please, if not for my sake, or yours, but John's-"

"Don't," Sherlock muttered lowly, feeling sick to the core. How dare he bring up John? As if he had bothered to know the man, besides surveillance and kidnapping.

"-John wouldn't have wanted anything to happen to you."

"Are you threatening me, dear brother?" Sherlock quipped back immediately, starting to shake from a mixture of anger and nausea.

Mycroft went still and then lowered his voice, so low that it was almost inaudible, "I don't want to have to. So don't make me. Behave." With that, the British government turned gracefully on his heel and pursued the others, leaving Sherlock behind in his wake.

Sherlock sighed and lifted his head to the heavens, taking a few moments to admire the grey and white clouds rolling through the sky at dozens of miles per hour, and how every so often the sun would manage to shine a light on the earth before being snuffed out once more by the carbonated atmosphere.

Only twelve hours.

The cell was completely empty of any living thing, just like Mycroft had told him. In truth, Sherlock hadn't believed him; why believe your own blood and kin when you can be a stubborn git and annoy them so much that they might actually disown you?

Before he had seen the jail, the chief of security, a burly, on edge man by the name of Zimmer had explained the jail system; on the top floors, the very top ones, was where the minor female patients were kept; they hadn't killed anyone or tried to; they had committed crimes and happened to have mental health issues as well. The same went for the men at ground level. In each section was a cafeteria, a library, a headquarters for the staff on duty there, and an indoor gym to entertain the prisoners who behaved. Every day the females would be led to the courtyard on the roof ("Completely secure, we wouldn't want any accidents," Zimmer had promised, with a malicious gleam in his eyes. Obviously some form of sadist) and the males to a courtyard behind the prison where they would spend an hour sadly rethinking the error of their ways or helping to do productive activities, like gardening or painting.

Then there were the underground patients.

Now, Zimmer couldn't stress more, he really couldn't, that these were violent and dangerous, the ones no other hospital in the British Isles could manage and that, no matter what, you couldn't trust them, as if they were less than human, or not human at all, like vermin or dogs or a disgusting breed of hairless cat. There were eleven of these prisoners. And they were ranked in order of dangerousness. The bigger the number on their cell, the bigger a threat they were. Here was the list that Sherlock received;

Kate Winnfield: Assisted the criminal Irene Adler to cover up the many Belgravia murders. Bipolar.

Victor Cullen: Stabbed a man in bar fight. Schizophrenia.

Henry Knight: Shot his therapist whilst under the impression that she was a gigantic 'hound'. Hallucinations often.

Simon Janus: Arranged the death of a Mr Lovett with his wife, Louise. Bipolar.

Alice Hardy: Murdered fellow police officer after hearing 'The Anti-Christ' whispering in her ear. Diagnosis unknown at this point, symptoms point to schizophrenia and split personality disorder.

Tom Stacy: Attacked hospital staff with a knife after his wife died. Suffers delusions that he is a 'Chosen one'. Split Personality disorder.

Jeff Hope: Assisted the suicide of four taxi passengers. Depressed, sociopath.

John Smith: Stalked and attacked a shop assistant. Believes that he is from another reality where he is a time traveller. Bipolar. Suffers hallucinations.

Irene Adler: Strangled eight 'clients' of her brothel. Pure sociopath.

Ingrid Lambert: Opened fire on crowd in a shopping centre, eleven killed. Asperger's Syndrome and clinical despression.

Sebastian Moran: Ex-Sniper, served in Iraq. Extremely dangerous; known for being involved in dozens of murders, not all confirmed yet. PTSD and ADHD. Extremely dangerous.

Sebastian Moran. Sherlock knew that he should recognize the name, but it just wouldn't come up from his memory. He knew that man, from somewhere, but for what felt like the first time in his life, his mind wouldn't cooperate.

So, deciding to focus on the more pressing issue at hand, the consulting detective inspected Irene Adler's report. She may have looked beautiful on the website that she hosted, pictures of it were included in her file, but the mug shot of her was anything but; frizzy unkempt hair, dark shadows under her eyes and a very unfortunate uneven skin tone didn't suit the dominatrix at all.

And now, while in her cell, Sherlock could understand why it was so difficult to maintain a pretty and sophisticated image in prison. The room was cramped, exactly three-by-five metres, with a bed, toilet and wardrobe occupying the majority of the chamber, a small desk shoved into the remaining free space. Stony walls and wooden floors, and a wall covered with graffiti and posters of women Sherlock couldn't recognize. He immediately thought back to a film John had forced him to watch once he had discovered that the youngest Holmes had never had the blessing of seeing it; 'The Shawshank Redemption'. The memory made his heart ache a little inside.

"So... she just disappeared into thin air?" he heard Lestrade ask Zimmer, standing back and Sherlock's eyes darted around, taking in everything; the collecting dust on the desk, rarely used, the unkempt bed with its sheets askew, and the wardrobe, half open and a pair of mandatory issued prison shoes inside. Sherlock froze.

"Thin air," Zimmer agreed, folding his arms and raising a sceptical eyebrow at Sherlock pulling open the wardrobe to lift up the shoes.

"Mr. Zimmer... Tell me about the surrounding area of Baskerville," Sherlock instructed, posed as an order rather than a question. Startled by the command, the guard rose up, attempting to look bigger as he passed along the information;

"If she headed north, she'd find nothing but woodlands and forest and bog for the next two miles. The east; moors and mountains, and west, the old abandoned minefield. She wasn't an idiot, though. Had she gone south, that would lead directly into town. She wouldn't have risked it. Our men are searching the bogs and moors as we speak."

"Would Ms. Adler run into the moors without shoes?" Sherlock asked in a hushed voice, lifting up the black shoes for the pair to see. For an instant, he thought he could see Zimmer actually get thrown off balance, like he had been caught out of a lie, before he composed himself.

"Not likely, no. But she could make it through bogs without them, if she knew how to navigate the terrain." As Sherlock opened his mouth to reply that why on Earth would a prostitute from Belgravia have any experience with bogs, he noticed a small chewing gum wrapper inside the left shoe. Carefully, Sherlock took the paper in his hand as Zimmer diverted his gaze, unwrapping it quickly to examine a scribble of writing on the inside;

Prisoner 105.

"What have you got there, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, getting onto his hunkers to be at Sherlock's kneeling position level. Without delay, Sherlock stuffed the paper into his coat pocket as he stood up to full height, heart hammering. Irene was trying to tell him something. But what?

"Zimmer, we'll need to speak to all the staff and prisoners on this level. As soon as convenient," Sherlock flashed a short, fake smile at the security guard, relishing in the outrage on the man's face.

"Now wait here just a moment-"

"Just five minutes with everyone. Then we'll be out of your way," Lestrade promised, cutting in to make sure things didn't get ugly. After a small falter, Zimmer nodded.

"I'll set it up so you can have interviews tonight. In the meanwhile, may I suggest investigating the nearby areas that you were so interested with?" he sneered, gesturing for them both to leave. Exchanging a glance with the D.I., Sherlock nodded slowly, going along with Lestrade.

If Irene Adler had gone to the bogs, it certainly wasn't obvious. No footprints or trails or even disturbed wildlife could be found, and it was starting to irk Sherlock. Why would she go across the moors barefoot? It had to be this way. It wouldn't be logical to go across the mountainous terrain. Although, as John always reminded him, "Not everyone was blessed with your intellect. Sometimes they'll act illogical."

"Sherlock."

All of a sudden, the aforementioned consulting detective was violently pulled back into reality, by a red faced and out of breath Lestrade talking to him.

"We've been searching for hours. It's getting dark and starting to rain. We can continue the search in the morning, alright?" he pleaded, pulling up a hood as the first few raindrops started to pound down on the two.

"But the case..." he started, but decided not to bother arguing when thunder could be heard in the distance, rumbling like a hungry animal. "Fine."

Unfortunately, it turned out that neither of the pair had thought of marking where they went. All the trees seemed identical, and the bogs barred off the majority of their routes, making the journey three times as long as it ought to have been. As a cemetery the Sherlock had recognised came into view, he was about to comment that they were on the right track, when a huge gust of wind, almost blew him off of his feet, and did blow Lestrade to the forest floor.

"Get inside the mausoleum, go!" Greg roared over the screaming winds, struggling to his feet as rain pelted into their faces, unrelenting and painful. Sherlock complied, throwing himself against the storm, battling his way until he reached the mausoleum. He shivered in the dark from the cold as he waited for Lestrade to join him. Not a moment later Greg jumped into the tomb, struggling with the door until they were both in the darkness, the faint sound of wind roaring in the background.

"Jesus, I hope this ends soon!" Lestrade spat after a continuous stream of swearwords left his mouth. Sherlock didn't reply, instead opting to hug himself, hoping to God he wouldn't catch pneumonia.

"Earlier... what was on that piece of paper?"

"Prisoner 105," Sherlock replied shortly, not in the mood for conversation. He was starting to make out the outlines of everything; a stone coffin in the centre of the tomb, Lestrade's silhouette kneeling near the entrance.

"What do you reckon it means?" he asked, dumbfounded. Sherlock felt tense and angry, and Lestrade wasn't John, this was all wrong. John should be here, not Lestrade, John would be a much better companion to have during this case, John would-

John was dead, Sherlock told himself firmly. Lestrade is the next best thing.

"Prisoner 105. There's 42 female prisoners in Baskerville, 51 male. There's 11 in the high security underground area. A total of 104 prisoners. What our dear Irene is suggesting, it seems, is that this asylum hosts one more secret prisoner."

"But... Where are they?"

"That's what I'm going to find out; Where Irene Adler is, what sort of experiments they concoct here, and who prisoner 105 is."

There they sat for what could have been ten minutes or ten hours, shivering wet and cold.

"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked suddenly, realising how gasping for one he was.

Lestrade sounded a little amused when he replied, "Whatever happened to the nicotine patches?"

"Not strong enough; neither are cigarettes, but they'll do."

Lestrade hesitated before throwing a packet of fags to the detective, watching as, with gloved, trembling hands, he lit the cigarette and stuck it between his lips, eyes fluttering shut.

"Sherlock... I'm sorry about John. I know that right now, you'd prefer him here, rather than me. I'll try my best, but... I'm sorry."

Sherlock was surprised, but not offended. In fact, he was quite touched, not that he'd ever tell. When the next part came, he was slightly annoyed, but this time decided to speak up;

"Do you mind... Telling me what happened?"

"Of course I mind. He died in my arms."

A distressed silence sat between them, awkward and upsetting for another moment before Lestrade whispered; "God, Sherlock. I didn't-"

"Nobody knows. I came home and he had been shot. End of."

When the D.I. spoke up again, he sounded slightly confused. "R-Really?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be confused. "What do you mean, really? Didn't you know? It was Moriarty. All Moriarty," Sherlock spat out the words, shaking considerably; the shivers had nothing to do with the cold.

"It was?"

"Lestrade, stop acting like an idiot. Who else was it?" Sherlock retorted, suddenly feeling extremely aggressive, like he wanted nothing more than to beat Greg until he took the questioning of Sherlock's theory back, because Sherlock was right, it was Moriarty, couldn't be anyone else.

As Lestrade hesitated and opened his mouth, a loud crash emitted from outside and muffled voices could be heard shouting and arguing.

"Are you detective fellers in there?" a loud voice called from the graveyard, screaming over the wind.

"Yes, yes, we're here!" Lestrade shouted, jumping to his feet and pushing against the door, anything to get out of the uncomfortable situation. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Lestrade was hiding something; he needed to know what.

One shower, several cigarettes and staff interviews later, Sherlock was lying on his cot above Lestrade's, mind so active and awake and alive that he couldn't relax; his brain was numb, pounding and pounding and pounding at his skull and the raging violent storm outside didn't help, pounding and pounding and pounding. The staff hadn't seen anything; one moment Adler was on her bed, brushing her hair, the next, gone. Into thin air.

Before going to their own private tent, Sherlock had been invited up to Mr. Wayland's office. Mycroft was reclining comfortably in a red armchair by the fire, red the most prominent colour in the large room. Crimson, lust, ruby, rust, fire engine, cardinal. He could name all the shades he saw in the room. Cornell, redwood, dark red, maroon, barn red. He counted the colours, to avoid looking anyone in the eye. Wayland spoke of files and how the case was going and interviews, and in turn, Sherlock asked of Ms. Adler, and noticed when the 'Boss' and his brother exchanged wary glances and avoided key subjects, like the shoes.

He did not mention Prisoner 105.

"Sherlock?" It was Lestrade. His voice was quiet and cracked, like he had been thinking about what to say for the last four hours, which was probably close to the truth. When Sherlock didn't reply, because his head was pounding, the closest thing he had to a friend continued talking, "Sherlock, what should we do next? We're not getting anywhere in this case... We're going to have to pack it in. This doesn't make any sense; I know you're thinking it, too. Let's just abandon the case. I know you don't want to. But-"

"We haven't heard the truth once. Irene Adler didn't slip barefoot out of a locked room without help. I'm beginning to think, a lot of help. We will be able to solve this. You know better than anyone that if anyone can, it's me." Lestrade went quiet then. Probably asleep already.

None of this made any sense. It wasn't logical, because there weren't such things as vanishing women and invisible prisoners. It just confused Sherlock, and Sherlock Holmes didn't get confused, it hurt his mind, his brain, and it was just pounding pounding pounding pounding pounding-

And every time the lightning exploded outside bright lights exploded inside his skull and he couldn't think straight and everything was too bright, too bright and pounding at his head and pain started to erupt through his skull-

A migraine. This was what a migraine felt like. Like a million razors had been stuck inside his head and shook around for fun and oh God that hurt and everything was pounding pounding pounding pounding pounding

And John was sitting in a chair facing the main window of 221B, fists clenched and facing away from Sherlock, who was walking into the apartment, soaking wet from the pounding rain outside.

John was angry; furious, even. It only took Sherlock a moment to figure out why. An empty needle was lying on the coffee table at John's knee. Sherlock's needle. Oh God.

"I found a whole box of these, Sherlock," his voice rang out, cold and unemotional and unwavering, before cracking at the mention of his flatmate's name. He twisted his head to face Sherlock, eyes bloodshot and red. "Jesus. How long have you been doing this to yourself?"

Sherlock approached John slowly, swallowing thickly. "Since you started dating Mary," he admitted quietly, hugging himself tightly, a self-defence mechanism.

"Is that why you do this? Jealously over her? Sherlock, she's my girlfriend, but you're still my friend. You don't have to do this to yourself for attention." His voice was softer now, but tighter, like he was restraining some deep emotion. Suddenly he burst out, causing Sherlock to flinch, "How could you be so stupid?!"

Suddenly Sherlock realised something was wrong. John's face was pale, white, even, and his jumper didn't have that red stain breaching the centre of it before. Hesitantly, Sherlock lifted his hand up to brush John's shoulder, feeling the soft fabric of the jumper under his fingertips. John's eyes closed.

"Is this real?" he whispered hoarsely, gathering more fabric in his hand and taking a step forward.

"No," John replied quietly, gradually rising from the chair and turning to stand facing his friend. With deliberate slowness, he lifted up the needle and pressed it into Sherlock's hand, eyes large and sad. "She's still here," he continued.

"Who?" Sherlock asked, before it hit him. "Irene?"

Rain could be heard in the distance, rumbling and loud, like muffled gunfire, and then Sherlock realised it was coming through the window and leaking through the roof, drenching the pair of them, engulfing them in the wet mist.

"She never left," John whispered, suddenly pulling away from Sherlock's grip, turning around to looking out the window once more. It was then that Sherlock saw the bullet wound, shattering through the doctor's back, charring the jumper and shirt underneath, crimson blood made runny by the rainwater and falling down his back like a waterfall of red liquid.

"John..." Sherlock started in a chocked voice, unsure what he was doing before pulling John into a hug, as if that could stop the bleeding. "John," he repeated, burying his pale face in the wet wool, feeling the beginning of a sob well up within him, a sensation he hadn't felt since childhood. "John..." I love you so much.

The blood was spreading down the front of his jumper now, and John was starting to gasp for breath, eyes fluttering open and shut in confusion.

"I'm just bones in a box, Sherlock."

"No-" he protested weakly, starting to struggle to keep John standing.

"I am. You have to wake up."

"I won't go- You're here," he countered tightening his hold on John, tears freely falling down his face (or was it rain?).

"I'm not. You have to face it. But she is- and so is he."

A heartbeat.

"Who?"

"Moriarty."

The one word sent a surge of panic throughout Sherlock, and he almost let John fall, before regaining his equanimity and nodding.

"Okay- Just... Don't go. Please—Don't. I need to hold on, if not for a little longer; just a little longer."

"I can't. I can't."

And then there was nothing. The room was filling up with water quickly, up to his knees, and John was gone; the only trace of him the blood on his hands, a constant reminder of what had happened, what Sherlock had failed to prevent.

And then Sherlock was in the asylum, in a cell, screaming, blood running down the walls, John's blood, it had to be John's blood, and Irene Adler was sitting on the bed opposite him, brushing her hair with the bloodied brush, getting it in her black hair, matting it, making it wet and shiny and greasy. Her feet were cut and bloody, bits of mud and bog and twigs stuck in between the toes and she slowly got up, throwing the brush aside and moving to the wardrobe beside Sherlock.

Raising a perfectly manicured finger to her bloodstained lips, she opened the door. A child's corpse lay inside. He recognised it. It was one of the only cases he hadn't solved in time; a kidnapped girl, murdered by the time they caught the criminal. Her name was Elizabeth, and now she was dead.

"Give me a hand, will you?" she asked sweetly, leaning forward and attempting to lift up the body, smiling sadly at Sherlock, who was beginning to rise from the floor. He was wearing a suit, he realised. The same suit he wore to John's funeral.

"I could get in trouble," he simply stated, lazily eying the dead girl. She stared at him back, tears streaming down her face.

"Give me a hand," Irene repeated.

Unhurried, Sherlock bent down and cradled the girl into his arms, before taking his measured time following Irene to the bed to place down the girl.

"I'm dead," the girl told him.

"I know. I'm sorry about that."

"Why didn't you save me?" she whimpered as she was laid on the mattress, before going still and cold.

And then Sherlock was lying on a bed with John beside him, it was his own bed, he realised in 221B. John was dead, too.

"Why didn't you save me?" he whispered, reaching down to clutch at his bloodied wound. Sherlock swallowed thickly, diverting his gaze and clutching at his head, curling up slowly.

"By the time I got there, it was too late," he muttered hoarsely.

And then Sherlock Holmes woke up, drenched in sweat, shivering and a sick sensation burning in his stomach.

"You okay?" Lestrade's sleepy voice asked unevenly from beneath him. After a few seconds to make sure that he was, Sherlock nodded, curling up again.

"I'm fine," he lied, struggling to get back to an uneasy sleep.

He did not dream again that night.

The storm had been ongoing throughout the night. There was damage everywhere; a fallen tree on the had almost killed two guards, and was blocking the road, and the power circuits nearby had been destroyed. No power meant that there was no signal, no wifi, and the backup systems to keep the prisoners secure had been switched on.

It didn't work for all of the cells.

Panic was surging throughout the facility; guards raced here and there trying to escort staff to safety, whilst Wayland was trying to contain the prisoners in a non-violent way; sending in the trained and professional staff to calm them down and escort them back to their cells. Meanwhile, Zimmer wanted to send the military in, guns and all, to threaten them back into captivity, like wild animals.

The flustered going-ons were being observed by Sherlock and Lestrade, who had been unusually quiet lately. Sherlock sensed an opportunity amongst all the madness, however.

"Follow them," he instructed suddenly as a parade of staff members started filing into the prison, pulling Lestrade alongside him to join the queue of white-clothed people. A loud voice was booming overhead informing the workforce of their instructions; do not harm the prisoners, try to reason with them, use sedatives if needed, etcetera. The whole time Sherlock felt his innards twist unpleasantly; if he found prisoner 105 would he find the location of Irene Adler? He anticipated so.

"Sherlock, what are we doing?" Greg enquired in a low voice, glancing nervously at the employees around them in fear that they would be marked out of the crowd. Sherlock waved him down, attempting as well as he could to blend in; a difficult feat for someone so ridiculously tall.

"We're going to find Prisoner 105," Sherlock explained quickly, ducking low when Zimmer fixed his eyes on the group.

"Well, good luck with that. I'm going to focus on the case; finding Irene Adler," Lestrade hissed back, slipping away from the crowd before Sherlock could argue. As he turned around to call the D.I. back, however, a dark-skinned military officer was shoving a small gun into his hand.

"Only if your life is in danger," he warned, seemingly nervous around Sherlock.

"What's the matter? Never had to reason with a patient before?" the consulting detective solicited with a raised eyebrow, opening the gun to see that where there should have been bullets, tranquiliser darts were instead.

The guard ignored his question, wiping his brow anxiously as he quickly ran down the rules with Sherlock. All the usual boring regulations. Dull.

"Alright, you lot, go to the basement! Be prepared; they are mentally unstable and WILL attack on sight. Good luck."

Sherlock had been with the group one moment, huddled amongst their ranks, and had received many fearful glances (Did they know he was investigating here?) before noticing a long, empty corridor that the others were ignoring. And being the curious creature he was, how could he resist?

His footsteps echoed loudly down the whole passageway. In the distance alarm bells were ringing and shouting could be heard. His breath left fog in the air before it disappeared into the background, invisible smoke. A pipe nearby was dripping onto the floor, and the lights were flickering, random shadows cast everywhere. Broken glass littered the cobbled floor, and every time Sherlock stepped on them, a loud crunching noise rang throughout the room. Sherlock could sense something... Like he wasn't alone.

Moriarty. He was here. That had to be it. He could sense him.

Sherlock neared the gate on the other side of the walkway, about to open the door, reached out with his hand and-

"TAG! YOU'RE IT!" an inmate screeched, jumping in front of Holmes out of the blue, grabbing his arm and tugging it roughly through the gate as far as it could go, giggling uncontrollably when Sherlock let out a gasp of pain as he felt he shoulder pop out of place. As Sherlock shook free, falling into a heap on the floor whilst clutching his arm, the patient (Sherlock suddenly recognised him as John Smith) let out a hoot of entertainment, sprinting away.

Sherlock yelled out angrily, biting his lip for a moment before gripping his arm, and shoving it back into place. Pop. "Oh, fuck." School bullying had prepared him well for this, but that didn't make the process of un-dislocating his arm any less painful. After the initial flood of hurt ran through him, Sherlock got to his feet, suddenly filled with an animal aggressiveness. He was going to kill Smith.

"Come here!" he yelled after the inmate, unbolting the gate quickly as he could before dashing down the metallic staircase in his wake. Smith just giggled from a floor down, giving a cheeky grin to Sherlock before disappearing from view.

Cursing under his breath, Sherlock sprinted down the stairs, trying his best to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder and not to trip and fall, try not to fall into the winding darkness in the centre of the metallic steps.

If he fell, would he feel the impact? Would he be conscious while his head smacked against the cobbled floor, while his skull shattered, the grey matter poured out and leaked into the ground, while blood spattered the surrounding walls? Would he feel pain?

"He's here," a voice whispered in the inner cracks of Sherlock's mind.

And then John Smith (certainly not John Watson, because John Watson would never hurt Sherlock, never attack him) was screaming, jumping onto the detective's back and bringing him into a strong arm grip, threatening to cut off his air supply, lifting the taller man off of his feet and pinning him to the wall. Sherlock's vision (so imperative to him and his cases, vital for his deductions) was starting to blur at the edges and he drew in a large breath, deliberately slow, to try and save the air that might be refused to him soon.

"I don't want to leave," Smith whispered, his unusually high voice reverberating throughout the stairwell, "I don't want to leave, alright? You can't leave either. None of us is leaving."

Are, Sherlock thought, unable to correct the man when the hand around his throat suddenly gripped tighter. Sherlock could only nod.

"And," Smith continued, "Why would anyone want to leave? There's nothing out there for me. The universe is growing older, changing by the second. I've been left behind." The pasty man suddenly cracked, his voice noticeably lower. "I've been left behind," he repeated quietly, rage building intensely behind his eyes. Sherlock gasped and made a small wheezing noise as the hands unexpectedly cut off the air supply, threatening to crush his throat into a bloody mess. If something didn't happen soon, he would die.

Wouldn't that be better?

No.

Sherlock lashed out, catching Smith in the heel, who let out a squeal and dropped Sherlock to the floor with a sickening crack. And suddenly he wasn't Sherlock the detective, Sherlock with morals. He was Sherlock the animal, Sherlock who had survival instincts, who knew to attack his attacker. And Sherlock the killer, stood up, sick with fury, and slammer Smith to the floor, not caring when he let out a cry of pain and started to sob, screaming names of his family, of flowers, of things that didn't have any relevance. It seemed he was just screaming for the sake of being heard, and all the while Sherlock punched and hit and beat him, resentment glazing over his eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing?" a panicked voice yelled from below, followed by hurried footsteps and then Sherlock was being wretched back, and the illusion was broken. He was Sherlock the human once more. A nurse was attending to the fallen patient, while another warden was pulling Sherlock away, furious. "Catch them, not kill them! Are you nuts?"

It took a moment for the question to break through the surface of Sherlock's psyche before he slowly replied; "I'm starting to ask myself the same question."

"Get the fuck out of here," the warden hissed, staring Sherlock down before going to assist the nurse with the fallen patient.

When the Holmes brothers were young and still didn't hate each other with every fibre in their beings, they used to play in the back gardens of Holmes Mansion, in the woods or the flower patches or even in the place that Mummy had told them was strictly off bounds; 'The Tunnel'.

The tunnel was a long channel that ran under a rather large piece of land behind the estate, that Mycroft, being ever so wise at the ripe age of twelve, had told little Sherlock it was where a crazy axe-murderer had once stored it's victim's bodies.

Naturally, Sherlock wanted to see the corpses first hand.

So one night, after Mummy had drunk herself to sleep and they were sure the coast was clear, the two sibling's and Mycroft's friend Freddy snuck out to the Tunnel. They fastened a rope around Sherlock's waist, handed the five-year-old a box of matches and told him to go through the passageway, or else he was a wimp. Little Sherlock Holmes was never a wimp.

Of course, after a few moments inside the cave, Sherlock started to shiver of the cold, only wearing his Batman pyjamas and a small dressing gown. And when it all became too much of him- all the echoes and unexplained noises and the wind making moaning sounds and the creepy stains of the rounded walls, Sherlock started to tug at the rope, calling for Mycroft to collect him.

Unfortunately, Mycroft and Freddy had wandered off as soon as the meddlesome brother was out of the way, ecstatic that their plan to best the child had not been in vain.

Young Sherlock fought the tears and started to exit, when his last match went out. Even though he was the smartest, most bravest boy in his class, it was all too much for the young prodigy and he started to cry, curling up against the wall until police found him five hours later.

All in all, not one of Sherlock's happiest days.

Unfortunately, these memories were immediately brought to mind when he found the area of Baskerville he had been searching for; "Patients 103-" If there was a prisoner 105, he'd find them here.

The passageway was almost identical to the one that Sherlock had explored at the young age, with a few differences; every dozen metres or so, a large cell was laid, with glass windows instead of the awful black bars that the other prisoners possessed. This brought Sherlock's mind back to yet another crime film he had to endure with John; "The Silence of the Lambs."

At least there were no cannibals.

A light was flickering above, and far along the ridiculously long corridor, past the cells, was an old elevator. He would be sure to check it out later, he decided.

"Moriarrrrty."

Sherlock's breath felt like it had been kicked out of him, and he started to hurry down the corridor, ignoring the demonic shapes the lights gave off as he ran, following the voice, passing a frail woman (Ingrid Lambert) who looked at him with weary eyes as he passed.

"Mooorriarty."

And then Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. A voice, low and threatening, from the shadowy reaches of his cell whispered the name again.

"Mooooorrriartyyyyyyyyyyy."

"Stop!" Sherlock yelled, gritting his teeth angrily and raising his fist, as if to punch the glass, realising he was trembling ever so slightly. Damn it, if only these stupid lights worked!

"Why? Does it bother you?" the male asked quietly, the edge of humour in his accent (slightly Gaelic. Was it Irish? Scottish?) "What am I saying? Of course it bothers you. You won't ever fucking shut up about Moriarty and his fucking plots."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he stopped breathing for a moment, before regaining his composure. For a moment the light flicked on before shutting down, and the brunette caught a glimpse of a big, hulking figure, about Sherlock's height but far bulkier in mass. Not fat, definitely not. It was pure muscle. The man (definitely Irish, but fading, as if he had become so accustomed to English accents that his drawl was integrating with his surroundings, camouflaging. Like a tiger.) continued on, ignoring Sherlock's stare.

"Sebastian Moran. Hi."

That was when it hit him, like a brick to the stomach, winding the detective before he managed to blurt out, "You're Moriarty's right hand man, aren't you?"

"Took you long enough."

"How... How did I not remember?" Sherlock muttered, posing the question to himself more than anyone.

"A bullet to the back," Moran whispered.

Not for the first time within the last twenty four hours, Sherlock felt himself physically jump. Sebastian's voice purred on anyway, as he watched the silhouette slink around his cage, reminding of a wild cat. The lights shuddered on and off long enough for Sherlock to take in the prominent features of the army man; very handsome, light strawberry blond hair and a hint of stubble, catlike eyes and several jagged scars running down his naked chest, like the claws of something ferocious had dug their way through his flesh. Bruises littered the fine body like paint. It looked painful.

"It was a bullet to the back, correct? The glass was all shattered, bits stuck into his flesh, cut at his skin, he bled, didn't he? Blood on the carpet."

Sherlock didn't reply, instead sinking to his knees, feeling sick inside. How the hell did Moran know that? Then it hit him.

"You... you killed John," Sherlock croaked, feeling vulnerable and scared and angry and like he just wanted to lie down and weep, and he wanted to murder Moran, right now, and he probably would have done if a wall of thick glass didn't separate him from the sniper.

"No, you fucking idiot! Of course I didn't!" Sebastian spat angrily, as if it were a secret he had kept hidden for years, a confession that was admitting to a bad thing, not a good thing.

"Then how did you know that? How the hell did you know that?" Sherlock hissed, slowly getting to his feet and slamming his fist against the glass. In the distance an alarm went off.

"Jesus, you're far off the deep end. You really are worse than me," was all he got in return.

"Answer me damn it!"

Unsurprisingly, Moran kept silent, even after Sherlock yelled several curse words at him and started to deduce everything he could from his demeanour and shadowed appearance; dead parents, memories of the war, the scars. He was shouting so much that he didn't even realise what he was saying anymore, didn't register the words being flug at the man like bullets. But all the while Sebastian kept quiet, until he hoarsely whispered, "Sticks and stones, fuckhead."

It dawned on the detective that he wouldn't get anywhere, so he started to back away before breathing slowly (In and out and in and out and in and out and in and out and in and in and in and in) and that was when he spotted John walking down the corridor, towards the elevator and Sherlock was following him, not daring to breathe again in case the mere whisper of air would break the glamour.

"Let him go," Sebastian suddenly murmured, noticing the way the tall man's eyes were glazed over with a sort of sadness to them.

Sherlock didn't answer, instead walking away, passing two free cells (Surely that was important? What did it matter though, when John was here?) and reaching the elevator, noticing that John had disappeared into thin air and was now at his shoulder, breathing into his nape.

"You're so close. So close, Sherlock. But you don't have to do this. Go down there, and you won't find what you want," he whispered, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and nuzzling his face into Sherlock's shoulder.

"I have to," Sherlock muttered in reply, "I have to know the truth." And John Watson hesitated, his hands wavering over Holmes' chest before he disappeared into the air. Invisible smoke, as consistent as the breath in Sherlock's lungs.

Sherlock got into the elevator. There was only one button. He pressed it, the doors creaked shut and he went down, down, down.

He was in 221B, and this time he wasn't dreaming. Of course, he couldn't know that for sure. But when the elevator doors opened he saw the fireplace, and the telly, and the skull. The only difference was that the windows were boarded shut. Eyes wide as he gazed around the room slowly he took in the details. This couldn't be real. It couldn't. But the creases in the walls, the wood on the mantelpiece, the Cluedo pinned to the wall all seemed genuine; all spoke of John and Sherlock's time together. Weaved into the kitchen's layout was Sherlock and John's morning routine, on the couch the tale of their first kiss.

"It was just after a case. We got home. Collapsed on the couch. And we looked at each other; just one glance. And I kissed you. Do you remember?" John was sitting on the floor, from under the window, looking up at Sherlock's with big, sad eyes, a silent beg for mercy in itself. Mercy from what?

"Of course I remember," Sherlock replied, quiet, taking his time as he paced the room, before carefully lifting up the violin. It was real, he could touch it, feel the markings on it, see the engraving of the initials S.H. "This is real," Sherlock whispered, turning to John for confirmation. A slow nod was his gift, and everything broke then, the tightness on is heart, the very heart that Moriarty had threatened to burn, the tightness ended, it all burst and the floodgates opened, and Sherlock was falling, and tears were falling, and everything was falling.

"I couldn't save you," he choked, face in his hands as he lay curled on the floor, the tears streaming freely and quietly. In all his years, he had never cried like this. Never once, even when he lay scared and hungry and cold in the tunnel, not when the bullies sent him home with a broken nose, not when he put up with the abusive relationship, or when he had his heart broken for the first time. Not when father left, or Mummy died, or Mycroft gave up on him for the first time as he watched his brother tear apart his own sanity with the drugs.

"No. You couldn't." John was lying beside him, now, and Sherlock couldn't see his friend or his boyfriend or his dead flatmate, all he saw was the wound seeping blood everywhere.

"You're dead."

"I know."

Invisible smoke, he told himself, watching the illusion shatter to nothing. But the flat, his home, remained, and like a robe, the dying detective let his logical thinking fall, and he accepted that he was in Baker Street, back home, where he belonged, and that was okay.

And soon Sherlock found himself staggering to John's room and he lay on the mattress and took in the smell, the musk, of John, and simply lay there for what could have been hours, days, years, eternities. And then Sherlock was falling, falling asleep, to a world of darkness.

When Sherlock rose he didn't stop. He got up, walked into the elevator, went back to the cells, ignored Moran's jeers, ascended the staircase, left the prison, ignored Lestrade's demands ("Where have you been?") and kept walking, not stopping until a rough hand on his shoulder stopped him and he realised he was in the moors, in the middle of nowhere, and it was night-time. Rain was still drizzling from the sky, but lighter, now. As if the pitch black sky was weeping.

"Sherlock, tell me what the hell is going on! Or so help me-"

"What will you do? Tell my brother?" Sherlock snarled in return, turning on his only ally at the facility. The D.I. seemed taken aback.

"Sherlock... You're acting awful aggressive. Where have you been? We've spent the last seven hours looking for you!"

For a moment, Sherlock considered the truth; Oh, I was in my old apartment in the basement of the prison and a crazy Irishman has been stalking me and I've been seeing my dead lover everywhere. "Investigating," is what he answered.

"Well, you've missed a awful lot, while you were investigating. Irene's back."

Sherlock faltered, a rare thing, and then stared. "I... What?"

"They found her in the woods, climbing trees. She's back now, she's safe. She won't answer any questions, though. We've been through everything," he added quickly as Sherlock opened his mouth. "We can leave as soon as the road out is cleared."

A part of Sherlock was relieved; Yes, yes! Get me out of this facility, back to reality, back to life, back to normality. "I'm not done yet," is what he said instead.Lestrade frowned.

"Sherlock, the case is done, wrapped up, finished, and completed. There's no reason to stay."

"I'm not finished here!" he argued, although the words left his lips as it dawned on him that no argument he could come up with would seem plausible to continue to overstay their welcome. "Just... give me a few hours. I'll be done, then." Lestrade seemed lost for a moment, unable to pick the right thing to reply, and he took a few moments to find the words he was searching for.

"Done what, exactly? Actually, I don't care. You need to look at this, Sherlock." Lestrade was holding out a sheet of paper. Sherlock ignored him, looking away towards the moors.

"You've been acting strange ever since you came here, like you're not right in the head. You're too aggressive, too emotional, too... too out of character. Tell me what's going on. But I'm going to sit this one out."

Sherlock didn't have an answer. He gritted his teeth and turned on his heel, stomping away from an unmoving Lestrade, walking through the rocky moors amongst the long overgrown grass and sharp rocks until he and his white uniform were out of view.

Sherlock saw a light in the distance, through the increasingly heavy droplets of rain thundering down. A cave jutting into the side of a mountain, and the bright reddish glow that indicated a fire was inside.

Now who would be hiding in a cave in the middle of the moors? Irene Adler?

Then Sherlock remembered; Irene had been found several hours previously. Climbing trees, as if Sherlock wouldn't have noticed a shoe-less woman scampering in the nature above him. What did they take him for? They were idiots. It had to be Irene; the real Irene. They were plotting against him; Wayland, Zimmer, everyone in that fucking asylum. They were out to get him. So who was in that cave?

Moriarty.

"Go look," John ushered him, his ghostly hand snaking across Sherlock's shoulders, leaving bloodstains on his pale cheek as he whispered in the detective's ear. The consultant nodded, and started to scramble up the mountainside, scree rolling down the grassy hill in little crackling noises as he pushed them away. As he approached the edge of the cave, he pulled out the tranquiliser gun from his pocket in case he'd need to use it. His finger itched on the trigger as he spun around the corner, eyes bulging.

It was not Moriarty.

Instead, a young woman in her late twenties was sitting shivering beside the fire as he jumped in, and immediately she leapt to her feet, eyes wide and angry. She was holding a rather large knife, which would appear more threatening if Sherlock wasn't the one holding a gun. For a moment they stared at each other, and he read her- in a simple black coat and-

Barefoot.

"You're Irene Adler," he breathed, slowly lowering his gun and raising his hands to his shoulders, eyebrows furrowed. "But they found you..."

"Who the hell are you?" she hissed in a thick upper-class English accent, tightening her grip on the knife and holding it rather menacingly. "How did you find me?"

"I was assigned to help you. I'm a consulting detective," he explained slowly, dropping the gun with a clatter to the stony cave floor. "I'm not going to hurt you," he added in a soothing voice, not having any want to get cut open by a sociopathic serial killer.

"You're the Holmes guy, right? The younger brother of that maniac, Mycroft. Well, according to them, I'll hurt you," she growled, scanning her dark blue eyes (Like John's) over him quickly before, little by little, bringing the knife to hip level. "If you try anything, I'll stab you," she warned, before stepping back to let him enter. That wasn't the most inviting of greetings, but Sherlock took it anyway, rushing in to hunker over the fire, sighing happily as his hands warmed. Irene just watched, silent, before getting onto her knees and staring at Sherlock over the fire.

"What- What did you mean according to them?" he queried once he was satisfied that the cold of the countryside hadn't given hypothermia. She let out a dry start of a laugh, no humour or amusement behind the guttural sound.

"Didn't you see my file? Hilarious stuff, right there. The stuff of stand-up comedies. Pure sociopath. Aparrently, I'm a murderer. I must have missed that."

"What are you implying?"

"I never killed anyone, I never ran a brothel. I was, you'll be surprised to hear, more than just a patient here in Baskerville. I worked here."

Sherlock's head was spinning. He was right, something was going on behind the scenes. Wayland wasn't as innocent as he had implied. "You... were a nurse?"

"I was a doctor, Holmes." When she saw his sceptical stare, she threw him a withering look. "You think I'm crazy." That much was true. While what Adler had said did match with what he had been thinking, he wasn't ready to believe her just yet.

"No," he lied through his teeth. She waved the man down.

"It's okay. Why else would a woman hide in a cave unless she was crazy?" she asked the rhetorical question bitterly, poking at the fire with the knife. A few twigs fell loose. "And if I say I'm not crazy; well. That'll hardly help, will it? That's the genius of it. Even if I'm completely sane, if a bunch of important official people say I am, nobody will believe me. All my protests will only strengthen their point. Once you're declared insane, anything, anything you say is simply a 'part of your insanity'. Valid fears are suddenly paranoia. Protests are denial. Survival instincts are defence mechanisms. It's a no-win situation."

Sherlock felt something inside of him squeeze, and he realised he was feeling pity towards this woman, which was strange, because he himself hated pity of any kind. Pity seemed like a weak thing, made him feel weak.

"What happened to you? Why did they turn against you?"

She took a moment before answering.

"I became... concerned. They perform experiments there. It's all secret, done behind locked doors, you understand. In the castle, in the tower jutting out of the south wing. But they trusted me. I was given special access. And I didn't like what I saw," she shivered. "Transorbital lobotomies. Electrocution therapy. Even simple experiments like Lets-See-What-Happens-When-I-Stick-This-Chemical-In-Their-Body. Sick, sick things. They... they go through the eye with a needle, and dig around, pull out some nerve fibres. Make's the patients more... obedient."

"Jesus," he breathed, staring down at his pale hands, visualising that happening to him. A long needle, fumbling around in his brain.

"I started to protest. But firing me wasn't enough. They had to keep me quiet," she finished, glaring down at the fire, as if it were Mr. Wayland. "They want to make soldiers. Fiddle with a few stands of brain, make a person unable to feel pain, feel remorse. Make someone with no memories. The perfect weapon. It's all going to begin here. Begin in Baskerville. One day people will look back and say, that's it. Where this all started."

"I won't let them," Sherlock interrupted quickly, fists clenched tightly as he thought about the only soldier he had ever known; John. Had he been like that? A perfect weapon? He had the no pain part down. All he needed was Sherlock's lack of remorse, and they'd be exactly that. The perfect weapon.

Was that what they had been?

"If they find out that you know, they won't let you leave," she warned, staring down at her knife as the fire reflected off of it, leaving red rays everywhere. He swallowed thickly. "Tell me; any traumas in your life, Sherlock?"

The Tunnel. Bullies beating him, breaking his violin. Victor tearing his heart in two, his father's reaction to his own sexuality. Sebastian Wilkes and his abusive words in Oxford. John falling to the ground, blood spraying across the carpet, a bullet lodged in his back, black metal against crimson flesh. The taste of metal in his mouth, John's blood. A smiling face, the face of the consulting criminal, laughing and jeering at Sherlock.

"Doesn't everyone?" he replied bitterly, avoiding her gaze.

"That's not the point," she sighed, seemingly frustrated. She ran a pale hand through her uncombed hair for a moment before continuing quietly, "If you have a particular event in your past, they could use it as a point to say that's where the insanity began. So when they commit you here- and they will- your friends and colleges will say, 'Of course he cracked. Finally. And who wouldn't, after what he'd been through?"

"That could be said of anyone-"

"The point is, they're going to say it about you. How's your head?"

"My head?"

"Any funny dreams lately? Headaches? Trouble sleeping?" She made a pause for effect. He didn't reply, suddenly becoming extremely interested in watching the fire crackled and move this way and that. "You haven't taken any of their pills, have you? Any aspirin?"

"Look," he started angrily, snapping his head up to stare her in the eye, blue against blue, "What difference does it make?"

"And you've eaten their food, drunk their coffee, smoked their cigarettes?" she continued on as if he hadn't spoken.

Sherlock froze up. Lestrade had given him the cigarette pack... But Greg was his ally. Wasn't he? "Yes," he admitted, realising a slight tremor was building in his pale, veined hands. Irene looked horrified.

"God... Within 40 hours of consumption, the narcotics will start to work within your bloodstream. Small tremors will begin to develop in the hands; you'll suffer memory loss, and the dreams will intensify into hallucinations. Seen any walking nightmares lately, detective?"

John sat at the back of the cave, in the shadows, dripping blood along the stones below him as he clutched his wound, staring into Sherlock with blank, black eyes.

"Who knows about this?"

"Everyone."

"But... I have a friend here." Friend. Lestrade was a friend. He hadn't realised before, but yes. Lestrade was a friend. Ever since the first case. Adler shook her head at snail pace, closing her eyes to show streaked eyeliner.

"Holmes, in Baskerville, you have no friends."

It took him all but the most of twenty minutes to make up his mind. He was going back. But he wasn't going down without a fight.

"I'm going to find Lestrade and go, warn the police," he explained in a breathless voice, staggering to his feet. "I'll come back for you," he swore, staring down at the cold woman. She smiled at him with a sad smile. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Mr. Holmes. By the time you come back, I'll be gone."

He didn't question her decision.

It was dawn when he reached Baskerville again, and the rain finally looked like as if it would subside, although that didn't help the fact that large pools of water littered here and there. Zimmer was waiting at the front, accompanied by Wayland who looked tired and worried. He felt like he were fifteen again and sneaking off in the middle of the night, and that these old men were the absent parents that should have been there to greet him in the morning.

"There you are. We'd be wondering when you'd show up," Zimmer greeted, with a small tint of amusement in his rattled voice. Sherlock felt his toes curl as he remembered that he was in the presence of torturers and possibly murderers. "Having a leisurely late-night stroll, were we?" His voice was condescending, and Sherlock hated it.

"Just looking around," was all he answered. Zimmer's lip curled, and Wayland simply watched on sheepishly at the unfolding conversation.

"Enjoying God's latest gift?" the military man asked, gesturing to the drizzle from the grey, silver clouds overhead. Sherlock stared blankly.

"I'm not much of a religious man. Don't believe in gods or burning bushes or forced breeding on a wooden boat as the world was flooded." For a moment, Wayland's face cracked into a smile, albeit a brief one. Zimmer had the exact opposite reaction, his smile wiped away instantly. The elder immediately took over before things got too ugly.

"I assume you'll be leaving today? What with the tree getting cleared off the road, soon?"

Sherlock hadn't remembered that. Had Irene mentioned this? Memory loss, as a sign of the narcotics. Instantly, Sherlock hid his hands in his coat pockets, unwilling to show his shaking hands. Zimmer caught the movement and raised a bushy eyebrow.

"Of course," he lied. Wayland nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed there was a pile of important-looking officials in black suits making their way into Wayland's office building. One made the mistake of looking at Sherlock and scurried off quickly with a fearful expression. Right. He probably looked like a maniac- blood from John Smith was still drying on his legs. "Big meeting, hmm?"

Wayland turned quickly in Sherlock direction and gave a small, curt nod. "Oh, yes. Apparently there was an unidentified man in Ward C yesterday. He subdued a very dangerous patient. Quite handily." His old eyes trailed down to Sherlock's legs and Sherlock felt as if he were being scanned by an X-Ray that could read him like a book. "Apparently he also had a talk with one of the most dangerous patients in the facility, Sebastian Moran."

Sherlock didn't say anything, simply fixating his eyes to the floor. Zimmer's lip curled up again. "Cigarette?" he offered, presenting a small white lung-killer. Sherlock bit his lip and shook his head, still refusing to meet their eyes.

"No thanks. I quit."

There was a heavy silence was Zimmer hesitated, before packing the cigarettes back into his pocket, attempting to make himself appear even taller through an icy glare, as if Sherlock wasn't already frozen to the bone. Wayland attempted to save the dwindling conversation from it's last legs by waving the guard away. He hesitated, before turning smoothly on his heel and marching away. Wayland took a small step closer to Sherlock, boring his bright hazel eyes into Sherlock's glassy ones. Zimmer continued to watch from the distance.

"You know, I've built something valuable here. But valuable things have a way of being misunderstood in their own time. Everyone wants a quick fix; they always have." Was it Sherlock's imagination, or did Wayland put stress on the word fix. Bastard. "I'm trying to do something that people- even you- can't understand. And I'm not going to give up without a fight."

For a heartbeat Sherlock saw something flash in the bright, crinkled eyes; something dark. And then it was gone, and he was being escorted to the staff cafeteria, Wayland's hand resting on the small of his back as they walked. "Let's get you some coffee, or tea."

"Actually, I think I'll just take a shower, get my clothes and go. I think we've gotten everything we came here for."

Wayland paused and flashed Sherlock a questioning expression. "We, Mr. Holmes?" Something wasn't right.

"Yes, my partner, Greg Lestrade. Have you seen him, by the way? I have to inform him of our departure."

When Wayland spoke again, it was slowly and carefully, as if he was picking what words he was using in an almost obsessive way, like trying to explain a rather difficult subject to a child. "You didn't have a partner, Holmes. You came here alone."

The tremors didn't cease.

By the time Sherlock had undressed and hopped into a lukewarm shower, the shaking had enveloped his whole body, so every now and again he'd let out an involuntary shiver. It felt as though something was crawling under his skin, clicking over his skull, up his arm, down his spine, forcing him to squirm uncomfortably or violently shake every few moments.

Where was Lestrade? Were they experimenting on him? The thought sent a sickening thump through the consulting detective's stomach. They were, for the most part, friends. And Sherlock owed the Detective Inspector more than he had given back, he realised. The least he could do was look for him.

And soon, Sherlock found his mind was too full, too clustered with thoughts, and there was images of John, of Lestrade, of Irene, of drugs, of Moran, of Moriarty, of blood, of falling, of bullets and knives and glass and 221B and couches and warmth and caves and death and John Smith and snipers and the dead girl Sherlock couldn't save.

And then it all shut down. He stopped thinking, for a mere moment, and it was bliss. No analysing, no pressure. He wasn't a consulting detective or a genius or a madman, he was Sherlock Holmes, a man who was afraid and didn't want to find Lestrade, he just wanted to be normal, not a freak, not different. He wished he could fit in.

But it was just for a mere moment. And then Sherlock was back and was turning off the warm spray and stepping out from under the showerhead, naked and shivering and quickly shoving on his trousers and shirt and coat and scarf and was drying his head with a towel and bolting out the door.

Because no matter what, in all his 29 years, Sherlock Holmes had always been stubborn. And he, like Wayland, was not going down without a fight.

The car was a gorgeous black 1954 Bentley R-Type Continental, one of the only 208 ever made, a car that housed a six-cylinder, 4.5 litre engine, and was retro fitted with central locking, climate control, satellite navigation and a host of other modern conveniences.

Sherlock Holmes was going to blow it up.

Blowing things up wasn't usually his style. But in a case like this; where he needed a good diversion to distract the guards so he'd have a chance to slip them by and find his estranged detective friend; was as good a time as any to blow up a car. It was Wayland's and he hated it's wonderful engine and interior. He'd enjoy seeing it go up in flames.

The aforementioned car was parked parallel under one of the rare trees on the grounds, in a special, exclusive area of the staff parking lot. Sherlock was crouched behind it, breath ragged as he darted his eyes around to look out for the security. A few cameras were nearby, but by the time they would have caught onto any alerting business, he'd be gone.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?"John crouched beside Sherlock, his breath tickling the back of the detective's pale ear and his fair strands of hair brushing against the nape of the younger man. He had to repress a shiver, not bothering to turn his head to look at the good doctor. "Sherlock, why don't you just leave?" A small, cold hand swept against the back of the trademark blue coat. "Sherlock?" he said again. He got no reply in return from the tall man.

He searched for the black lighter from the depths of his trouser pocket, groping about until he fished it out. Slowly, Sherlock unravelled the scarf from around his neck. John had bought it for him, last Christmas. Blue and striped. Hard to believe that it was only a few months ago. The consulting detective felt much, much older. He began to knot the scarf around a small rock nearby, and John peered over his shoulder, curious and slightly annoyed. "Answer me, Sherlock. What are you doing?" the army doctor asked sharply, glaring at the rock.

"They won't say both of us- Lestrade and I- went insane," Sherlock started, cautiously lifting the license plate to take a look at the gas pipe. "No one would believe that. They'll have to say he died. And if the world thinks he's dead-" He commenced to unscrew the gas cap- "Then he'll be perfect for their experiments. I've got to find them. There's only one place he'll be, now." Sherlock directed his steel eyes to the tower jutting out the south wing of the castle. John took a sharp breath intake.

"You go in there, and you'll die."

"If they're hurting Lestrade, I won't forgive myself. I can't lose anyone else." Sherlock began to knot the scarf into the tank, doing his best to concentrate and not look at John.

"Please don't do this, Sherlock." A cold hard hand suddenly gripped the detective's wrist, tight and refusing to let go. For a moment, Sherlock's eyes met John- bright against dark, living against dead- and he used his other hand to start up the lighter, which emitted a flame with a small crackled. Immediately John withdrew his hand, biting his lip.

"I'm sorry, John." He didn't break the eye contact, this time, and lowered the flame to meet the scarf. "But this is one ugly scarf."

John's hand flew to his mouth and he looked as if he were going to laugh, but hot tears sprung in his pupils instead, the ghost of a smile lingering in his expression. And Sherlock set the scarf alight.

It only took the better of thirty seconds before the car was blown apart in a crazed flurry of flames and metal skewing this way and that like colours in a kaleidoscope. Sherlock ducked behind the brick building only a millisecond before he heard the loud thunder of the vehicle being blown apart racked through his hearing, causing everything around him to take on an odd blurry quality to it and for a loud, high pitched noise to occupy his eardrums.

The guards would be here in no time, a thought screamed at him. Time to go to the south wing.

Ping! The elevator doors slid open with immense effort, little squeaks and groans of protest accompanying the rusty gates. Immediately Sherlock ducked for the shadows of the hallway, stiffening as a young female guard, with a worried expression, raced past, swearing loudly in Welsh. As she pressed the button to open the elevator doors urgently, Sherlock spotted a small pistol in her back pocket. His expression hardened. "Cachau!" she swore, running her fingers through her brown locks as the doors started to creak obnoxiously once more.

Sherlock creeped up behind her, being certain to stay silent, before swiping away the gun with ease. She yelled out, spinning around with the intention to punch him in the face, but he was much faster, and used the baton to shove her forward, headfirst into the elevator. With a loud smack, her head collided with the opposite wall, and she crumbled to the ground easily, and didn't stir again.

A part of Sherlock felt guilty, almost. It was a feeling he wasn't well accustomed to. But then with a shock, he remembered that that woman help assist the covering up of brutal, illegal experiments, and the odd sensations were evaporated. He had to find Lestrade, and get out of here.

A few hectic minutes of scurrying around and hiding in dark shadows later, Sherlock saw the stairwell. Old and stony and looking as if it were to fall apart at the smallest step, the seeds of doubt began to worm their way into Sherlock's mind palace.

Maybe Irene was wrong. Maybe she had been lying. What if this were a trap? What if Lestrade isn't my friend? But I haven't come this far for nothing. I have to go on.

The stairs were tightly packed, so much that Sherlock couldn't even look up to see how far up the flight went; he could only start to heave his way up the stairs as fast as he could, heart pounding. Red seeped into his vision like blood and fear was rising within him, like bile.

And then he reached the first landing. A door. With a deep breath, and a tight grip on the baton, Sherlock kicked open the door, lifting up the weapon in preparation for a flight.

The room was empty, save for a couple of empty cardboard boxes and a dusty brown table, with a dead lamp on it. Dust lay atop every surface like snow, collecting and undisturbed. Nobody had been in here for years.

"What...?" Sherlock breathed out in confusion.

The next flight, then. But the next room, another twenty six steps later, was no different. Empty and bare, and unused for years. And the third, and fourth. Frustration was bubbling within Sherlock, and fear. Where was everyone? This place was dead! Empty! The only people living here were mice and dust mites. For a moment, reality shifted, and he clutched his head, the baton dropping to the dusty floor and causing the flecks to dance around the air by his feet, staining his trousers white and beige. What was reality? What was a dream? What were hallucinations? Sherlock was nothing if he wasn't sure of his surroundings. And Sherlock Holmes was always sure of his surroundings. Reality was the only thing that kept him from tipping over the edge.

You've got to keep it together. Until further proof, everything I see is real. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, must be true.

Then everything was easier, as if balance had been restored to his mind. Gradually, Sherlock got onto his hunkers, and picked up the baton, jogging unhurriedly up the remaining stairs, to the last level of the tower.

There was a door. It was unlike the other, old, rusty metal doors. This one was modern, new, painted red, and had a golden handle in the shape of a hound. And John was sitting before it, on he floor, and tears were streaming down his face.

"Please, Sherlock. For me. Don't go in there. It will be the end of you." He said softly, his speech cracked and worn. The blood was dripping to the floor, blending in with the red wood behind him.

It was a beautiful door, Sherlock felt obliged to not kick down this one, instead, placing a shivering hand on the golden handle, caressing the dog slowly before twisting it and allowing the door to swing open. Sherlock raised the baton.

It was an office. An office of reds of all shades; and office Sherlock recognised as Wayland's.

He had been here. He had been here only two days ago, or was it one? He had come here with Mycroft, and he didn't remember that he had taken the very same stairwell to reach it. How did he not remember it? This wasn't an experiment facility. At least, the tower wasn't. He had been sent in the wrong place, he realised. And Lestrade was probably dead by now. It was a trap.

"Have a seat." It was Wayland. He was reclining relaxed in a small, smart chair, behind the brown desk, calm and not at all disturbed by the fact that Sherlock was dishevelled and covered and dust and holding a very threatening security-issued baton in his hand. His lack of emotion made Sherlock angrier, an odd thing for such an unemotional man himself.

Sherlock paused, lowering the baton (his hands didn't stop shaking) with purposely snail-like movements, pacing up and down the room and keeping an eye out for any backups. He ignored Wayland's advice. "You blew up my car. I really loved that car," he continued. Sherlock said nothing in reply, still reeling as he tried to understand what was going on.

"Sorry about that," Sherlock muttered, uncaring and cynical. He took a small peek outside the paned window. Guards were shouting orders this way and that, assembling an organised ensemble.

"Your tremors are getting worse. How are the hallucinations?"

John was draped across and armchair beside the unlit fire. His eyes were closed Dead. He was dead. The red wound was blossoming blood across his cream jumper.

"Not bad," Sherlock lied.

"They'll get worse."

The little girl that Sherlock couldn't save lay across the adjacent chair, too.

"I know. Doctor Adler already informed me to the... symptoms of your drugs."

Wayland seemed amused, the corners of his cheeks turning up slightly, although at the same time, interested in a nonchalant way. "Did she, now?"

Sherlock nodded, irritated at Wayland's condescending attitude. "I found her, in a cave in the moors. You'll never find her," he snarled, as if it were a threat. Wayland didn't bother to try and contain his amusement, now.

"I don't doubt it, seeing as she's not real. Your hallucinations are more... severe, than previously thought." The elder appeared almost sympathetic. "You're not on any drugs, Holmes. In fact, you're not on anything. What you're experiencing are withdrawal symptoms."

"From what? The cocaine? I've never had symptoms like this before."

"Chlorpromazine. It's a pharmaceutical drug, one you clearly need. It's the same we've been giving you for the last three years."

A heartbeat passed before Sherlock could fathom a plausible theory in his head. "So... You've had someone spike my drinks back in London for the past three years, is that it?"

"Not London," Wayland sighed. "Here. In Baskerville. Where you've been for the last three years. As a patient of this institution."

"I'm a consulting detective, not a mental patient!" Sherlock found himself yelling aggressively, maddened by the accusation.

"You were. Look at this, please." Wayland was pushing forward a piece of paper. It was the same file that Lestrade had attempted to convince him to read earlier, Sherlock realised with a thump to his lower stomach. Without hesitation, he snatched it up with his free left hand, and scanned his eyes over it.

"Patient 105. Sherlock Holmes. Patient is highly intelligent and delusional. Former drug addict and consulting detective. Known to be violent and aggressive. Denies crime ever took place, for he believes he never committed any crime. Patient has erected a series of complex and highly fantastical narratives to escape the truth of his actions."

"Bullshit," Sherlock hissed, tossing the paper to the ground, and holding the baton before him threateningly. "You're trying to get in my head, plant an idea. But it won't work on me, I can see what you're doing."

"I'm not doing anything," Wayland countered firmly, "Except telling you the truth, Sherlock. You've created a dense narrative structure in which you're no longer a murderer, where you weren't committed here to Baskerville 36 months ago, where you haven't performed a terrible crime, one you can't forgive yourself for. A structure where you're still a hero, still a consulting detective only here because of a case. And you've uncovered a conspiracy which means in your head, that anything we say can be dismissed as lies."

As Sherlock heard the words, the lies unfurl around him, he felt the odd sensation hat his stomach was shaking, quivering with the same feeling that he received whenever he was caught out in a lie. With his spare hand, he clutched his abdomen and began to protest, "You're wrong. I'm not insane, my mind is the only thing I can trust, and you're wrong. You're sick."

"No. I'm desperate. I wish I could let you go, let you continue living in your fantasy world where you're a hero. I'd like that."

Sherlock sneered, gritting his teeth and drew out every syllable with cynical sarcasm, "That's extremely generous of you." Wayland shook his head with a withering sigh of disappointment. Sherlock felt as if he were taking a trip to the headmaster's office.

"I know why you do it, Sherlock. You're desperate to escape the horrors of what you did- believe me, I understand. But you're violent, dangerous,; the most dangerous patient we've ever had here. You've injured orderlies, attacked fellow inmates. Just two weeks ago you attacked Sebastian Moran-"

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock challenged, pacing up and down the office in a furious fashion.

"Because he worked for Moriarty. And you hated being reminded of the consulting criminal."

"This is ridiculous. If I'm a patient here, I'd remember it. I have an IQ of-"

"-144. I know. I've been hearing this fantasy from you for the last three years, Sherlock. I know every detail of your little role-play, every wrinkle. Patient 105, your missing partner, Irene Adler missing from her cell. The dreams, your hallucinations. And whenever you're confronted with the pain of reality, you just sink further into your game, by finding more 'evidence'- the woman in the cave, for example."

"What about- The fake Irene Adler you have locked in a cell downstairs. Is she imaginary too?"

"Quite the opposite. That's the real Irene Adler. She never went missing, we simply relocated her while you acted out your fantasy. The other inmates here- they're scared of you, Sherlock. You're unhinged, and aggressive. You saw what you did to Sebastian Moran-"

"I didn't touch him!" Sherlock all but shouted at the elder, eyes wide and manic as he tried to make sense of what was happening. He's lying he's lying he's lying he's lying he's lying. "How do you explain everything here? You can't say that I saw 221B through a hallucination-"

"Actually, that was quite real," Wayland sighed, deciding to suddenly take an interest to his own fingernails. "At the start, we could never get you to calm down. That's when your brother intervened. He came up with the quite frankly brilliant idea, of building a replica of 221B Baker Street, for you to go rather than spend your free times with the other inmates, and possibly attack them. You always seemed calmer, more content, and sadder there. For a while you'd be fully immersed in the fantasy, and we wouldn't have to worry about you for a while."

"But- What about Moriarty? Isn't he here? He's prisoner 105, not me."

"Sherlock," Wayland started softly, adopting a voice one might use to calm a frenzied animal, "You killed James Moriarty after the death of John Watson. You became consumed with the obsessive idea that he was somehow behind your flatmate's death, and you slaughtered the man after months of tracking him down."

Dead? And Sherlock suddenly remembered images of blood, of Moriarty, it was Moriarty who got shot in the back, not John. Sherlock had shot him in the back, and the blood had stained the floor of the swimming pool.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But if you can't accept reality, it's been decided by the board. You'll be killed by lethal injection. Put down. It'll be the best for everyone, they think. But not the best for you, I'm sure. So please. Listen to me. Or if you won't listen to me, listen to your friend."

The consulting detective's mouth opened into a small O as he started to ask whatever he meant by that, when the majestic door swung open once more. Without hesitation, Sherlock spun around, his baton at the ready to crack open the skull of whoever was standing there.

It was Lestrade.

"Hi, Sherlock," he greeted with a sad sort of smile plastered onto his tanned face. Sherlock froze, his mind going into standstill.

"Why?" was the only question that Sherlock could form as he goggled at his friend. "I was going to risk everything to rescue you-"

"I don't need saving, Sherlock. I'm sorry about this. But you need help. You honestly, truly do. There wasn't a choice. Apparently, while you've been locked up here for the last three years, you've been going on about me being missing. Doctor Wayland contacted me, asked if I could come down and assist in helping bring you back to reality. The theory was that if you saw I was fine, and not missing, you'd be alright. Evidently not. But someone had to stay with you, keep you safe while you acted all of this out."

Sherlock was disgusted, more so than he had been when Wayland had tried to force a sick idea into his head. Lestrade had betrayed him in favour of this madman. So be it.

"We're running out of time, Sherlock," Wayland muttered from behind the consulting detective. "I was given two days and our time is nearly up. I swore before the entire board of overseers that I could construct the most in depth role-play in the history of psychiatry. I promised I could bring you back, save you."

"You cannot honestly tell me that you faked everything. That you faked all of this."

"I thought that if we let this play out, if we stood back and let you take over, your logical mind would understand how untrue, how impossible this is. You've had the run of the place for two whole days. Tell me, where are the experiments? None of this is real, Sherlock. You've got to stop living in a fantasy, and come back to the real world."

John is standing beside Sherlock, his hand racing lightly over the taller man's shoulder, the ghostly white fingers pressing against the skin through the light fabrics. Sherlock doesn't bother to look at him.

"I tried to warn you, Sherlock," he whispered sadly, but he didn't sound like John; he sounded like a distorted creature trying far too hard to imitate a human, the tones and accents of the voice going this way and that as they pleased. It was an inhuman voice. "I told you not to come here. I told you that this place would be the end of you."

And John was sitting in a chair facing the main window of 221B, fists clenched and facing away from Sherlock, who was walking into the apartment, soaking wet from the pounding rain outside.

John was angry; furious, even. It only took Sherlock a moment to figure out why. An empty needle was lying on the coffee table at John's knee. Sherlock's needle. Oh God.

"I found a whole box of these, Sherlock," his voice rang out, cold and unemotional and unwavering, before cracking at the mention of his flatmate's name. He twisted his head to face Sherlock, eyes bloodshot and red. "Jesus. How long have you been doing this to yourself?"

Sherlock approached John slowly, swallowing thickly. "Since you started dating Mary," he admitted quietly, hugging himself tightly, a self-defence mechanism.

"Is that why you do this? Jealously over her? Sherlock, she's my girlfriend, but you're still my friend. You don't have to do this to yourself for attention." His voice was softer now, but tighter, like he was restraining some deep emotion. Suddenly he burst out, causing Sherlock to flinch, "How could you be so stupid?!"

Sherlock's eyes, glazed over from the drugs still surging through his body, drifted to John's own, and all he could see was pity, contempt, and disgust. Sherlock looked away and closed his eyes.

"I thought you were smarter than this. All the cocaine will do is ruin your body, your mind. Don't you care enough about yourself to stop? Actually, don't answer that. Don't you care enough about me to stop?"

Sherlock didn't answer; he took a few numb steps over to the couch and sank into the cushions, shutting his eyes closed and fisting his hands into balls.

"Are you even listening to me?!" john shouted, stomping over to take a seat beside Sherlock. "Sherlock, look at me!"

The consulting detective's eyes reluctantly shot open, and John could now closely see the small twitching in Sherlock's face, the bloodshot whites in his eyes. "Jesus, you're just coming off a high now, aren't you?" John breathed, like a dragon, breathing fire in the form of hurtful accusations. Sherlock didn't respond, didn't trust his voice. Not in this state. "You... You know what? I'm not angry. I'm just disappointed. I always thought you were better than this. All over a stupid girl, is that it? Do you like Mary?"

No. No, I like you.

Sherlock shook his head, choosing instead to stare at his feet. "Then what, damn it? Just... Tell me." John sighed, voice breaking slightly. The blond put his head in his hands, breathing in deeply to hide his sadness. "Because I really can't do this. I can't stay and watch you destroy yourself."

Perhaps it was a mixture of the emotions and the drugs, or perhaps a rare act of spontaneous daring, but Sherlock leaned forward and brushed John's lips with his own, pulling away almost immediately to see what the reaction would be. The army doctor froze and didn't move, but didn't return the kiss either.

The moment Sherlock's lips parted with Johns, the older man stood up, seemingly dazed and confused. "I need to go out," he said firmly, walking in a brisk fashion towards the door, snatching up his keys and black jacket on his way out.

"John!" Sherlock protested, jumping to his feet to follow the doctor, a part inside of Sherlock falling apart. But John was walking back inside up to Sherlock, fury etched on his features.

"No, Sherlock. I refuse to be a sick experiment of yours, a way for you to test your sexuality, or- or a way for you to get me away from Mary. You simply can't toy with people's emotions this way! Not when you don't actually are for them in that way. It's wrong, it's... it's sick."

"That's not what I was doing! I honestly do have feelings for you, John!" Sherlock countered, attempting to grasp John by the arm. He was shaken away roughly and John took a step towards the door.

"No, you don't. If you really do, you wouldn't have waited until you were high to make a move," John hissed, shaking with anger. The door slammed behind him as he strode out, leaving a long lingering echo throughout the flat.

It only took the most of fifteen seconds for Sherlock to make a decision. Snatching up his coat and scarf from the coat rack nearby, he started down the stairs as fast as he could, throwing on the clothes as he went.

"John!" he yelled, calling after the blond as he spotted him taking a shortcut through a nearby alleyway to avoid the detective. "John!"

"Piss off," John called back over the hail of rain when Sherlock rounded the corner into the alley after him.

The darkness hid the other figure in the alleyway from them both.

"John, listen to me." Sherlock grabbed John's shoulder and spun him around roughly. Without hesitation, John ball up his hand into a fist and struck Sherlock in the stomach, who buckled over in the soreness of being winded.

The figure saw his chance, and suddenly they were both being shadowed by a man with a knife. Tall, hulking, and young, only late teens, Sherlock supposes. Obviously never committed a crime before. He's nervous; shaking. The knife is trembling in his hand. And if Sherlock knows anything, it's that fear makes people more dangerous.

"Hand over your valuables," he threatened, holding the weapon only a few inches from John's chest. The pair of them froze, and all was silent save for the rain pelting down.

"I don't-" John started, taking a timid step forwards, hands raised to shoulder height in a valiant, but utterly fruitless attempt to calm down the frenzied man-

And at the sight of the movement, the blade was buried deep into the chest of John Watson.

Sherlock was only briefly aware that he was yelling out before he started to give chase after the attacker, who was already bolting out of the alleyway. But only a few steps had been taken before he heard an awful, gurgling noise coming from the body laying on the rain soaked pavement.

"Shit," Sherlock swore, kneeling down, defeated, beside John. He doesn't say anything, just looks in shock at the wound- it's small, but deep, and blood is slowly oozing out of him, like oil. The knife had passed through the ribcage, and punctured the lungs and heart inside.

Sherlock can tell at once that it's fatal. And he knows that John knows it too. It's with a slowly sinking terror that he remembers that neither of them have their phones with them. He can't leave John to get help, either. He's stuck.

"John, don't move. Stay perfectly still. You'll be just fine, try not to say anything that won't help contribute to getting you out of this alive," Sherlock breathes, shaking away the rotting sensation in his chest, aching and deep.

John juts nods, breathing in deeply- in and out and in and out and in and out and in and out and then suddenly he stops, and the breathing is replaced by an awful choking/gurgling noise that sends shivers up Sherlock's spine. He's choking on his own blood, and Sherlock's just watching on.

"John, stop it. Stay with me. Don't leave me alone."

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock shook his head, ignoring the hot tears welling within him. "It was true. I do have feelings for you. It wasn't an experiment or a method or anything to do with me being high. I always had feelings for you, which I don't understand and it terrifies me and confounds me to my very core. But I have feelings for you, and-"

"Sherlock."

And then Sherlock realises what the odd shifting has been- John has awkwardly and uncomfortably removed his gun from his back pocket. Sherlock can almost feel his insides go cold.

"No."

"Sherlock, I'm dying. I don't want to choke on my own blood. Please." John murmured in a gurgled voice, practically inaudible over the rain drops. Thorough the wet mist it's easy to lose John's blue eyes, filled with hot tears (or is it the rain?).

It's only later, much later, after he's shot John in the head and the blood goes everywhere and starts to mix with the heavy rain and drain away into the nearby drainage pipes and the grey matter sticks to the dark pavement like a sick grotesque painting and his body goes icy cold and Sherlock's wept over John's dead corpse, so still and unlike John, and the ambulance took the body and the funeral where all of John's friends and family and acquaintances and boring girlfriends and work mates and Mary all attended to fake-cry over a man they barely knew and Sherlock's mind started to deteriorate and he had decided that Moriarty was behind this, he had to be (who else wanted to make him suffer so much?) and he had spent weeks tracking down the consulting criminal and shot him in the back, like he had shot John in the head, only when he turned himself in for the murder of both John Watson and James Moriarty, only after he was declared insane and sent to Baskerville, only after he had been issued a cell and had hours to think and cry and fabricate a different reality for himself, had Sherlock realised that John had never said that he felt the same way for Sherlock and it was unlikely that he ever held romantic feelings for the detective.

"Sherlock."

It was Mycroft. When had he arrived? Sherlock was sitting in the crimson armchair, and Wayland, Lestrade, Mycroft and Zimmer were all surrounding him with concerned looks planted on their features. Sherlock wiped away the tears on his face and he nodded, struggling to keep his voice even and calm.

"I killed John Watson."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because he was dying, and he asked me to put him out of his misery."

"What about Moriarty?"

"I killed him, too."

"Why?"

"Because I became paranoid. I thought he was responsible for John's death."

"And was he?"

"No."

Mycroft sighed with relief and stood up straight again, suddenly becoming interested in the end of his umbrella. "See, Sherlock, we broke through once before. About nine months ago. But you regressed."

Sherlock's head spun, but this time he found it easier to accept the reality. "I don't remember that," he commented.

"I know. You reset, brother, like one of Mummy's old cassette tapes on an infinite loop. Hopefully this won't happen ever again. But I need to know- have you accepted reality?"

Sherlock took in a deep breath, diverting his bright eyes from Wayland to Mycroft to Zimmer to Lestrade.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. And I killed John Watson in the Winter of 2011..."

Sherlock sat in the armchair that John loved so much, that John always drank his tea in and watched crap telly from. His fingers, long and slender, tapped against the armrest as he thought, deep in contemplation. Lestrade cautiously approached the man. Hesitating before sitting down on the chair opposite, he cleared his throat before trying to make conversation.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?"

Seemingly only realising that Greg was in the room at that moment, Sherlock shook himself as if awakening from a dream, and directed Greg a small grimace.

"I don't like this, Lestrade. There's something going on here, going on in Baskerville. The only people we can trust here are each other, understood?"

Greg's heart sank. He nodded numbly, lingering for a moment whilst watching Sherlock's eyes flutter shut, descending back into his mind palace. He looked over at Wayland, and gave him a crumbling expression that spoke it all. Wayland nodded and started to speak orders through a walkie-talkie.

"I know you don't trust him, but you're going to have to come with Mr. Wayland, now. He'll inform you more about the case," Lestrade said softly, standing up and indicating for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock nodded slowly and rose to his feet, towering above Lestrade. As he passed the D.I. by, however, he muttered quietly, "Which is better, Lestrade? To live as a monster, or die as a good man?"

By the time Lestrade had worked out the meaning of Sherlock's words, and intentions behind them, the detective had followed the doctor to the elevator, which was now creaking shut with rusty doors, setting off on a one-way trip back to the asylum.