Author's Note: This fanfiction will be completely inaccurate and isn't based on any real medical practices. If you are well versed in that sort of thing, don't read it. Or read it and pretend you don't notice how fake it is. Thank you. Have fun.
After coming home from the war, ex-army doctor John Hamish Watson wanted to die. He stood at the edge of the bridge, but he couldn't jump. He loaded the gun and aimed it, but he couldn't pull the trigger. He held the pills in his hand, but he couldn't swallow them. With every attempted suicide, his heart grew emptier. Life lacked meaning, but somehow still held purpose.
One morning, John wobbled through London on his useless leg, cane in hand. He arrived just in time for an appointment with his psychiatrist. He took a seat and waited. The woman entered, sitting down in the chair across from him.
She spoke, "John, there's nothing left I can do. You won't bother to ask Harry for assistance, and we've tried everything else. What do you expect me to say? I can't perform miracles if you aren't helping. At this point, only you can assist yourself."
Dr. Watson replied, "I'm just a broken solider. Who has any use for me now?"
The psychiatrist frowned. She advised, "I'll refer you to a friend of mine… but that's the last thing I can possibly do for you."
She handed him a strip of paper, scribbled upon it was the name of another doctor, Dr. Mike Stamford. He took it from her and left the office without saying farewell.
Seeing my second doctor of the day already, lovely, John thought. He sat in a bleak room across from the psych ward of St. Bart's hospital, waiting to meet with Dr. Stamford. The wall directly across from him held a window, which let him see out into a hallway. Through the lucid glass, he saw things that terrified him. Occasionally nurses walked by, leading patients who seem much crazier than he previously thought possible. One was a young girl, who had to be dragged along by two nurses. She threw her arms in the air violently. Another was a man with a polluted beard, who was in desperate need of a shower. He screamed out of control, running from the nurse who tried to pull him back. John looked away. This was too much for him, almost worse than the war.
A nurse came in and called Watson's named. He rose and followed her. After walking down a different short hall, they arrived at a very plain office with pale blue patterned wallpaper.
A man behind a desk motioned for John to be seated. He spoke, "{lease take a seat Dr. Watson! Do you remember me? We had a couple classes together back in school!"
John nodded, "Good afternoon Mike Stamford."
Dr. Stamford smiled, but this soon changed to a frown when he remembered why his old friend was visiting. He seemed to quote John's psychiatrist, "I hear you're having a hard time adjusting back into civilian life."
John responded, "Just a bit."
Mike rummaged through some papers, clearly John's file sent over by his psychiatrist. He cleared his throat and read; "You're got a psychosomatic limp and a tremor in your left hand. All caused by trauma, it says here. Three attempted suicides in the past month. I'd say that's more than a bit of a hard time. Wouldn't you, doctor?"
Dr. Watson asked, "So what are you going to do with me then? I'm just a broken soldier. Good for absolutely nothing."
Mike replied, "I think I might have the perfect use for you."
John smirked slightly; "What exactly, sir?"
Dr. Stamford answered, "I'm committing you to the Psych Ward here at St. Bartholomew's."
John didn't like the sound of that. The psychos he saw while he was waiting outside sacred him. He barked, "But I'm not crazy like those people out there."
Mike explained, "The people you saw in that hall are under our most intensive care. They have no chance of a full recovery. You won't be anywhere near them. I'm sending you where I send others who just need a bit of counseling to function properly, Baker's Hall. You'll be surrounded by the kind of madmen who can be fixed."
Upon hearing that response, Dr. Watson willingly agreed to enter the hospital's care; "Then I'm all in, but what are you going to 'use' me for?"
Dr. Stamford continued, "I've been searching for someone to share a room with one of my other patients. You fit the bill perfectly. I think you two will help each other a great deal."
Dr. Stamford escorted John to his new room. Mike knocked on the door and whispered, "Mr. Holmes?"
From where they stood, shuffling could be heard as the man inside the room made his way to the door. Slowly, it opened. A tall, lanky man in a suit stood in the doorway. He had attractive dark, curly hair and very prominent cheekbones. Instead of a greeting, he mumbled, "Mike can I borrow your phone?"
Mike begged, "What's wrong with the phone I had installed in this room last month?"
The curly-haired man responded, "When I asked for a phone last month I meant a cell phone. I prefer to text."
Dr. Stamford moaned, "Fine I'll see if I can bend the rules and get you a cell phone. But for right now, I don't have mine with me, sorry."
John interjected, "You could borrow my phone, if you'd like."
The slender man took the phone from Dr. Watson and replied, "Thank you. You two may come in if you'd like." He stepped back so the two other men could enter his room. He began to type up a text message on Dr. Watson's phone.
John looked around. The room appeared a bit different than a usual hospital room. Random books and papers littered the ceramic-tiled floor. Along the stark white walls, red ribbons and thumbtacks linked newspaper articles, hand-scrawled notes and printed photographs. Two metal beds rested against the left wall, with a thin table in the middle. A human skull sat on top of the table. The bed farthest from the door and nearest the window on the other side of the room had muddled sheets; it was obviously the one Sherlock rested in. The other cot was covered with miscellaneous scientific tools. The pile included microscopes, chemicals and several unidentifiable objects.
Against the right wall, two armchairs surrounded a small table with a lamp on top of it. The seats gave a comforting mood to the room. This lamp was the only light turned on in the room, because the bright lights built in the ceiling were not lit. It was most definitely not a typical hospital room.
After overanalyzing everything in the space, John returned his focus to the man standing in front of him. The man asked, "Now who is this man, doctor?"
Dr. Stamford replied, "This is Dr. John Watson. He's an old friend of mine."
The bloke turned to John and questioned, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
The army doctor was taken aback. He stuttered, "A-Afghanistan… but how did you know that?"
The other man smiled, "That's not important right now." He looked over at Mike, "If he's really moving in with me, are you sure he won't mind my violin playing?"
Dr. Stamford laughed, "He won't mind, but how did you know that's what he was here for, Sherlock?"
Sherlock explained, "Yesterday you told me it would be good for me to share this room with someone. I've been alone for a long time, and you think that's causing a lot of my issues. Now you've turned up with a 'friend', clearly he's recently returned from military service. You're committing him, but it can't because of his psychosomatic limp… that's not cause enough to put him in a mental institution. No, it's something deeper than that. Maybe he's suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder? Of course, that can usually be dealt with out there in the real world. So what is it? Ah yes! He's suicidal and since he's an old friend of yours you're concerned about him. Am I right? It must be pretty severe too. He's attempted it before and he's come close to succeeding. He suffers from harsh depression."
John was shocked and amazed. Mike grinned, "Dr. John Watson, meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes." He had known that Sherlock would quickly deduce something about the new patient. He also has known how impressed John would be. This was good for both of them. Stamford declared, "Well, I'll be off now. Sherlock, see to it that John adjusts well into life here at St. Bart's. I'll see you at your appointment on Thursday." And just like that, the man waltzed out the door.
Sherlock examined John again. He pronounced, "Welcome to room 221B, Baker's Psychiatric Hall, St. Bartholomew's hospital!"