Title: Fix Me

Pairing: John x Sherlock / Johnlock

Disclaimer: Not my characters, etc, etc.

Warnings: Mentionings of drug abuse, self-harm, suicide and violence. I don't know if I'll add smut, but I might in the future. Depends on audience and stuff. If they want it, I'll add it.

Author note: I've not went over and edited this. I honestly don't care how bad it is, just go with it. Feel free to point out typos and stuff. Also, this was based on a real life experience. I was practically in John's state, I didn't come across a Sherlock and didn't break too many rules, but I know how the hospital worked. The hospital I describe, is a lot like the one I was in.

John had never been in a situation like this. Was it neccasary? Oh, most certainly. Did he like it? No, not a bit, but it didn't matter. His mother gave him one last worrying look, and signed the paper. John Hamish Watson would not be released from the mental hospital until the therapists find it neccasary. He could be stuck in here five days, two weeks, a month, maybe even more. It all depends on his healing process and to be honest, neither him or his mother knew how it'd all turn out. John was depressed and suicidal. He couldn't pay attention in school, his grades dropped, he didn't hang out with even Molly at the least. Then the principal, Mrs. Adler, had gave him a long speech about controlling anger after he flipped a school desk and broke them.

It was quite obvious he needed help and he had needed the help for quite some time. His mother knew this and he was at his side at all times. She always had the money to enter him into a hospital like this, but she always hesitant about it. She was afraid John would get homesick then refuse to cooperate with everyone, which just meant a longer stay. Then; if that happened, John would eventually just get more depressed. She didn't want it to be an option, but she had no other choice at this point.

She pulled him in close, kissed him on the forehead, then hesitantly leaned back to look him in the eye, "You promise to be good, John?" She asked, with expecting eyes.

"Yes, mother." He muttered with a small nod.

She smiled and turned back to the woman at the gray desk, behind a computer but she was writing stuff down on a piece of paper. John gulped and glanced around, trying to see the other kids. A rather large man approached him. He wasn't fat, but stocky. He seemed rather short for whatever reason, but was a bit taller than John. Then again, John was never tall. He had to be older, as his hair was a gray and black color. He had a faint beard, but it was more of a stub. The man extended his hand, "Hello, John, was it? Such a very common names. Can't tell you how many Johns we've had here." The man blabbered out in a loud voice.

John nodded timidly, rather scared by this man, "Uhm, yeah. The name's John." He reached out to grab the mans rough hand and they agreed on a tiny short handshake. John quickly pulled his hand back him and held his bag to his chest.

"Ah, well I'm -" He was cut off by the two large metal doors behind them being flung open and a police officer shoving a messy haired boy through.

"This," The man snarled, glaring at the kid was leaning over the desk, coughing, "young man was found all drugged up with alcohol." The kid glanced up with an odd glint in his eyes. John furrowed his brows, trying to figure it out.

"I have no issues." He muttered, stuttering a few times and slurring. He straightened out and it was now when John was able to recognize him. He was Sherlock Holmes. . .One of the snobby rich kids. He barely attended school, but when he did, he often pissed other students off. He would figure out their life stories with in five seconds, maybe even less. Sherlock never bugged him and never looked at him, so he doubted he would realize they even go to the same school.

The officer cut him off from his thoughts, "Oh, can it."

Sherlock spit at him, literally. He pulled back his head and leaned against the desk, fixed his hair and crossed his arms, "Please. Before this you spent your days living off five bucks, sleeping on benchs and stealing food from McDonalds."

There he goes again. John gulped, glanced over at his mother, who had a look on her face as if she already regretted this. She put a strand of her messy blonde hair behind her here and glanced between the officer and Sherlock.

The officer's face went straight, then looked at the stocky man standing behind John, "Find out who he is and his parents. . .I'm not even gonna attempt." The officer snorted and made his out the door.

"His name's. . .Sherlock, right?" John asked quietly, his eyes looking up at Sherlock with his head down. Sherlock fixed his stance and scanned John. They both knew what was happening. Sherlock was figuring out how he knew this and more.

"John Watson," Sherlock nodded, still slurring a bit, "you are correct."

"How do you know my sons name?" Mrs. Watson cut in, a bit abrupt and loud, but Sherlock didn't seem to be a bit offended.

"It says it on the wristband." Sherlock answered bluntly and shrugged.

"Right. Have a seat next to that phone. . ." The man laid a hand on John' shoulder, "I'm going to help this young man get his stuff together and Penny can help you with your . . .issues." The man directed John towards a door labelled room 223.

The room was rather boring, white walls with only two lights. One above the bed and one on the ceiling above the sink. The sink was placed next to the door with a mirror sealed to the wall and next to it was the bathroom with a short door. The man walked over to it, grabbed the top of the door and flung it open, "This is kind of like a foam door. Not sure what they call it, to be honest. Does it matter? No. However, it's so you can't stranlge yourself. Same with the shower door. We will check on you while you're in the shower. Probably yell your name, if you don't respond, yell louder, and if you still don't, we come in and check." He explained, then backed out and pointed at the bed placed against the wall, nearly in the middle of the room, "That's your bed. Ask for a blanket when you want it."

John nodded slowly and walked over towards the bed and set his bag down, "Anything will strings or scarves or necklaces will be sent back home." He said, approaching the bed, "Now, let's go through your stuff."

He lifted up the bag and pulled all of the clothes out. Firstly, he pulled out deodorant, toothbrush and soap, "Go put this stuff on the sink." John picked the items up and set them on the sink then went back to the bed. The man pushed through his clothes, counted the shirts and pants, then looked up, "Alright. These go home," He explained as he shoved a few things into the bag and handed it to John, "Go take them to your mom before she leaves."
John nodded and headed out the door towards his mom, glancing over at Sherlock who had his eyes fixed on John. He handed the bag to his mother with a gentle smile, "These go home."

She nodded with tears in her eyes, "Alright, dear." She grabbed the bag and pulled him one last hug, "I'll visit and call when I can, and if I can't, Harry will." John nodded. She pulled back and gave Sherlock a hesitant glare, but headed out the door.

Sherlock tapped the number in and tapped his foot as it rang. One of the staff members had a fixed eye on him, making sure he wouldn't make a single move. Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

"Hello?" The older sibling answered the phone.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. . ." He answered hesitantly.

"It's Sherlock."

"What trouble have you gotten yourself into now?" Mycroft asked with a sigh. Sherlock could just picture him holding his cellphone to his ear in the taxi.

"I was found drugged up," Sherlock began.

Mycroft cut in, "Not with Moriarty, right?"

Sherlock coughed, "Let me continue," He snarled, "Yes, me and Jim went out. A officer found me puking this morning. I'm still drunk, as you probably deduced from my voice." Sherlock stopped, waiting for Mycroft to make a snarky comment.

"Where are you?" He asked impatiently.

"I don't know. Hospital, it seems." Sherlock explained.

"Why there?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know. Closest place possible, I'm guessing."

"It seems like Mr. Detective can't deduce where he's at." Mycroft snorted in laughter at his joke.

"Can it or it'll be your head in the fridge next time," Sherlock threatened as the staff member gave him a concerned look, "Look; tell mummy I've been caught. She needs to like come up here and sign stuff, I think."

"What about Moriarty?" Mycroft asked as he jotted something down.

"I told them about Jim, they went off to find him." Sherlock shrugged, "However, I need clothes and stuff with no strings and all. Safety rules and crap." He sighed.

"I'll get on it."

Sherlock hung up and turned to the staff member, "Er, brother." He explained, the woman gulped.

"Ok. Right this way, I want to talk to you for a moment." She smiled politely. They walked past John's room, who was laid across his bed, throwing a stress ball into the air and catching it. Sherlock tilted his head, scanned the boy but pulled by the woman, "You'll meet the other kids later."

They sat at a round table with four chairs. The woman took a seat in one and pointed the chair across from her. Sherlock hesitantly took a seat, "So, Sherlock, was it?" She asked and he nodded, "Alright, interesting name, that's new." She smiled and wrote something down on the paper in front of her, "So, Sherlock, I'm Rachel." She explained, "I'm suppose to . . .prepare you for this."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow, "For what? I shouldn't be here. Isn't this place for like suicidal, homicidal, so on, type of teenagers and stuff?" He asked, actually, he really didn't even have to ask, it was for those teenagers.

"Uhm, yes, dear." She answered, and Sherlock snorted, "Well, there's all different reasons you can be submitted here. It's a mental hospital, after all." She continued with a small shrug of her shoulders.

"Oh! A mental hospital!" It all clicked in Sherlock's mind, for only one second was he happy than completely angry at himself for not realizing something so completely obvious, "How could I be so stupid? Of course, it's a mental hospital!"

"See; this is what drugs and alcohol do to your brain." She smiled politely, but Sherlock's face went straight. He studied her for a few moments then leaned back in his chair without a smug face and wrapped his coat around him. A awkward silence was held as Rachel raised her eyebrow before asking, "What's that look?"

"Oh nothing," Sherlock smiled, "Just observing." He did a small smile before leaning forward, putting his elbows on the table and clamping his hands together, "You don't work here, do you?" He asked.

"Not really." She shrugged, "I'm only a grad-student. For now, I'm here to introduce and help the kids. That's all." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms and legs, "Why does that matter anyways?"

"Oh, it matters." Sherlock smiled brightly before lifting his hands and setting his chin on his fists, "So. . .Why are you working here for that? Oh, don't answer I know why. You've been to a place like this before, haven't you? Oh no, I know you have. You had problems with cutting and depression, too. Possibly more issues." He stopped smiling, "And say, have you been taking your meds lately?"

Rachel huffed then glanced around, "Right. I've been to a hospital for that stuff before. Wanting to help kids and stuff." She gulped, "Now, please, I'm supposed to introduce you." There was another awkward silence, before she attempted to begin again, "So, Sher -"
She was cut off, "You didn't answer my last question." Sherlock stated. Rachel glared for a few spare moments, before something - someone - pushed the tension away.

"Is he bugging you? Eeeh, he tends to do that." Sherlock sighed heavily at the sound of Mycroft's voice. Not the good sigh, the bad sigh. More of a huff or way of pouting when it comes to Sherlock.

"No, just trying to introduce him into the program." Rachel lied with the politest smile she could manage at this point, being kind of ticked at Sherlock and wandering who this man was spekaing to her.

"Well, I'm afraid I'll have to interrupt for a moment," Mycroft stated as he walked around to the side of the table and glanced between the two. Then he held his glare on Sherlock, "Well, brother, it appears you found yourself in trouble. . .Again." Mycroft smiled, "I spoke with mummy and father."

"And. . ."

"They said it'd be best if you could stay for a while, but they won't be here to sign any paper or anything, I'm afraid." Mycroft then glanced at Rachel, "Will that be a problem?"

Rachel cleared her throat, "No, not a bit, sir." She smiled politely, "Just go up to the woman at the desk and she'll have you sign a few things and explain some things." Mycroft nodded then headed up the desk, leaving Sherlock and Rachel alone.
"Anyhow, Sherlock, you're here for your drugs and alcohol abuse." Rachel handed a paper towards him, "Sign this and I'll explain a few things to you." She didn't smile this time.

Sherlock found himself lying boredly on his bed, playing with a rubiks cube. He knew how to solve it, but for now he just twisted and turned it. His mind seemed to wonder for ages. Would Moriarty be placed here? Then, with his issues, wouldn't he be stuck here for ages? More importantly, he wandered if the dirty arsehole could go long without touching Sherlock. He'd break that rule faster than you could say 'hi'.

Sherlock chuckled to himself, because to be honest with his personality, who knew how long he'd be here either. What about that other kid though? John Watson, yes, that's his name. Would he be here long? Sherlock didn't really know. He never really paid attention to him ever before.
There was another kid, too. He didn't quite catch her name. All he know that she was well dressed and pampering her face with make-up. He snorted to himself. Teenage girls and there damned make-up. He wondered if he'd understand that.
He stopped as soon as he felt a sickness to his stomach. He threw his legs over the edge of the bed and almost slid across the tiles to get get to the toilet. As soon as he got to the toilet, he vomitted for what felt like forever.

One of the nurses was quickly by his side with a rag, "Oh dear, dear, dear." She tisked, and handed Sherlock the white rag, "I'll get them to clean this up, hopefully." She shook her head and headed out the door, "There's a glass of water on the sink, deary."
Sherlock got up lazily and flushed the toilet, walking out and nearly making the flimsy door fly right off the wall. He rinsed out his mouth and stared at himself in the mirror. He examined his face and let out a lengthy sigh. He looked terrible. The bags under his eyes were darker than usual and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked like some horror movie monster. His hair stuck out in several different direction and not to mention, the scrubs didn't make it any more better.
It would be a long next week or so.