Disclaimers:

This story contains very dark themes of sexual assault. The stories "Hades" and "Loaded" are companion one-shots, for anyone wishing for a further look into the relationships depicted here. Thanks to my beta, Thessaly, and please enjoy.

The Private Journal of Sherlock Holmes

April 19

Finally a moment to write, thousands of feet above the Atlantic. The business jet is small, but spacious, and with John, myself and our associate being the only passengers, there's none of the claustrophobic pressure of a hundred other people. John is asleep in the aft compartment, so I have time to commit a few thoughts to my journal.

I will record events as clearly as I remember them, beginning with the hospital.

It started with a dream. I typically remember my dreams, but I cannot recall one so vivid, so real as to almost leave flavour in my mouth, or scent in my nostrils.

A slender hand on my throat. A smile, a voice purring in my ear. "Let it happen. Let yourself feel it. Most people don't get this opportunity."

"What opportunity?" My voice, a little light, a little breathy, under the pressure on my larynx.

"To appreciate what it feels like to die."

The hand tightened. My heart began to race. The adrenaline bubbled through me. Legs coiled around me like some inexorable parasitic vine, and I felt my body giving involuntary shudders, bucking a little, my eyes starting out of their sockets.

I blacked out. I fell, plummeting through nothingness.

I jerked awake. I was in a hospital bed, strapped down with wide nylon bands. The feeding tube that had been inserted up my nasal passage was still there, choking me as I tried to catch my breath. I was still winded from my subconscious tryst, half-convinced I was not awake yet. But soon, the physical sensations began to filter through, and I regained enough presence of mind to start taking stock.

There was a finger oximetre clipped to the index finger of my left hand. I shifted experimentally, felt the pinch of the IV drip that had been inserted into my left arm. I was extremely sluggish, a combination of fatigue from prolonged unconsciousness and the cocktail of sedatives that had been pumped into my veins.

I tried to move again, tried to jar the IV needle out, but it was taped down. After a few more feeble attempts, I gave up the struggle. There was nothing else for it. I thumbed the oximetre and with some effort, succeeded in prising it off my finger. It fell to the floor with a dull clatter, and the monitor above me began to chirrup incessantly.

A young woman stepped in, a nurse or attendant. Nursing intern. I could see her badge, or the lower half of it that was visible as she leaned closer. I feigned sleep as she bent down and replaced the oximetre on my finger, then opened my eyes and lightly touched her wrist. She jumped. "Oh! You're awake."

As I was strapped down, I could make no gesture of affirmation, but did attempt to raise my head a little. She adjusted the oximetre, and patted my hand. "You stay there. I'll be right back."

She hurried off, then returned about five minutes later, wheeling an instrument cart behind her. I was able to catch a glimpse of entire badge: Beth Larson, Intern RNMH. The Marymoor Hospital, Mental Health and Addictions Ward.

"I'm going to take that out," she said, indicating the nasogastric tube. I nodded to show I understood. She went to the bed controls and raised it up into a half-Fowler position, half-way between upright and recumbent. Snapping on a pair of exam gloves, she unclipped the tube from my scrub shirt, then pinched it firmly between her index and thumb. "Hold your breath. This will only take a few seconds."

I did as instructed and tried to ignore the urge to gag as the plastic tube slid up my throat and finally out my nose. It wasn't exactly a painful sensation, just the deeply unsettling feeling of having a physical object sliding against my insides. To make matters more delightful, nasal discharge was leaking out of the nostril from which the tube had just exited, but Nurse Beth was equal to that. She immediately pressed a wadded tissue to my nose. "Blow," she instructed.

Trying and failing to shake the horrific feeling of having regressed about thirty years, I did as told, but found tremendous relief as I took my first proper breath since regaining consciousness.

"That's better, isn't it," said Beth soothingly, affecting a bedside manner clearly intended to put violently psychotic patients at ease. Perhaps it worked on them, but it did nothing at all for me.

"Yes," I rasped. "Thank you. May I speak to the doctor?"

"I'm afraid he's busy just now." Her expression was genuinely apologetic for all that her answer was automatic. "He'll come and see you when he has time. The head nurse can come speak to you. She's the one who'll be working with you."

"Fine. Good." I heaved a sigh. "Can you unstrap me, at least? I'm not dangerous."

"I'm afraid not." Again, the apology, but a little stiffer this time. "I'm not authorised to do that. If you wait for a bit, I'm sure the head nurse will be able to help you."

Before she turned to leave, I was able to catch her hand. There was an engagement ring on her ring finger, a modern design with a large diamond set flush to the gold band. Beautiful construction. Beth shot me an angry look before pulling her hand back.

"I'm sorry. It's just I like your ring," I said in a meek, childlike voice. "It's very pretty."

She fingered it, annoyance giving way to pleasure as a slightly vacant smile appeared on her face. "Thank you. I like it, too."

"Even though he's cheating on you?" I inquired with the most innocent tone I could muster.

"Excuse me?" she demanded, colour rising in her face like a thermometer, the Florence Nightingale act evaporating on the spot.

"The rock," I said, nodding towards the ring. "It's too perfect by half. Cubic zirconium. Clearly it's been a very long engagement, time enough the gold-plated nickel band to create that green stain on your finger, which says he's loath to commit." I paused, just long enough to soak in her gross indignation, before delivering the coup de grâce. "The entire thing couldn't have cost more than £150. It follows that if he's cheap with the ring, he's cheap with the truth. And you must work long hours, Beth."

Shaking from head to foot with rage, she advanced a few steps, the feeding tube in one gloved hand. "I could put this back in, you know."

"You could," I acknowledged equitably. "But that wouldn't be a very nice thing to do, would it?"

In a trice, she had shoved the tube into a plastic bio-hazard bag, turned on her heel, and left without another word. I smiled to myself, settling into the comforting glow of good friend schadenfreude.

I paid for my little moment of fun by spending a full hour restrained in isolation. It remained to be seen whether the head nurse was punishing me for my assault on one of her flock, or whether Nurse Beth had simply failed to inform her that I was awake. As the big woman came through the door, her expression seemed to imply the former. She, too, had affected a cheery air with her black cherry-patterned scrubs and her false smile. The ID badge clipped to her pocket read "Grace Malloy". She was holding a chart on a clipboard, and had made a point of standing directly over me. It was a move very obviously calculated to intimidate.

"Mr. Holmes, hello. Do you mind if I call you Sherlock?"

"Please do," I said my throat rather dry. "May I call you Grace?"

"You may," she said politely, but there was no attempt to disguise the fact that she had already made up her mind. I wondered if the personal dislike I'd inspired would bleed out into the diagnostic report.

"Can you take these things off me?" I strained against the restraints. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Sherlock. You've already been hostile to one of the staff members." Her face was concerned. "I'm really not sure if I can trust you."

"What does it say there?" I nodded at the chart. "I think I have a right to know."

Grace heaved a sigh, and pulled a stool from the corner of the room, perching on it. "It says that you were admitted here April 12th, after having been transferred from London. You had been successfully stabilised after severe intoxication after ingesting several benzodiazepines mixed with high grade cocaine, and it was recommended that you be detained here until the mental health assessment panel has determined that you have attained the level of rehabilitation and mental fitness required to function in a supported living environment. At that time, you will be released into the care of your brother, Mycroft."

I absorbed this information, surprised by none of it. "I was not given the opportunity to speak on my own behalf, nor any legal representation."

"That right was overruled by your personal physician," Grace said coolly. "And in any case, I don't think anyone's interested in anything you have to say, do you?"

I narrowed my eyes. "I don't have a personal physician."

"It says here you do. Doctor John Watson."

I felt a jolt of shock. "Show me."

She turned the chart so I could see the signature that had been hastily scrawled after John's fashion, with the characteristic smudge at the end of the "n". It was undeniably John's signature.

The forger had made one vital mistake. I had seen this signature before, this exact signature, on the cheque John had drafted to Mrs. Hudson for this month's rent. It had been sitting on his dresser at the time when I had been "borrowing" his double bed. The signature had been reproduced flawlessly, using advanced computer software. Some staff member, possibly Grace herself, had assisted in affixing it to the chart, the content of which was otherwise genuine.

Mycroft. Bastard.

"I would like to speak to Dr. Watson."

Grace shrugged. "Maybe that can be arranged."

"What do you mean it can be arranged?" I demanded."You're preventing me from speaking to my physician?"

"You just said you don't have a physician," was the smug reply.

"Oh, good, you are paying attention." I leaned up. "Pay attention to this: You've been complicit in illegally detaining me. I'm sure you've been reassured that certain agencies will not interfere. And I know you don't like me."

Grace suddenly dropped all pretence. "You're right, I don't like you. You just destroyed a woman's happiness without any regard for her feelings, putting one of my best interns out of commission for a few weeks at least."

"I wasn't the one cheating on her."

"That's not the point!"

"That's exactly the point, Grace," I continued. "I'm sick, remember? If you've decided to dislike me, you've decided I'm responsible for my actions, in effect declaring me sane. So why am I still here? Are you sectioning on me account of your personal feelings towards me?"

"You're still an addict," she said, reassuming her "expert" mask. "You still need help. Just because you're highly intelligent doesn't mean you aren't sick. Just because you can manipulate, doesn't mean you're healthy. In fact, it's more evidence that you're not."

I sighed. "It's all academic anyway. You'll find some justification. I expect you've been ordered to, or your superior has."

She bit her lip, troubled in spite of herself. "I honestly do want to help you."

"Undoubtedly," I said acerbically. "If you want to help, discharge me. Immediately. You will regret it if you don't."

She closed down immediately, and I could almost see the gears working in her little mind as she boxed me into the category of "dangerous".

"Are you threatening me?" Her undertone was dire, affronted.

"No," I chuckled. "No. Not me."

She frowned. "Then what do you mean?"

"You would not believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

I considered. "No. I'm thirsty."

"Manners, Sherlock," she growled.

I glared at her. "You've kept me unconscious for days, tied me down and force fed me, all against my will, and I am not in the mood for bloody Oxbridge pleasantries. I'm also dehydrated, and if you're labouring under the delusion that the people who ordered my detention want you to mistreat me, you are mistaken. If you don't provide me with a decent level of treatment, expect to be sacked in short order. You won't be able to get a job in a petrol station, much less the medical profession."

Grace Malloy fixed me with an intent stare, weighing whether or not to take my recommendation, or allow dislike for me to fester. But professionalism and long experience prevailed. She stood up. "I'll bring you something from the canteen."

"Just water," I said, the idea of food making my stomach twist.

"You need to eat something." Again, the concern. Spare me.

"I've been on a feeding tube. Just water. Please."

She crossed her arms. "Will you give me your word that you'll try to eat something later?"

I nodded.

She considered me again for a long moment, then leaned down and unfastened the nylon straps. I stretched and arched, creating a symphony of cracks and clicks as my joints popped and my muscles extended. I leaned forward and grasped my ankles, making a more concerted effort to work the feeling back into my body.

"Stay in this room," Grace ordered. I waved a dismissive hand. I had no intention of leaving. She gave me another hard look, then turned and went to go get some water.

By the time she returned, I had, with some difficulty, been able to make several circuits of the room. My limbs felt less rubbery, at least, and the pins-and-needles feeling had started to subside. I lifted myself on to the edge of the bed, letting my feet dangle a few inches above the floor.

Grace set down a half dozen bottles of water, offering me one. I seized it and snapped the cap off, taking it all down in one gulp.

"Easy," she said, taking the bottle from me. "Just sips, okay? You'll make yourself sick."

I accepted a second bottle, and took small sips. The thirst was beginning to subside. I wondered what kind of drugs they had pumped into me. I could hazard a guess, but I'd rather be sure.

"How did you get here, Sherlock?" Grace asked suddenly. "You don't belong here."

I wiped my face on my sleeve. "What does it matter? I am here."

She pursed her lips, and took the two empty bottles back from me. "I'd like to know more about you."

I laughed. "Oh, I'm sure you would. Why don't you just ask my brother?"

"I've never spoken to your brother."

"Mm. Tell me another."

"Dr. Mathiasen talked to him."

I leaned back on the bed and put my fingers together, focusing on the ceiling. "And when do I talk to the doctor?"

"Why don't we wait until you've had something to eat? In an hour?"

I looked at her suspiciously. "Will you leave me alone until then?"

"As long as you stay in the wing until I come get you."

"Fair enough."