Day Two

And so it was, that for only the second time in his life, John Watson was hospital-bound. Yesterday he could have done anything. The potential had been there, at least.

The morning was cold. That seemed fitting. It was all John could do not to roll over and scream into the mattress. But he didn't. He breathed, and he soldiered on.

It might have looked, from the outside, an act of courage. But to John, who knew the truth of bravery, it was not. Courage is a mask. It is a lie. He has seen enough grown men cry for their mothers to know that courage is a hope, and it can't sustain. It is optimism for the emotionally guarded. And that's the truth of it.

There was no one in the flanking white bed. No tall, scrawny man. No violin.

It was oddly disappointing.

At the foot of his bed was a single wardrobe, of no significant size or quality. It was there that he found his belongings. A quick stock-check found nothing missing, save the pistol. That had been a long shot.

Had he been less stressed, and more awake, he would probably have noticed that Sherlock Holmes had no possessions at all.

There was a mug in the bottom of his suitcase. He held it now, wondering why the hell he'd brought it with him. The RAMC mug was, on closer inspection, the one thing of sentimental value John owned. Unless you counted the pistol; and Ella had frowned on that.

The anger came from nowhere. It always did, but never had it exploded and seethed into being as it did now. He hurled the mug at the wall, and the resultant crash was unbearably loud. It was done. It was broken. Then his head was in his hands and, instead of tears, there was loud, angry sobs. Why had he done that? He had never killed anyone with a mug of tea; Ella had made sure of that before she had declared that it was a nice thing to hang on to. And now it was gone too. Maybe he did belong here.

A deep, baritone voice interrupted his regrets.

"You'll want to get rid of that mess," it drawled. "If they think you're creating sharp objects you'll be on supervision before you can say have you seen the blood stains in the art therapy room?"

The sentence changed so rapidly that John could only blink up at its perpetrator.

Sherlock looked back, unfazed. If anything he looked even stranger in the daylight. His skin was strikingly white against the dark of his hair and pressed black suit. A scan of the perimeter told John that Sherlock must have been in the bathroom. Embarrassment flared inside him. He should have been more careful.

John hesitated, unsure of what he had heard. "...blood stains?"

"Yes, in the art therapy room. You should go downstairs now. I hear they hate it when you're late."

"Ah...You're not coming?"

Sherlock smirked, his eyes glinting with repressed energy. "My programme is somewhat different to yours."


"How long do I have to stay here?"

Dr Feng laughs quietly, but it is not cruel. It may as well be.

"As long as I see fit, Mr Watson," she replies.

"Doctor," John corrects her, out of habit.

"Yes?"

"No – oh, never mind."

How much was it possible for one man to lose? Surely his identity was too much.

This consulting room is like none he's seen before. It's bordering on lavish. A faux-diamond chandelier is suspended above them and potted plants are placed strategically throughout the area. This room breaks out of the blue-and-white bleak of the hospital. Behind the psychiatrist, a window is open slightly. It's the only window above ground level that can do that.

Dr Feng herself appears to be of expensive taste. She's sitting on a red leather office chair; a deep red which seems to exactly match the shade of her shiny fingernails. She's wearing a purple cashmere dress. Her olive skin is almost glowing as she watches his every move.

"I hear that you've had some trouble with socialising; maintaining relationships, jobs...that kind of thing. Would you like to tell me about that?"

He wishes he could say "No, not really," but that would be petulant, and he feels infantilised enough as it is. He settles with, "There's not much to say."

Dr Feng smoothes down some non-existent stray hair. "I don't think that's the case, do you?"

"I'd rather not talk about this."

She smiles a wide, shark-like smile. "But how do you expect to recover, if you do not talk?"

His jaw has set. "I want to leave."

"Very well, you may leave my office. I'll see you again in a few days time."

She's doing it on purpose, he thinks. She knows what he means. She must know.

"I was thinking more about leaving this damn hospital. I've had enough."

"But, John, you've only just arrived."

"I want to go back," he says resolutely.

"Back: why do you say that?" Dr Feng asks, her hand flying over the note-pad on her lap.

"Because I'm fine!" his voice is getting higher and can feel his exhaustion strain; becoming unbearable. "I'm absolutely bloody ok! This is unnecessary and, frankly, a waste of my time."

"I'm sorry," Dr Feng says, with utmost calm, "you must have misunderstood my question. I meant, why do you choose the word back, as appose to home?"

His mind grinds to a halt. He doesn't have an answer.


If there is such a thing as serenity here, it's outside of the four walls. The gardens are well-kept, teased of weeds and other blemishes. But the gates are imminent, and they are un-missable. Looming from the far bank they twist up and higher still. Even here, entrapment is forefront.

In the near distance, John can see other patients. He recognises the red-headed woman, but he can't remember her name. She had vivid green eyes. He remembers that. She's kicking a football; laughing. The man, short and dark, he's laughing too.

When was the last time he laughed?

John holds his mobile phone in the palm of his hand. Harry's phone, really. He skims through its content. There are no pictures of his life here. No friends, no family. There are no pictures at all.

A presence is approaching. They join him, taking a place on the hardwood bench beside him. For a while, they say nothing at all.

"Dismal, isn't it?" says Sherlock, sounding every bit as bored as he looks.

"How do you mean?"

Sherlock's mouth twitches. Maybe he doesn't remember how to smile properly either.

"He's suicidal and she's hearing voices."

"And I suppose you're here on holiday, are you?" John scoffs.

"Of a sort."

It was just the way he said it, or maybe it was just him, but everything this man said felt like a private joke. John wonders what sort of person would have in-jokes with themselves, but the question answers itself: someone who has no one else to joke with.

"Trauma service, yes?"

John's head turns sharply to face his companion, heat spreading through his face. "I don't know who you've been talking to, but that is none of your business."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. He's enjoying the reaction. "I see: Iraq or Afghanistan?"

He positively delights in John's glare. The clenched fists, the new tensed stance he sits with.

"How the hell –"

"A simple deduction," Sherlock cuts John off with a wave of his hand.

John's hand finds his shoulder. He can feel the protruding scar tissue and the dull ache of the healed joint beneath his shirt. Away from Sherlock's piercing stare, the others have gone; the green-eyed woman and her smiling-suicidal man.

"Afghanistan," he says slowly. "But how could you possibly know that?"

Looking back to Sherlock, John is caught off guard by how close he is. The concentration on his face is visible. He is reading John, reading him like a book.

Finally he answers, but John isn't sure to whom.

"I think."


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