Chapter Two
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"Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage." - Ray Bradbury
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The tour of the hospital opened John's eyes to the sort of workplace he had chained himself to. It was pleasant in a plastic way, as if an architect had known what a textbook hospital should be and tried to simulate without being too obvious about it. There were decorative pieces on display every few feet and a large salt-water fish tank in the centre of a hallway intersection. There was something fitting about finding colorful fish trapped behind glass in the middle of an asylum; though, John didn't have time to fully grasp the metaphor as he was led beyond where more residences awaited his inspection. From what John could tell, there were about a hundred rooms, some with the stereotypical accoutrements one could imagine an asylum to have and others which were fashioned to the occupant's taste as if they owned it. One thing he noted was that all the doors all had electronic locks. It ruined the careful illusion the hospital had cast and revealed the prison beneath.
"The cafeteria is right through here..." Their guide said as she turned right at the end of the corridor. They passed a spacious reception area to enter what looked more like a sunlit restaurant. Bill was driven speechless by everything he was seeing, but the silence only lasted a few moments – as usual.
"It's like... some sort of Californian rehab centre. You know, for rich people..."
"We spare no expense trying to make our patients feel comfortable. For many, this is their only home." The girl brushed past both of them and brought them into the midst of the room, where there were several people eating a late breakfast. John couldn't help but notice there was a piano in the corner with a man sitting at it staring blankly at the keys.
Their guide introduced the pair of them to some friendly patients who appeared perfectly normal by John's standards. One woman had a stutter and seemed a little unable to focus on any task, and the other was a little excitable. It was some what relieving. So far there were no lunatics wanting to jump out at him, or people rocking back and forth singing creepy children songs. John knew that as a doctor he shouldn't have been expecting such, but the paranoia from before was still there. Were his earlier instincts wrong? Where was the danger he had been sensing?
The tour was almost over by the time John and Bill arrived on the second floor. It was about three-o-clock and they were in high spirits. From what they could surmise, their work environment seemed very pleasing. All the coworkers they passed were friendly and engaging, and the job itself was simple.
The last place on their walk around was a large library with an attached conservatory. Bill was still flirting outrageously with the secretary so John decided to explore the wild looking greenhouse on his own. It had a large glass entrance with elegant metal framework that curled about and accented the plants within. There were benches beyond it, pointed at different angles to offer the best views. Despite the large deck, there was only one other person was enjoying the smattering of sunlight that filtered through the leaves. He was sitting casually on a canvas chair (presumably his own) and playing with something in his hand.
Not wanting to disturb the man, John stuck close to the doorway leading back to the library. The doctor took in the sweet scent of healthy flora and paused to look at some creeping vines before the man in the chair intrigued him with his movements. A moth had landed on the stranger's hand and was currently crawling over his knuckles. Every time it tried to depart, the man snatched it out of the air and trapped it within the cage of his fingers till it calmed. He repeated the process several times before he became bored and started to scratch at its wings. He was in the process of pulling them off when John moved forward, as if to come to its rescue.
"If you do that you'll kill it." He said calmly, his unexpected words not even fazing the patient in the slightest. John wondered if he had been noticed from the beginning and the stranger had threatened the moth for the attention.
"What is the life of one insect worth I wonder? Surely not a stern lecture or a wagging finger – if that was your intention." He looked over his shoulder, clutching the moth between his index finger and his thumb. Even from this distance John could see the small fuzzy legs pushing furiously at the flesh that held it. "They are as common as the breath in your lungs."
He looked back to the wriggling moth and squashed it, the parts of it tumbling from his fingertips as he rubbed them together. The action made John cringe; he already didn't like this person.
"Fancy words. Are you a writer?" He hid his irritation well. Now he was just trying to make a passing impression so he could politely excuse himself from his company. However, the question summoned laughter from the mad man and he leaned back in his chair.
"Oh... you. Adorable. These streams of questions really do get to a person after awhile. It seems like the only tool in the box. I can't fault you for it though, I can tell that you're new." He looked to his hands with vanity and tilted his head. "I'm a Professor, or I suppose I was. Titles mean little in this place. Once you check in you leave your identity at the door and become a wandering mind with an attached circulatory system to pump full of poison so they can record the findings. The drugs are good though – don't misunderstand." His face darkened as he lowered his head into his chest and tensed. "I hate it when people misunderstand."
John stood there, dumbfounded by the speech he just heard. "I'll try not to misunderstand, but I'm afraid I'm missing your point. Er... my name is Watson, yours?"
"Doctor Watson." The man clarified.
"Wh-"
"James Moriarty. Now please leave. I've used up all the civility I'm willing to give you ordinary types." He said curtly before closing his eyes and smiling to himself. He reminded John of a temperamental cat. When John didn't immediately leave he waved a hand at him and hissed.
Choosing to humour the patient, John left and looked around to try and find Bill, but the orderly wasn't where he left him. After some fruitless searching of the second floor, he gave up and decided that the tour was almost over anyway so he might as well go home. Their guide had told them that their first shift was Monday morning, and he knew enough to navigate his way back to Mr. Holmes' office when the time came.
It was only during the commute on the train when John reflected on the character of Moriarty. There was something about the man the stuck John was as frightening. John had always regarded himself as brave, so the realization stung him a little; especially since he couldn't tell where this irrational fear was coming from. Maybe it was those cold eyes, snuffing the life out of that moth without a care. Maybe it was the expression on his face as he waxed poetic, like he were a king and all else dogs.
Whatever it was, John tried to forget it as he bought some take-away and ate it alone in the darkness of his flat. The television cast intermittent light over his face as he watched some mindless sitcom and fell asleep hours later, half-way through a documentary on sharks. In this dreams there was fire and the smell of gunpowder. When he woke in the middle of the night, he recalled a hazy memory of a moth bursting into flame, but it was lost once he reloacted to his bed and fell back into a restful slumber.
Monday was the weekend away, John still had plenty of time to forget all about moths and James Moriarty.
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Author's Note:
I think I'm using this fic as a distraction from life at the moment. I really should be finishing 'Playing The Fool' (almost done the last chapter) but this one keeps nagging at me. Sherlock will most likely be in the next chapter. The characters aren't going to be spot on because this is an alternate universe, but they will be familiar since their backgrounds are simular to the ones in the show. I just made them twisted and darker - except for ordinary John Watson. The poor guy... he has no idea that horrors in store for him.
Hope you liked meeting my Jim.
