Mirrors, everywhere. Mirrors that reflected Sherlock throughout the room. Reflecting a torn, skinny, raggedy man.
A man with what seemed like no soul. A tired Sherlock Holmes. The once great detective, brought down by self pity. Self loathing.
By drugs.
But that was just what Sherlock Holmes was now. Not the great detective that everyone wanted to be, everyone wanted to meet. Not the man who had everything, John, Lestrade, Ms Hudson. All he had now was himself. Himself and that voice.
Oh yes. That voice that cooed to him in the darkness when the lights were out. The voice that told him that people were watching him.
Not that Sherlock ever paid any attention to the voice. No. As a matter in fact, he felt it was a bit like Anderson. Annoying and never did really any good.
Weeks ticked by. Madness seeping into Sherlock's systems once again.
As normal, he rejected food. Drinks. Anything that a basic human may request.
He demanded his violin. To play. The nurses thought him mad, again.
Then one night. One distressing night, whilst Sherlock was thinking. Thinking, obviously of things to be thought about. Such as how to get out of that cell, how to get back to 221b and how to regain his name as the great detective he was, there was a knock.
Four knocks. Impending doom.
No.
Not impending doom.
There stood;
Jim Moriarty.
That made Sherlock laugh out loud, once. Jim Moriarty, in an asylum. Sherlock thought he'd never see the day.
Then he realised.
Moriarty wasn't here because he had been admitted. If he was, he wouldn't have Sebastian Moran or Irene Adler by his sides.
No. This was more of a social visit.
But social visits aren't what Sherlock's permitted. So he sat down, a small smirk playing across his face as he looked up at Jim. The voice in his head telling him that this was it. This was Game Over for Sherlock Holmes.
But it wasn't. Sherlock could see behind Moriarty's back.
The mirrors played to his advantage. Showing the small, water pistol that stood behind Jim. The hand gun that was only half-loaded by Moran and the small 22 magnum mini revolver behind Irene.
"Hello Sherly. I've heard-" Jim said with a smug grin on his face, the 'd' lingering as he talked.
"I've heard that you've been dreaming about me Sherly. I'm intrigued to know what happened in these dreams."
Sherlock shook his head. No way was he telling Moriarty what he saw. What he felt. What he heard.
"I'm waiting Sherlock."
Jim snapped. He was getting inpatient now.
"Do I need leverage Sherlock? Is that what you want?"
He glared and snapped his finger, addressing Sebastian, or Irene, either one of them as he continued to stare at Sherlock intently.
"Bring Dr Watson in. Now"
"Oh, Yes Sherly. I have John. And I felt, that, as a reward for you being let out-" Jim stated, as Sebastian brought John in swiftly.
"That we should, re-inact the dream. Isn't that a good idea Sherly? I think it is."
That's when Sherlock saw the look on John's face. Fear. An army doctor, scared. Why would he be scared? John had faced worse.
But there was a difference here.
Both John and Moriarty knew that someone was going to die today. Someone. But whom?
The voice then spitted in Sherlock's head. Hissed in his head, like a snake, a serpent hissing venom.
"It's over Sherlock." The voice hissed, making Sherlock twitch his head a little, standing up and wanting to throttle Moriarty, but the straight jacket restraining him.
"Game Over Sherlock Holmes. You finally lost."
This time the voice hissed in harmony with other voices.
Mycroft's voice, Lestrade's voice, Mrs Hudson's voice, Molly's voice.
They all hissed at Sherlock. Telling him that it was over.
Then the gun rose.
And a sharp, bloody pain in Sherlock's chest, a bloody rose seeping through his pure, white straight Jacket.
Game Over Mr Holmes.
