John walked into the asylum's foyer and looked around; it didn't seem as opposing as he would have thought. There was a small waiting area with neutral toned couches and chairs to the right, with fake plants placed at different areas around the room. On his left was the front desk and John hesitantly made his way over to it.

"Hello, can I help you?" the plump middle aged receptionist asked, looking up from her computer screen.

"Uh….yeah" John said, feeling his nervousness begin to make his mouth dry and sticky. "I'm here to see my friend. Sherlock Holmes"

John saw the woman's face drop instantly. It was just there for a second before she replaced the look with her fake pleasant smile, but John still saw it. "Okay, I'll call the nurse on that floor and she should be able to escort you up there" she said before picking up the phone and dialing a few buttons. John could only guess the reputation that Sherlock had already gained here if even the front receptionist knew him just by name.

It felt like an uncomfortable eternity that John stood and waited for the nurse to come and retrieve him. Finally, a young blonde woman came around the corner and greeted him. "Sir, are you here for Sherlock?" she asked. John credited his worked with Sherlock that he could sense in her features that she was nervous about taking him up even though she hid it well.

"Yes, that's me "John said, faking a smile. He followed her toward the lift and stood next to her as she punched the number 3 on the controls. John felt suddenly very hot and he pulled at his coat trying to gain some air. The walls of the lift seemed to be closing in on him and he was relieved when it opened and he could tumble out.

The nurse led him down a beige and white bland hallway; John couldn't help but notice that all of the doors were closed and that no one else was around. It was eerily quiet and John couldn't help but think that this was a bad sign.

The nurse paused outside the last door on the end of the hallway. "I'm not sure what they told you sir, about Mr. Holmes' condition" she said with some hesitation.

John felt like he was going to be sick; the caution in the woman's eyes made John scared of what he was going to find behind the door. "I've been told that he is still rather combative and that he doesn't remember anyone yet" John said, a slight tremble in his voice.

"Yes, he is still very violent, that's why he's here in the solitary unit of the hospital" The nurse said hesitantly. "Would you like to speak with his doctor first? I think he's doing his rounds on this floor somewhere"

John knew that if he had to wait on the doctor he would change his mind and leave which he didn't want to do. "No, that's okay. I don't need to stay long. I just…..want to see him"

The nurse gave him a sympathetic look that told of her sorrow at what John was about to see and also held a small hint of the knowing look most people gave him right before they made an assumption that he and Sherlock were a couple. She opened the door and John stepped in. He expected to see Sherlock at once but was more surprised to see a bare white room that contained a table and two chairs but little else. There was a door and a small, long window on the opposite wall and John felt his stomach give a heave but he ignored it.

"He's right on the other side" the nurse said pleasantly. "Right now we're just allowing people to speak to him through the window, so if you'd like to speak to him come over here."

John's feet felt like they were stuck in molasses as he moved forward slowly, his whole body beginning to sweat bullets and making him feel uncomfortably hot. He followed the nurse to the window and instantly he saw why Greg has insisted that John didn't want to see Sherlock right now. And he wished that he had heeded his advice.

If John didn't know that the man before him was Sherlock, he would have said that there was no way it could have been him. Sherlock's room was bare and empty except for a white, plain bed he sat on. John was horrified to see Sherlock was in a strait jacket; tears immediately went to his eyes but he forced them inside. Sherlock's face was covered in deep red scratches and John could only assume that since coming here he had become self-violent as well; no wonder he had the straight jacket on. Sherlock's hair looked thin and John wondered if the stress was causing it to fall out. His skin was deathly pale and hung on him unnaturally; while Sherlock had always been too thin he now looked anorexic.

John knew this had been a mistake, that he'd never be able to sleep tonight. But it was too late for regrets now. He did the only thing that made any sense. "Sherlock?" he called out.

Sherlock had been sitting on the bed, staring at his feet, not seeming to notice John. When John spoke, Sherlock looked up. He stared at John but no recognition, no emotion crossed his face. But he did look at him and John considered that to be something of meaning. "Sherlock? Hi" John called out and gave Sherlock a small wave. Sherlock stared at him with a completely blank look on his face for a few minutes before he leapt off the bed and ran at the window. He ran quickly, not making any move to stop; when he got to the window, he beat his head against it roughly. John took a step back, completely unprepared; Sherlock kept running and making motions for the window but with his arms restrained he couldn't do much except for beat his head against the window, which he did repeatedly. When he stopped long enough to look at John, what John saw terrified him. Sherlock seemed almost like an animal; his eyes were bloodshot and dark, with deep circles around them as if he hadn't slept in days, his face was white as a sheet except for the horrible red scratches and it was scrunched into a mask of angry. His mouth was contorted in a snarl as he tried to get through the glass at John. John could only imagine what he would do if he could get through the glass.

John backed up from the glass and stood stunned for a second before taking off out of the small room. He had made his way half way through the hallway when the nurse called out behind him. "Sir, wait!"

John thought about running, just keep going and not looking back, but he stopped and turned around to the face the nurse even though he felt like he was going to be sick. "What?" he asked. It didn't come out entirely rude but it didn't come out friendly either.

"I really think you speak to the doctor" she said with a worried expression.

"No" John said. He swallowed down the bile in his throat and put on his best version of a normal expression. " Really, I'll just come back later when he's…..doing better"

"I know that it must be difficult to see him like that" the nurse said. "It's not just you, its everyone he's been acting that way around."

But I'm not everyone else…..I'm his flat mate, his partner….his friend. John thought bitterly, He should member me. John blinked back the tears that wanted escape from his eyes. "I just hope you guys can help him" John said before taking off down the hallway. He had no idea what else to say and he desperately needed out of this awful place, this place that held no hope, only the promise of more pain.

…

Sherlock's hands shook as he unlocked the door of his hotel room. The second that the door opened, he practically fell onto the floor. He tripped, stumbled onto the floor, the pain and panic overtaking him. He closed his eyes as his hands shook and a tremor of a shiver ran through his body. Sherlock crumpled and allowed a few muffled sobs to escape his throat; he felt bile rising in him but he didn't vomit.

Sherlock dragged himself to the bed and fell down on it, pain crossing through his body. He pulled his legs up to his chest and buried his face in his coat. He tried to block out the pain, to ignore the pain as he had so often done in the past but the pain was too recent to ignore it. The physical symptoms were enough to make him collapse into a heap but coupled with the emotional pain….it was too much to bear. He heard his phone vibrate and knew without even looking that it would be John. The thought of John made it easy for Sherlock to cry; he desperately wanted to talk to John. John was strong, he protected him, helped him….he wanted to tell John what had happened and have him fix it. But he couldn't do that. He could never tell John. He couldn't tell anyone. Not ever.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and listened to the voice mail. "Hey Sherlock, it's me….John, again. Listen. I haven't heard anything from you and I just wanted to check on you. Please give me a call. I want to make sure you're okay."

Sherlock clutched the mobile to his ear, tears rolling down his face. He listened to the message three times, desperate to hear John's voice. How much he wanted to hear John's voice, to talk to him. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut as the images of what had just happened flashed through his mind. His face burned as shame coursed through him; John would be ashamed of him. He was ashamed of himself.

Sherlock held onto his mobile and cried for a long while. He wiped his tears on the collar of his coat and got off the bed. He checked the door of the room to make sure it was locked, checking it once, twice, three time times before he went into the bathroom. He longed for home, the comfortableness of his own flat, the safeness. But he knew that he had to get cleaned up and calmed down before he could even consider going home. He turned the water of the shower on as hot as he could stand it and stripped his clothes off. When he saw his clothes in a pile on the floor, saw the blood, he felt his stomach lurch and just made it to the toilet before he vomited. He hung onto the toilet, stomach rolling, crumpling when he finally has nothing left in his stomach to come up. Sherlock stumbled into the shower but he didn't have the strength to stand; he sat in the shower and let the water fall over him. He pulled his legs up and put his arms around them, clutching on for dear life. He was shaking uncontrollably and he wasn't sure how much was from the drugs and how much was from fear. Crippling, unimaginable fear. Familiar fear.