Chapter 6 – Surfacing
O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown!
The courtier's, soldier's, scholar's, eye, tongue, sword,
The expectation and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion and the mould of form,
The observ'd of all observers, quite, quite down!
- William Shakespeare: Hamlet
The world is raw and irritating, and there's a man who just won't stop trying to interrogate him. Sherlock wants to sleep, even though he's not even certain how much time has passed since he'd woken up the last time. His thoughts feel sluggish, in need of chasing around his cranium, and even when he thinks he has managed to get hold of one it slithers away from his grasp.
He knows this feeling – it's the treacle-like stagnation of the sorts of drugs he wouldn't have chosen for himself. Legal ones, designed to keep him docile and quiet while being incessantly pestered with questions.
Inconsistent, self-contradictory, illogical. Your blade is dull, Big Brother.
He should be dead by now. Why isn't he dead?
"Are you paying attention, Mister Holmes?" the tiresome man still sitting next to his bed asks.
Sherlock isn't sure whether they've even been introduced properly. It doesn't matter – the minion would most likely use a false name anyway. He knows Sherlock, so must have been sent by Mycroft.
"Yes," Sherlock manages to string together, but he has already forgotten the question he was supposed to be answering. Things disappear from his head like the light of a streetlamp fades from view in one of London's pea-soup fog.
Over the years of boarding school and being dragged to paediatricians and child and adolescent psychiatrists, he had learned that yes is a safe answer when things are unclear. At present, he has no idea how to start gauging the potential consequences of either yes or no, since he's not even certain what they keep asking him about. Drugging him up and then trying to talk to him – it must be a trick, an interrogation technique of some sort. They're trying to get him to react, to misbehave, to make some sort of a mistake, so that Mycroft would have reason to punish him. Everyone always expects him to fail.
"The last time we spoke was two days ago. I was informed that you are familiar with medical vocabulary, and advised that I should not simplify my explanation. Is that correct?" the man asks.
"Yes."
Light is bounding off the white walls of the room, making it hard for him to focus on anything. What is even worse is the rough prickle of synthetic fabric that's touching too much of his skin. He plucks at what appears to be a hospital gown with distaste, trying to decide which sensory insult he hates more: that, or the rustle of the plastic under-sheet of the bed. Both are sending flashes of alarm up his nerves to an oddly unresponsive brain. He can't adjust the bedding properly, since his reach is limited somehow. He lets his hand drop and eyes drift closed again.
His inquisitor resumes: "you were admitted into the ITU at Chelsea And Westminster Hospital nine days ago for sepsis originating from an abscess in your arm and an overdose of fentanyl. You also developed an arterial blood clot in the same extremity, likely triggered by cocaine use and the formation of a fistula between the vein you'd cannulated and a small artery. An embolectomy with repair of the vessel walls was performed. Once the situation was stable, you were transferred here, to the Nile Ward of St Charles Hospital. You will need antibiotics and anticoagulants for some time, but you will in all likelihood make a full physical recovery."
The words ricochet around Sherlock's head, making a funny metallic sound, like marbles rattling in a tin can. Nothing of what has been said matters to him in the slightest. What is the man not telling him? What is this place, really? Could this be limbo, where these questions have to be asked and answered, before he can proceed to the place of peace?
"Where am I?" he manages to mutter.
"As I said, this is the Nile Ward of St Charles Hospital. We're on Exmoor Road in West London. This is a psychiatric intensive care unit."
Exmoor Road.There's a map in his head now: the Carmelite Monastery Gardens are within a stone's throw. There are spots there without CCTV. He could also head for the Kensal Green Cemetery, although it's better guarded after some teenagers had knocked down gravestones last All Hallows Eve, so maybe not. If he could get to St Quintin Avenue, he could then take the-
"Are you listening, Mister Holmes?"
Irritation springs up for being interrupted, though he's not sure if he had been talking or simply thinking. He would be listening to the man, were he in any way interested in anything else than getting out of here.
"Can I go home?" he asks, and then wants to bite his tongue because it seems to have a mind of its own. Where he'd left from is not a home. Not with Mycroft. Not ever again. He has no home, by choice.
"That's what I need to discuss with you. When you were admitted, concerns were raised by your behaviour that you were a risk to yourself and others. We need to determine whether that was caused by the narcotics you were using or something else, and whether that risk continues to exist. Do you understand?"
The words are like bees in a hive, impossible to follow every individual. "Yes," Sherlock offers, because he wants to stop talking so that he can work out the details of what's going on and why he doesn't feel as alarmed as he should by not knowing that yet. If he is not dead, then he needs to escape, but it's highly tempting to give up, to just wish for it to all end, to ceaseexisting – it's obvious he has been found since they know his name, and Mycroft is never going to let him go. There's no control; it has all been taken away from him.
"When you procured the fentanyl, did you mean to take such a large dose?"
"Yes."
He's quite sure he hasn't used fentanyl. It's rarely available on the streets. Still, something about it sounds familiar, but whatever it is, but the notion of it has now already dissipated and scattered in the impossibly blank, blizzard-like chaos in his head.
It's better to say yes to everything, so they won't know. They mustn'tknow that all the facts have escaped – that he's chasing the words but they're so small that they can fit into all the cracks as long as they break down into individual letters. He can count the letters, but they still won't start making sense. Usually, they're contained in the Palace, but he's lost his map. The Mind Palace must be on some far island, but he has no charts and no wind in his sails to take him there. Thinking about Exmoor Road has got him stuck on maps and roads and streets and lanes and parks and squares and numbers and… what was he even supposed to be thinking about?
"Do you remember taking it?"
"Taking what?"
"The fentanyl."
"Yes." Safe. Easy. Submissive. Leave me alone.
"Did you intend to die?"
"Yes." He's not entirely sure he hasn't been successful. What is this place again? Is he in the Palace, after all? Is this man a gatekeeper Mycroft has created, one designed to make sure he has his wits about him before he's allowed to gain access to his memories again? Then again, he doubts he has seen this man before, and he's awfully detailed to be just a figment of someone's imagination. Usually, when he talks to a person in his head, it's someone he knows. It's just a habit. It alarms people, if he does it out loud, but it's just a habit.
"Mister Holmes, you look very confused right now. Do you remember anything I have just asked you about?"
His memories are dangerous. They could hurt him. That's why people have always been trying to regulate his access to them. They think he's brittle, that his own mind could tear itself to pieces. This is why the man is here, to protect him from himself.
He feels brittle, and he wants everyone to stop watching him this carefully, so he says 'yes' again.
"Based on all this, we are very worried that unless you are properly evaluated and receive appropriate medical care, your health and your life might still be in danger. Your family shares this concern. That is why we are continuing to detain you under the provisions of the Mental Health Act. You have been placed under a section 2 order, which means that a treatment team will have up to 28 days to determine a proper course of action in your treatment. Do you understand this, Mister Holmes?"
"Yes." He doesn't, but he knows that this is an answer he is expected to give, so he gives it again and again, both hoping and fearing that it will unlock the door and he will be able to escape into the quiet of the Palace. People expect a yes; they hate a no, especially from him – they want co-operation and acquiescence and they all want him to be the way he isn't.
'He's a terribly obstinate child,' Mummy had told a doctor once.
"Now that your physical issues have been resolved, a spot is being arranged for you at another hospital unit within the South London and Maudsley NHS Foundation Trust. You have the right to appeal to a Tribunal if you wish to contest this decision. If you have any questions you want to raise about your treatment, you can talk to an Independent Mental Health Advocate. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Again, it seems the only possible word. The rest of his language has deserted him. He separates the three letters of yes in his head, picks them apart. It's odd how the word instantly ceases being. It's all in the context; it's always in the context.
If he's left alone in this place, will he cease being, too?
"I recommend you read this Patient Rights Leaflet together with a family member. Would you like one now?"
Sherlock frowns. What had the man just said? Would he like a….."family member?" he asks, puzzled.
Can they give him a new one, just like that? He'd like that. The ones he has are so useless. A father who is kind but rather pointless, always trailing in the wake of Mummy. She used to be so much fun, of this he's certain, but somehow it stopped, and he doesn't know why he ever even thought of her that way when most lucid memories of her are of a distant person, wrapped up in her mathematician's work or distraught at something Sherlock has done or not done, been or not been. Then, there is Mycroft, of course, who likes to pick up the parental role and uses it to harass him. He could have lived with just the odd, occasional patronising interventions from the big brother. It was a shame that after university, the man had decided he needed to meddle on a full time basis. All Sherlock had ever wanted was to be left alone. Alone, he is safe.
A voice appears: 'focus, brother mine. You're so useless at paying attention to others.' Angrily, Sherlock looks around again, sure that Mycroft is now in the room. That smug voice spoke from right behind him, just the way the taller man always stooped to whisper admonishments in his ear when he was younger. He swivels his head around, dismayed, but there is no one there. Has Mycroft managed to plant a speaker somewhere, just to torment him? That would be a whole new level of petty, quite an achievement, really.
"Would you like to go over what we have just discussed, with a family member present?" the man beside the bed checks one of the sheets of paper he is holding, haphazardly clipped onto a board. He has a tie and a cheap white dress shirt. Doctors tend to dress like that. "That would be your brother, wouldn't it? He's listed as your medical proxy. Would you like to discuss this with him present?"
"No!" Sherlock manages to protest, secretly glad that the notion of Mycroft seems to bring on an anger strong enough to air out some of the vapour of stupor in his head. "Get Mycroft out of here," he demands. He glances around, but the two of them seem to be alone in the room. Mycroft must be somewhere close, most likely watching the proceedings through hidden cameras.
"Alright," the man in the chair placates him in a resigned tone. After a moment of hesitation, he leans closer to pass Sherlock something.
Sherlock grabs it in his fingers, unsure what to do with it. Is this a test of some sort? The piece of paper is trying to speak to him, but he can't hear it unless he opens a page, and he doesn't want to. "What is this?"
With that patient voice Sherlock associates with those who think he is nothing but a common idiot, the man repeats himself: "it's the leaflet about your rights as a patient".
"A leaflet?" The word still holds no significance for him. He realises that he is repeating phrases, something he's normally schooled out of his repertoire. What would he need a leaflet for?
'No need for echolalia, young man,' a woman's voice he hasn't heard in years tells him. Sherlock looks around to see where she is but there is no one there. He should be able to pin a name to the voice, but without access to the Palace, there is no reference library available.
To buy himself time, he looks at the paper in his hand, turning it around. There are words, but he can't seem to decipher them and frankly, he isn't even all that interested. He has a headache, now, and the words are emitting a harsh stench of onion that makes his eyes water. The wrong sorts of drugs always do this to him; they tear down the borders between sensations.
"Can I go home?" he asks, after suddenly and joltingly, realising that's what he wants, though the practical details of what that means elude him.
"Where ishome, Mr Holmes?"
He wants to say his Mind Palace, but this could be a trick question so he hesitates. He sure as hell isn't going to allow them to think he's going to go back to Mycroft. A jumble of letters and words float in like driftwood. "Montague Street. I must have a flat there."
The doctor puts away his papers and regards Sherlock with what might be pity. Sherlock always has trouble telling that apart from sadness in people.
"Mr Holmes- I know what you've just heard may be very upsetting, and I don't wish to add to that any more than I have to, but I think it would be useful to address this now. You are not living at Montague Street. You live with your brother, have done so for some time. This is what I'm trying to explain. You can't go home, not at this point; you are not well enough. You have been detained under Section Two of the Mental Health Act. Do you understand what I'm saying? That you can't go home right now? That you have to stay in a hospital ward?"
There's a deeply unnerving sensation of none of this being real, that he's watching himself on video. He still doesn't know what's going on and panic is rising, because the man's tone has changed from bland to slightly demanding – something is expected of him and he can't find the right pattern to follow and he can't focus long enough to follow entire sentences to their conclusion. They gave him patterns, the therapists he has had before, scripts that he could use to attract less attention. They didn't give him one for this.
Tears well up in his eyes, and he has no idea why. He's not sad, he doesn't even know what that means. He doesn't know anything anymore. Letters, words, syllables like grains of sand on the ocean bottom. Insignificant, allowed to exist only as a part of a whole. He's like a microscopic piece of algae floating on the current, something that had been nothing even when it had still lived and fulfilled its purpose.
He's not aware of the man leaving the room until he's already gone, which makes him doubt if he was ever there in the first place. It's obvious he can't trust his senses anymore.
Perhaps he's alone in his head, now, and all the people, their voices, their written words are just projections of his own imagination. That just might explain why nothing makes sense, why the logic of the world is so completely eluding him right now.
Maybe something has happened to him, something so terrible it has trapped him in, the connection to the outside world irrevocably lost?
Maybe this is death, after all; the swan song of a neuron that has blinked its last transmission, still emitting a Morse code into darkness where no one is listening.