A Few words to explain my long absence:
25-30 page papers due every few weeks for the last 6 months. i don't think anyone would want to write anything after that.
thanks for all the continuing support and comments!
It was a month and a half before Sherlock was able to visit John in the hospital. Sherlock was the last person John wanted to see at the moment, but, much to John's dismay, he wasn't allowed to choose who he'd be able to see or not see; at least, not currently. He had been lucky enough that he hadn't been allowed to have any visitors for the first month during the transition period, but that was now over. He was still too new of a patient to make any decisions, and they were still monitoring his reactions like a hawk. John always had to be on guard, ensuring that he played by the rules until they had no choice but to release him. John noticed that they did seem to be keeping him a little longer than what he originally thought was the maximum amount of time they could legally hold him, but he had to comfort himself with the thought that, any day now, the door would open and they would inform him that he was free to leave.
Two orderlies escorted him to a table at which Sherlock was currently sitting. He didn't look at Sherlock as he sat down, nor when the two men walked over towards the door to stand among the other guards to ensure their patients didn't get too worked up or possibly violent. They sat in silence for a while, Sherlock staring at John as John stared at his hands.
As the silence dragged on, Sherlock's frown deepened. John looked lifeless and pale. They kept him in a plain white t-shirt with matching bottoms, which did nothing to highlight his natural tan features. His usually bright smile was now hidden behind frown lines as his mouth was constantly turned down from worry. His eyes seemed hollow, always subtly scanning the room around him to see if anyone was watching him. He didn't look anywhere close to being better. Sherlock tentatively reached out to grasp John's hand, craving the touch of the other man after so long, but John's hand shrank back quickly. Sherlock looked at him, surprised, but John still refused to look at him. Instead, he surveyed the men at the wall to make sure no one had seen them.
"I've heard Lestrade has come to visit you..." Sherlock stated cautiously, trying to make idle small talk. "He's been working towards your release... He's a good man." John grunted in response. Sherlock sighed in frustration and clenched his fist. "Please say something, John."
John buried his face in his hands, wishing Sherlock would just go away. He could feel his other personalities trying to break through, but he tapered the feeling down. He didn't need anyone to rescue him, at least not yet. He also needed to suppress them as much as he could while he was here, much to the dismay of his fellow personalities. It wouldn't do well if he started suffering from psychotic episodes. He didn't need Sherlock here screwing things up. "Leave me alone. I don't want you here," John said lowly. He didn't want to speak more than he had to, but he knew he'd at least say something in order to make it seem like he was cooperating with the program.
"John, I know that I am one of the last people you wanted to visit you, but I must explain-"
John's fist pounded the table, stopping Sherlock's protests and the conversations around them. John clenched his fists tighter as a few of the orderlies glanced their way. "You don't need to explain. You have done enough, so please, let me finish my time here peacefully so I can leave soon. After that, I don't want to see you ever again." John glared at the onlookers waiting for a scene to unfold. Once they caught sight of his expression, they quickly turned back to their own conversations.
"John..." Sherlock bit lip, hesitating whether or not to tell John about a flaw in his thinking.
"No, just please leave. I can't even stand to look at the man who treated me no better than an animal. Someone that swore that he loved me...only to crush my heart," he reflected sadly.
"John, please..."
"How am I to trust anyone ever again? Were all those people who told me about even people who know you or were they in on the experiment, Sherlock? How far do the lies go?" John gripped his hair, trying to ground himself. It felt like his head was spinning. For the first time since his arrival, he allowed the 'what ifs' to flood his mind. Had all they been through been false? Had Sherlock played him from the beginning? How was he to know what was truth from fiction? His grip tightened as a heavy weight of uncertainty settled in the pit of his stomach. The room felt constricting. John felt as if couldn't breathe as the impending panic attack took hold of him. He vaguely registered Sherlock clinging onto his shaking form, desperately trying to get him to calm down.
"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you. Mycroft can't keep you here. I promise, I'll take you away from here and take you to a better place. We'll get you treatment in a more comfortable environment. I'll take you back to Baker Street where you can feel safe and won't have to worry about anyone forcing you to do anything that you don't want to. I'll make up all the stupid things I have done to you, I swear I will. Just please, John," he begged. "Please look at me."
It wasn't getting better. Instead of being able to concentrate on breathing, Sherlock's voice was distracting. Hate and rage built up the more he continued until it felt like he was going to burst. Why couldn't Sherlock just go away?
John shot out of his chair, causing it to fall back onto the floor. "Get dare try to make me promises that you know you won't keep. Get out of here. I don't want your hollow excuses and empty promises. You probably said the same thing to the last guy you got tired of and dumped in a place like this. Just leave me alone."
John fell to his knees, all strength leaving his body. He clutched his head hoping, in vain, to stop the immense pain running throughout his brain. His blood felt like it was boiling; yet, he couldn't stop the shivers running through his body. It felt like his heart was weighing heavily on his chest, preventing him from being able to breathe. John tried to get a grip on himself, but soon gave up, no longer seeing the point of fighting himself to stay in control.
As the world starts to go blur around him, John vaguely remembers a look of confusion and horror plaguing Sherlock's face. He can see Sherlock trying to get closer towards him as burly men in white try to keep him at a distance, but his effort is useless. He's being surrounded by a wall of white bodies, each shouting different things which, to whom, John is unsure. He can feel their hands- oh so many hands- grasping and pulling at him and he can't stop them, no matter how much he tried to beg. John felt a pinch in his right arm and the world seemed to tilt even more off its axis.
Maybe their situations should have been switched; the sociopath should be the one having to be sedated and taken away to the confines of his mind rather than a lonely and untrusting doctor with DID. John thought it was funny how the world was so cruel as he finally slipped under the drug's power.
