Watson's head smacked the back of the wall. He rocked forward, rocked back, hit his head again. And again, the same motion. I wanted to scream, to tell him to stop. Instead, I sighed.

"Yes, that's Doctor Watson," I told the attendant who had brought me through the winding hallways of the sanatorium to where Watson was being held in a small cell with a cot, lantern, and single window. "How has he been? Any trouble?"

"No, no trouble," the attendant said. "He's in a bad way, Mr. Holmes, but I'm hopeful that with patience you will be able to bring him back to himself. You say he was kidnapped? That must be why the man who turned him in knew nothing about him, said he just found him wandering out beyond his fields, but you never know about these people; I thought he may have been lying."

In his cell, Watson was muttering something I couldn't hear.

"Poor man," the attendant, Jones, continued. "Some of the persons who end up in these walls have been sorely used, it's almost worse to see than a man being born not all there."

"I can tell you've taken care of him," I said honestly. "There's not many sanatoriums that take care to ensure their inmates get sunlight."

Jones nodded. "We are not like some, we take care of our patients. Sometimes, there are some who don't react well to the walks around the garden, but this one has, er, I mean, Mr. Watson did."

"Why is there a lamp in there?" I asked.

"He wanted it, and it calmed him. I kept an eye on him, but he didn't do anything dangerous. He's not hurt, I assure you."

In his cell, Watson continued rocking, holding his knees and smacking his head with every rock backwards. His eyes were empty, vacant, and he didn't respond when Jones opened the door to let me in.

"Watson?" I called softly. Then, a bit louder, "Watson?"

He stopped rocking and froze like an animal that knows it's about to be shot. His eyes were wide and his breathing rapid and he raised his hands to cover his head.

"No," he murmured softly. "No, no, no, no, no," he repeated.

"Watson, it's me," I said.

"Don't hurt me," he murmured, "don't hurt me anymore. No, no, no, no."

"It's me. It's Sherlock Holmes," I said as gently as I could. "I've come for you."

"Holmes?" he murmured. "No. Holmes, Holmes, Holmes." He began rocking again, harder his time, and I stepped forward quickly to stop his head from hitting the wall hard, but the action frightened him and he whined and pulled himself into a tighter ball, shrinking into the corner.

Outside the cell, the Jones brought a wheelchair.

"It's only me, Watson. Sherlock Holmes. I'm taking you home. We're going to Baker Street."

"No," he whined. "No, no, no. Holmes. I want Holmes."

"I am here," I said, "I am Holmes. I am here. We are going home."

His eyes peeked out and flicked around the room rapidly. "Holmes?"

"I am Holmes. I am here." Hesitantly, I reached out and touched his knee. He yelped as if I'd hit him, and stared at me, his arms shielding his head. We watched each other for some time until he hesitantly reached out and touched my hand which still rested on his knee.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, my dear Watson."

He grasped me so suddenly I didn't have time to react. His arms came around my middle, and he buried his face in my neck. "Holmes," he murmured.

I stood, bringing him with me and placing him in the chair. He cried out at the loss of contact and grasped blindly for me, grabbing one of my hands in both of his as I moved behind the chair to push him along. He murmured and pressed his face into my arm as I moved us out of that wretched place. I could feel his tears wetting my jacket and shirt as he sobbed. Awkwardly, I signed him out of that place with my left hand.

Outside, I lifted him bodily out of the chair and into the carriage I had waiting. He never let go of me and practically climbed onto my lap in the carriage. I put my arms around him, holding him to myself and soothing him until we were well away.

"Watson?" I whispered when I was sure no one was around. "Alright, old boy?"

He sat up, moving his away from me and stretching his arms out. "Yes, Holmes. Just a bit sore. Glad to be out of there." He grinned at me. "At least I know you'll be very nice to me if I ever lose my sanity."

"You were convincing, Watson," I said honestly. "Far too convincing. I nearly believed the experience had driven you mad for real."

Watson chuckled. "And you had thought I wouldn't be able to do it. You were convincing as well, the perfect image of a distraught friend. Is the case over, then?"

"Yes, thanks to you," I replied. "But we will not, I promise you, ever do something like this again."

"It wasn't so bad," he replied. "That place isn't horrid, not like most. I was left alone, mostly, as I told you I would be. When I wasn't being watched, I simply sat on the cot or on the floor, resting when I was comfortable enough. They didn't hurt me, though I promise you I'm starving!"

I managed a smile. "There will be a hearty supper waiting for you at Baker Street, Watson. We should be at the train station soon, and home in a few hours. I've engaged a private compartment for us so you can rest. And when we are home, I have a surprise for you as well, which I hope will make up for these days you have been confined in that place."

"Holmes," he chided me gently, "I knew what I was getting myself into. You do not need to apologize to me, but I thank you."

"Nevertheless, I should have found another way to get the intelligence we needed. I will not subject you to anything of the sort again." He had been using his lantern to send me signals, relaying information from inside the sanatorium which I had needed to solve my latest case. It was I myself who had dressed as a local man and brought him to the sanatorium, claiming I'd found him beaten and ragged and wandering my fields. Watson didn't know, but I'd also bribed the attendants to make sure he would be taken care of under the guise of being a charitable good Samaritan.

He huffed. "You speak as if you haven't been in worse places for your cases. I once found you in an opium den, if you'll recall. I'll take an asylum over that any time, thank you. How you didn't choke on that poisonous atmosphere or feel the effects of the opium and an urge to return I'll never know. It's a nasty substance, and extremely addictive. Far too many young men are dead for want of it."

"I did feel some effects," I admitted, "but not enough for it to have a hold over me. And even if it did, I still believe the fear of the violent end which would befall me if I was ever discovered as myself in one of those places would outweigh my urge to have the substance. Ah, here we are at the train station. Right on time."

Watson slept the entire way back to London, obviously exhausted despite insisting he was fine. I offered him my jacket for a pillow and my shoulder to prop it against, and so spent the train ride pursuing the newspaper with him sleeping a heavy sleep next to me. It certainly couldn't have been comfortable, but I was there to look after him. Some time ago I'd learned that as long as his soldier's brain knew a comrade was with him, he was able to rest. We were once again safe and sound in Baker Street when I revealed what I'd got for him, holding it out unwrapped.

"It is lovely," Watson said, turning it over in his hands. And it was, of course. It was made of a fine leather dyed a handsome red and I'd had his initials stitched on the front in gilded letters. I had already commissioned the journal before the case had begun, but decided to give it to him now rather than later and to simply find something else for his birthday.

"It is for a purpose, Watson," I said, taking it from him and flipping it open. "I noticed your current journal is almost full, and you'll be wanting a new one for our holiday."

He slowly took out the train tickets I had placed in the journal. "You? Propose a holiday? I never thought I'd live to see the day."

I frowned. "But will you come?" I asked with feigned irritation.

"Yes, of course," he replied. "I will have to remember to go insane more often."

I huffed and sat down to the wonderful dinner Mrs. Hudson had laid out. Watson soon joined me, practically singing the praises of finally having good food. He was across from me and he was not insane and soon we would be on a train headed towards the seaside where we would enjoy ourselves until, inevitably, someone would ask me to investigate some problem or another as was standard fare for all our days of relaxation. And, for the moment, that was all I wanted.

Inspired by the Poetry of Emily Dickinson, which, in all likelihood, neither Holmes nor Watson would have been fond of.

Much Madness is Divinest Sense

Much Madness is divinest Sense -

To a discerning Eye -

Much Sense - the starkest Madness -

'Tis the Majority

In this, as all, prevail -

Assent - and you are sane -

Demur - you're straightway dangerous -

And handled with a Chain -