Thank you all for your patience. I have actually done some research on psych hospitals and such, so some of the story is fact based. However, some is completely made up. :)

The doorway to the solitary confinement cell in use was made of inch thick metal. The inside was split into two halves by sturdy, silver bars. The entire room was white and padded, bright lights buzzed overhead. In the side the patient was in, the only furnishing was a simple bed, if you could call it that, jutting out of the wall.

John stood awestruck in the doorway of Sherlock Holmes' confinement cell. This was a hospital, wasn't it? Why did this room look and feel like a prison?

John spotted his patient's figure sitting with posture atop the bed. He nearly blended in with the padded walls; Sherlock was restrained in a white straitjacket and his face was nearly the same color. John remembered he hadn't been outside in over a year. That and the sheer cruelty of this fate pressed on him made Sherlock's face pale and sickly.

He hadn't moved since John had opened the door with a swipe of his new I.D. badge, so John had only been able to spot Sherlock by his juxtaposing black hair. The curls were damp with the beads of sweat perspiring from his forehead.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Watson." John introduced himself to his new patient. "I'll be your new psychiatrist."

Sherlock didn't respond. His greyish blue eyes stared widely behind John, and as John looked where Sherlock seemed to be looking, there was nothing. Only the hallway he had come from. John looked back at Sherlock, his eyes sympathetic. Mr. Holmes was, no doubt, longing for stimuli, as he very well should be. John hated the entire concept of solitary confinement.

John closed the door behind him and sat in the one chair on his side of the room. John looked at the diagnosis papers within the thick file on his lap. There were loads of previous psychologist's notes on, well, everything. Ranging from 'He's crazy, keep him in here' to 'Run for your life', the unprofessional doodles decorated the file. It looked like the previous doctors had been driven half mad just talking with him.

John noted the diagnosis' the others had given him. Psychopathic, criminally insane, various delusional disorders, schizophrenic, sociopathic; it seemed to John that there was either a whole lot wrong with Sherlock Holmes, or the doctors before him had no idea what the problem was. John sighed quietly and dropped the folder to the ground.

"How are you, Mr. Holmes?" John started off with the most generic and traditional question ever asked in a psychiatric hospital. Sherlock finally transferred his attention to his new doctor. He only moved his eyes over John's figure, not moving his head. After a few moments Sherlock spoke in a growly tone, taking his time on every word.

"The more important question, Dr. Watson, is how are you?" His dead eyes pierced through John's soul.

"I'm not here about myself, I'm here for you." John responded calmly. A typical attempt of the patient to shift the focus of the conversation onto something other than themselves. If they feel like there is too much focus on them, they get uncomfortable.

"Are you? That's not what the angle of your left eyebrow says." Sherlock smirked.

John didn't think he had heard that correctly. It was such an odd thing to say. "Sorry, my what?"

"Your left eyebrow. You think this job could open a doorway to worlds of possibilities-maybe a raise, promotion, even a girl?"

"Excuse me?"

"I suppose anything would be a step up from giving psych evaluations for the military, it's sort of a dull job, isn't it? But these things take time, so why would you be so eager right away-" Sherlock paused with the realization he had been looking for. "Ah…you think if you 'fixed' me, you'd gain quick and easy fame in the world of psychology." With his last phrase, Sherlock mocked John with slashing sarcasm.

John was stunned. Of course, he had a professional curiosity in the case of Sherlock Holmes. But everything Sherlock had said about why John was there was true. It was all spot on! But how? The only thing Sherlock mentioned about him, that was obvious to anyone, was the way his eyebrow was positioned. But how could that tell a man anything except whether he was happy, angry, or frustrated? How could his inner thoughts, intentions, and background be put to words with only a glance from this curious man in restraints?

John was shaken, but Sherlock's words only reeled him in. Now he was more curious than ever about this fascinating soul.

"You seem surprised," said Sherlock with a slight smirk, the first expression John had seen on his face.

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well, with all of my other doctors," he emphasized the people who had left him with a certain distain. "Their amazement soon turned to anger. They didn't stay long."

"Did you want them to?"

"To what?"

"Did you want them to stay?"

"Not necessarily."

"So a part of you did. Why is that?"

Sherlock glared and shifted uncomfortably. "They tried to listen to me and here my side of the story." Sherlock's lips pursed in contempt. "Tried."

"What went wrong?"

Sherlock looked at John as if he had asked the most senseless question ever. "Well, they all thought I was crazy, that's what went wrong."

"Want to tell me your story?" John asked gently.

"Right, as if you will believe it."

"I have an open mind."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you have the whole thing in that file down there," he motioned to the folder John had left on the floor since they had started.

John shook his head. "I left it there for a reason. I want to hear everything in your own words." Sherlock seemed shocked by this. Apparently, no one else had been that considerate. "Wouldn't want anyone's bias getting in the way of what I can perceive for myself," John added. He had slightly lied: he did look at what the others had written as their diagnosis, but that was only to get a feel for the kind of patient he was looking after. Honestly, it didn't help at all. Almost every diagnosis was different.

"Dr. Watson, I-"

"John, please."

"John, I've told the story fifty-three times. Can't you just read it?" Sherlock pleaded.

John observed the heavy, hopeless look in Sherlock's eyes. They looked like a desert wasteland, oppressive grey sand drowning any color or life within them. "You wanted someone to listen to what you have to say, right?"

"No," Sherlock corrected, "I want someone to believe what I have to say. For over a year, no one has."

"Give me a chance to change that."

Sherlock hesitated, but surrendered and began the story of how he ended up in that bright, buzzing cell.

Thanks for reading! let me know if you like it so far!