Chapter 2

John kept his faced pressed to the cold ground, and tried to block out his surroundings. He really felt lost, and confused. This had to be a dream. Nothing else.

"Hello?" Moriarty asked. "Are you okay? Please tell me you're not crazy." John sat up and let his eyes move to Moriarty, who was bent down looking at him with concern. Moriarty. If this was a dream, why could it not be Sherlock? Why can't he be Sherlock, asking him if he is okay? Showing concern like he used to do. Sitting there, telling him why he is so lost just by a glance.

John nodded, pushing the want and need away. "Yeah, yeah just fine." Moriarty smiled and stood up. John stood as well, and brushed off his pajama pants. "I don't even know what this place is. Apparently a rehabilitation center?" He said this with no certainty, only confusion. He wasn't sure if he could believe that woman. Nothing here in this dreadful place seemed right. Not the air, the ground, Moriarty, or even himself. He was so uncertain of everything; he believed things to be a lie.

Moriarty simply shrugged. "Beats me, I just woke up here. I want to go somewhere else." John could say the same thing for himself. But there was no point fretting over what he had no control of.

"Okay. . . Moriarty." It was hard for him to let the name slip from his lips without wanting to punch him. There was something wrong with Jim. He was different. It could be another "Richard Brooks", or he could really be different. Though, Jim is acting as if he doesn't even know John. Both of which was strange.

"Let's find what's up with this place. Kill some time." Moriarty nodded with a smile. The two of them walked around aimlessly, not saying a word. John was too angry to say anything to him, and frightened. This was a strange rehabilitation center. People were screaming everywhere, shaking in their beds, doctors fighting with them, women crying in their sheets. John hadn't known what to think of any of it. In a way, he kind of enjoyed it, he wanted to jump in at any moment. Like the whole place was a battlefield, and he just needed to make his move. One move and his life could end, begin, or even move forward.

"I saw it." John stopped at this, this one line uttered from a man sitting in his room, talking to a doctor. "Saw what?" A doctor asked him, tempted, and curious.

"Him. The tall man. With the violin." The patient was shaking, and his eyes were trained somewhere else. John swerved on his feet and looked into the open door, his curiosity and longing taking over him.

"He had a violin? Was he playing it?" The doctor asked. The patient nodded, and a smile speckled over his lips. "Beautifully. And. . .his expression. . . Like he was deep in thought." John bit his lip, and almost thought about asking more. What if the man knew Sherlock? What if there was a connection? John stopped his hopes from going too high up. This couldn't be possible. A lot of people play the violin. And this is a dream for Christ's sake. What would it matter? Sherlock is still dead, and he is still lost without him.

"Something wrong?" Moriarty asked John, who was still staring into the room, his mouth agape. "Nothing, just, got a little distracted is all." He told him, turning back and forgetting the man.

"There you are!" Doctor Lorraine exclaimed as she ran up to them. "I've been searching everywhere for you Dr. Watson. I told you to lie back down. If you don't remember." John let out a sigh of annoyance. "Listen, I don't have time for this right now." He told her, as he began to walk around. Dr. Lorraine grabbed him by the arm.

"And just where do you think you're going?" She asked. John flexed his jaw while glaring at her. "Anywhere but here." He jerked his arm away and continued walking.

Dr. Lorraine shook her head in disappointment. "There is nowhere else, Doctor. Only here. Then, you go to where you belong once you are ready." John turned back to look at Dr. Lorraine. "And how can I be fixed?" This was a question he had always been asking himself. How he could have been fixed from Afghanistan, from his want, from the loss of Sherlock. He had always wanted to know how to solve this, how to be happy without Sherlock, or the battlefield.

"That is up to you." John bit his lip, his mind traveling back to the dream he had only a few minutes ago. If it were up to him, he would fix himself right there. But that needs help.

"Okay. You can help me." He agreed, realizing there was really nothing else he could do. Dr. Lorraine smiled and motioned the other way.

"And you, Mr. Moriarty. You are wanted in room 36B, some counseling to see what intrigued your boredom." She told him, ripping a piece of paper and handing it to him. "Good luck finding it."

John began rubbing his palms together while following the woman back to the room he woke in. "There are other patients, new, like you are. Don't get use to them, we need to find someone for you to room with. You'll be easy."

He wasn't really listening, only nodding and watching the rooms pass by, with the people in it.

"I loved him, and he didn't love me back! There was nothing left for me to do . . ." He saw a girl crying into her hands yelling. Another patient had his fingers spread over a table, and he maneuvered a knife in between them quickly. Most of the doors were shut, but John still could hear the trauma going on inside.

"Am I the only normal person here?" He asked the woman leading him. "Everyone eventually becomes normal Doctor. Its just a matter of time." John nodded, as if he actually understood anything going on around him.

"Are these people. . . crazy?" He asked her. Of course they were. All of them had something wrong, twinky about them. The woman laughed. "We all are, after what they went through, it's hard to be normal."

After all, this is a rehabilitation center. John thought to himself as they continued walking. He couldn't decide if he was safe or not. If this was a safe place at all. With all these conflicted people here, screaming, shaking. Anything could happen.

"Okay. Here's some medication to help with your migraine, for now I would just lay down, get some more rest and try to remember what happened before you came here." John nodded and took the pills in her hand.

"I'll do my best, doctor." He told her this while staring down at the orange pills. "Don't worry. They certainly won't kill you." She said smiling, and walking off. John swallowed, and closed his hand into a fist.

"We'll see about that," He muttered as he walked back to his bed. He noticed quite a few of the other beds were now bodiless, and some had patients awake. John didn't think anything of it, just laid down on his bed and swallowed the two pills.

"I saw you in Afghanistan."