Jim came to with jarring crashes of reality, followed by receding tides of oblivion. He was more aware of the sounds of London falling around him than of sights. There were engines and tires, laughter and shouting, slamming doors and shuffling feet. All this cascaded upon him, making him cringe into himself. Slowly, he was able to make sense of the scattered fragments, able to piece them into a mostly complete mosaic of his surroundings.

He was sprawled on the ground, his ripped and bloody shirt soaking up other fluids from the pavement. His tie had been crammed into his mouth at some point, presumably to dampen the sounds of his cries. He spat it onto the ground, that simple movement alone sending his stomach into spiraling nausea. He fought back the urge to be sick before moving his hands over himself to check for other damage. His torso was clearly mottled with bruises, and his own knife had been used to slice through his shirt and flesh. He stopped when he got to his hips, unwilling to follow the trail of bruises farther down. That could be dealt with later.

He was irritated to note that his watch, wallet, shoes, cuff links, and ring had all vanished. Wasn't taking from him physically greedy enough? He attempted to smother his anger in rationality, beginning the search for his phone. No intelligent criminal would have taken such a device, because it could be tracked, so he concluded that it must have fallen out of his pocket sometime during the assault. This was assuming, of course, that his attackers were intelligent. He wouldn't have bet money on such an assumption. Luckily, however, he found his phone just a few feet away, having apparently been kicked aside in all the haste. He fumbled with the buttons for a moment before managing to compress the one that would call for Sebastian and his defense. A bit late, but still needed.

Jim allowed himself to slump to the ground and rest for a bit before attempting to put himself back together. The thugs had been kind enough to jerk his trousers back up around his hips, but they hadn't fastened them, and his shirt was ripped partially open at the neck, exposing bite marks and discolored skin. His fingers began groping at the buttons in an attempt to regain some of his fastidiously constructed appearances. After some long minutes of floundering around with them, he had managed to get his trousers done up and two fasteners on his shirt closed. It would have to do.

His meager stores of energy drained, Jim fell limply to the ground once again. He could feel lethargy and hysteria stealing upon him, creeping in from the edges of his consciousness. He was a star gone nova, collapsing in on itself to leave a void, nothing but a black hole scar ripped into the fabric of the universe.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

At first, Jim was happy that is father had found the special drink that made his cheeks turn red and made him laugh a lot more. When his father was drinking it, he didn't scream at Jim or push him around. He would tell jokes that Jim didn't quite understand (he would later cringe after he looked up their meaning), and he would even share some of the drink with Jim. Jim didn't really like the burning hot feeling of it as he drank, but he would drink it anytime Father offered, just to make sure the dark, angry look didn't come back. His father would laugh as Jim choked down the dark brown liquid and say that he would make a proper man out of Jim yet.

Then the drink stopped being fun. Instead of having a glass or two, Father would drink entire bottles. It was a gradual escalation, but one still the same. Instead of telling jokes, he would scream and curse and throw things, sometimes at Mother, sometimes at Jim. He would leave the house for hours and sometimes days, only to come back looking sick and broken. One time, he disappeared for a week. Mother had called the police to see if they knew where he was, but they just said that he was missing. Obviously. Father eventually came back on his own, saying that he'd been a few towns over bar crawling. Jim couldn't remember his parents ever having a bigger fight.

A month later, his father was gone. Jim didn't know if he was out on another one of his drinking binges, or if he had just left, but this time he didn't come back. Jim didn't really mind. His mother cried a lot more, but it was better than the yelling. And people came to their house with food a lot. Jim got tons of sweets from strangers, so he was pretty happy. He didn't understand why he was supposed to be sad, but he pretended to be upset when he thought the situation called for it. A few well-placed tears often earned him a trip to the ice cream shop or a candy bar.

The only person who wasn't nicer to Jim after his father left was his mother. She didn't yell at him, but she didn't really talk to him at all, either. If he accidentally walked into a room while she was in it, she would simply shoot him a glare or watch him in a calculating sort of way that made him feel uneasy. And when he accidentally caught the rug on fire while playing with her lighter, Mother didn't yell or hit him like usual. No, this time she threw him down the stairs into the cellar and bolted the door shut. He never did figure out how long he was trapped in the dank darkness, but it was long enough that he was desperately hungry and cold before she let him out again.

It wasn't the dark that scared him, or even the scuttling sounds of mice and bugs in the corners of the room. It was being alone with himself, of having nothing to do but listen to himself think. By the time light poured into the room from the opening door above, Jim was scrambling to get back into his room and to drown himself out with absolutely anything he could find. He ended up finding one last bottle of that dark brown liquid. It would have to do.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Large arms were wrapping themselves underneath Jim's back and knees. He had the peculiar sensation of floating as he was lifted and carried towards a sleek vehicle parked near the alleyway. A Porsche, he giggled to himself. And this one didn't have sugar in the gas tank.

"Fuck, Jim, you sure do get yourself into a lot of shit when I'm not around."

He grinned broadly up at Sebastian. Seb was his favorite. Seb was a masochist, and Jim was a sadist. It's like they were made for each other. "You have no idea."

The feeling of flying ended as he was settled into the passenger's seat. He was rather miffed about this; he'd always enjoyed airplane rides and that blissful feeling of free fall before striking the water after a dive. He didn't mention it, however, as Sebastian was already starting up the car to drive him home.

His knuckles were strangely white as he wove his way through the traffic. "What happened?"

"I was mugged."

Sebastian's jaw clenched more tightly as he threw a glare in Jim's direction. "Obviously. What I mean is, why didn't you call me before you were mugged? And why in bloody hell did you let them have your knife?"

Jim gave a light giggle as he watched an angry flush crawl up Seb's neck. "You're cute when you're acting all protective."

"And you're concussed."

Jim gingerly touched the back of his head, feeling the lump and crusting layer of blood. "So I am." He frowned as he noticed that the swaying of the car was making his stomach rock in a much similar, albeit unpleasant, fashion. He focused on beating the sensation down once again, but to no avail. He clamped a hand over his mouth as the retching began and tugged urgently on Seb's sleeve.

The henchman glanced over, calmly at first, but then his eyes grew wide as he realized what Jim was about to do. In the Porsche, for christsakes. "Fuck, Jim, can't you hold it in?"

Jim softly shook his head no as tears began to brim in his eyes. He was already beginning to choke on the bile, and it was burning his throat terribly. Issuing curses, Sebastian pulled up onto the nearest curb, traffic be damned, and threw Jim's door open before shoving him out onto the pavement. Jim stumbled and fell onto his knees, the contents of his stomach finding their way rather successfully out of his stomach. As his heaving subsided into quiet gags and then stillness, he felt Sebastian pressing a bottle of water into his hand. He took it and rinsed his mouth out thoroughly before allowing himself to be guided back into the car.

"Next time, a little bit more warning would be appreciated." Sebastian was clutching the wheel in white-knuckled displeasure once again, his teeth practically grinding together as he pulled back onto the road.

Jim couldn't think of a sufficiently scathing reply, so he simply adjusted himself into a more comfortable position in his seat and allowed exhaustion to steal over him once again. He was mostly asleep before Seb noticed and roughly shook his shoulder. "Hey! No naps. You can't sleep if you've got a concussion."

Jim gave a low whimper, suddenly feeling as if all the world were victimizing him. "But I'm sleepy..."

"Well, tough nuts. You're at least staying awake until I get you back to the flat and can get a proper look at the damage."

Jim gave a glare about as menacing as the growl of a puppy before rolling onto his side and resolutely ignoring Sebastian. He really couldn't help it, anyway. He had little to no control of his mind at the moment, and found himself sinking ever deeper into a stupor despite his best attempts at fighting it. At this point, it was just easier to give in and let his mind take him where'er it may go.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

Feeling the pressure of the drug beginning to recede, Jim tentatively pushed his mind forward, gently brushing at the edges of awareness before stepping out into the daylight. The world was foggy and he could only sluggishly connect its dots to make the picture that swam before his eyes. He tried calling out to anybody that could hear, but his mouth wasn't obeying his brain's commands. Not that anyone would hear, anyway. Not that anyone would bother to help.

He rolled onto his side, attempting to make sense of the clock. According to his best estimations, he had fallen asleep (passed out?) around noon. It was now a quarter past nine in the morning. Yet another day lost in the seemingly endless string of vanishing hours. His arm flailed towards the glass of water sitting on his nightstand, the motion causing his vision to go blurry and then black out completely. He felt his fingertips colliding with the wood of the table, but he couldn't reach out any farther to grasp the cup. He was a lizard frying in the sun, already too baked to find refuge in the nearby stream.

Soft murmurs found their way into his ear. They were soothing and pleasant, but something about them made a spark of anger well up in his chest. The spark was quickly smothered, however, by the hazy fog that crept into every corner of his body and snuffed out light and life.

"You've been such a good boy, James. Such a good boy. I brought you a little treat for being so good." A cup pressed against his lips. Despite the alarm ringing in his head, screaming No, Jim's tongue darted out to taste the liquid. It was thick and sweet; chocolate milk, then. His favorite.

Once he had drained the cup, she set it aside and pulled him into her arms. She began rocking him gently back and forth while stroking her fingers through his hair. He was mildly peeved that she was mussing up his already messy coif, especially since his hair had grown longer than he typically kept it. "You're such a sweetie, James. It's like having my little baby boy back again. You always were the best baby. Never cried and hardly made a peep. You were so cute back then."

Jim managed a light kick of his foot to show his displeasure. He was something-fucking-teen, for christsakes; his mother shouldn't be sitting here coddling him like a toddler. He was even more agitated that he couldn't remember exactly how old he was, and this warranted yet another kick of his foot. She didn't seem to notice, however, and continued petting him.

"I just don't know where or when you went wrong, James. I should've known you weren't right earlier, should've made that psychiatrist do something for you. Everyone's so eager to blame it on bad parenting, and I suppose, in a way, it is my fault."

She leaned down and buried a kiss in his hair. If Jim had been able to move, he would have choked her then and there. How dare she act like she cared? How could she stand to touch him and pretend that she loved him, all the while torturing him?

He continued his internal rant in an attempt to fan the flames of his anger into a fiery wrath. He knew that he could break free of her hold, if only he could fight against it long enough. He was so close, could feel the binding around his mind beginning to loosen. Could feel his heart rate accelerating in response to his anger. The world was gaining clarity, solidifying into eloquent shapes and colors. He was almost there- almost, so close, nearer yet, breaking out, breaking loose...

Roped back in.

The drug he had ingested in the milk struck him with a near physical blow; he could feel it in the way his limbs were suddenly painfully heavy, in the way his neck became too weak to hold up his head. He sagged into his mother's arms, completely lacking in strength or control. He was her puppet once again. Her little dolly to play-act house with. Her sweet little baby to coddle and hold as she had some-teen years ago.

Only the lowest of whines escaped his lips as she pressed gentle kisses onto his eyelids, soft murmurs of "Sleep now, James," brushing across his cheeks as she kissed those, too.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

The next time Jim came around, he was back in the flat and Seb was pressing a cold wash cloth up to his head. He groaned and tried batting the intrusive hand away, but only succeeded in a weak flailing that Seb ignored completely.

"Good, you're awake. I was afraid maybe you'd gone into a coma or something."

"Don't wanna be awake."

"I know." Sebastian slipped an ice pack beneath Jim's head and began undoing the buttons of his shirt. "But you've got to stay awake for a while. Okay?" The wash cloth moved from Jim's head to his abdomen, wiping away the layer of blood and filth that had accumulated there. "I'm going to go grab the med kit now; you stay here."

Jim wasn't sure how long Sebastian was gone, but it felt like an eternity. Seconds stretched into hours and minutes into weeks as he laid alone on the bed. Eventually, Seb returned with a rather large plastic case clutched between his hands. Jim frowned, suddenly feeling very agitated at Sebastian for leaving him so long.

"Where'd you go, Seb?"

"To get the medical kit. I told you that." He settled on the edge of the bed and popped the case open. He rummaged through the miscellaneous supplies while Jim looked on.

"Oh..." Feeling rather unsettled, Jim proceeded to slouch into the pillows. His headache had become a shrieking torment, and he could feel bile rising into his throat. "Seb," he croaked, tugging at the man's sleeve. A bin was immediately pressed under Jim's chin as he began retching and gagging. After a few minutes, Jim collapsed back onto his pillows, sweat rolling down his temple and limbs shaking.

"Seb, where'd you go?" His voice was barely a rough whisper.

"I'm right here, Jim."

"No. Earlier. You were gone."

Sebastian's brow furrowed in concern as he looked Jim over more closely. "I went to get the medical kit." He gently grasped Jim's chin and twisted his head to get a good look at his eyes. "Shit," he cursed under his breath. Jim's pupils were dilated strangely, one much larger than the other. "I think you're going to need to see a doctor."

"Don't wanna see a doctor. I wanna sleep..."

"No, you're going to see a doctor. I'm going to go find you some pajamas, but I'll leave your bucket right here in case you get sick again. Okay?"

Jim's half-hearted, mumbled reply didn't bring much comfort to Sebastian, so he dashed off as quickly as he could to grab the necessities. He dug a pair of drawstring pants and a tee shirt from Jim's wardrobe and snatched one of Jim's many fake IDs out of his file cabinet. He then briskly strode back into Jim's bedroom.

He froze as he found Jim tossing wildly on the bed, his arms colliding with the headboard and legs tangling in the bed sheets. He was about to roll completely off the mattress until Sebastian lunged forward and pushed him back into the middle of the bed. The seizure continued a few seconds longer, but eventually Jim collapsed against the pillows like a puppet with its strings cut. Without hesitation, Sebastian clambered up on the bed and rolled Jim onto his side, fortunately before the retching and vomiting began anew.

Jim appeared to be too dazed to even have a hope of dressing himself, so Sebastian began tugging the fresh clothes on him. Once his tee shirt was pulled over his head and arms, Sebastian stripped off Jim's trousers and was reaching for his pants when Jim gripped his wrist surprisingly tightly.

"No." His glare was made even more vicious by the disconcerting appearance of his pupils. Jim truly did look deranged at that point in time.

"Okay." Sebastian held up his hands in a sign of placation. "You can do it yourself, then."

Jim's fingers released Seb's wrist and he gave a small nod. "Go 'way."

Loathe to leave him, but also very wary of what Jim could accomplish in a fit of temper, Sebastian sidled out of the room. He made himself useful by grabbing fresh bottles of water and a bucket to take with them in the car. This time, he was going to take the Camry, just in case. He returned to the room when he heard Jim's weak call.

Jim was only half-conscious as Sebastian settled him into the passenger seat once again. His head was lolling on his shoulders and kept dropping so that his chin rested on his chest. Sebastian pressed a bottle of water up to his lips, forcing him to remain hydrated. Despite his weak protests, Jim drank a quarter of the bottle before Sebastian pulled it away.

"Where're we going?"

Sebastian stuck the key in the ignition and peeled out of the apartment lot. "The hospital."

"Oh. Okay. Just don't go to the big ones. Too many of Sherlock's friends there." Jim gave a funny little giggle that sounded downright terrifying to Sebastian. "Probably they won't much like seeing me. Probably they're still angry about the pool."

Shit. Sebastian had forgotten about that. He'd have to take Jim to one of the smaller clinics and hope that they had the proper equipment to take care of him. He turned off course to St. Bart's and made his way through the traffic to another little clinic that he knew was nearby. He glanced over at Jim and saw that he had begun violently trembling.

"Jim? Jim, are you with me? Are you okay, Jim?"

Jim was most certainly not okay. He felt little streams of electricity striking upon his nerves, could feel his muscles convulsing without his permission. His head was splitting open just as his body was twisting in upon itself, wringing muscle and bone and nerves into each other. He couldn't tell where one body part ended and the next began, just knew that it all hurt.

-oOo-oOo-oOo-

He could hear snatches of conversation drifting in from the next room. He attempted to piece them together as best he could, but a lot of it didn't make sense to his drug-addled mind. He was even more confused to find that leather straps had been added to his bed, and he was being restrained for whatever reason. Curiouser and curiouser.

"What has been the problem?"

"He's just completely out of control. He does things, terrible things, but no one ever catches him at it. I know there's something wrong with him. I can see it. But the doctors keep saying that all he needs is more medication and therapy. I just- I didn't know where to go if they wouldn't help."

Ah. So that's it. Back to the same, boring, time-worn discussion of his sanity. Really, it was getting quite old. The argument always turned out the same. She would insist that something was wrong with him, and whatever prick of a doctor she had called would insist that he was as well as could be expected with bipolar disorder. And Jim had by now mastered the art of pretending to be like everyone else. So the doctor would do his/her screening and determine that he suffered from bipolar disorder and prescribe some new pills, which Mother would then force down his throat for weeks before switching back to the sedatives. Boring.

"I must warn you that I will not perform the procedure if I believe there is any chance that he does not need it." The voice was deep, masculine. But it wasn't as sculpted sounding as the regular doctors. And to what procedure was he referring?

"I- I don't exactly have any real evidence. Like I said, we never really catch him at it. But I just know that it's him. I can tell. Call it motherly intuition or what-have-you, but I can tell you that he's not right. Something's not right in that head of his."

"Tell me about these things that he supposedly does."

And here comes her grand speech wherein she summarizes all the terrible things he's done in the past few years. She gets them mostly right; he did have a hand in all the incidents that she lists, but she does not mention the biggest, his most successful crime yet. Of course, she doesn't know about Carl Powers, wouldn't suspect that her little boy was capable of that. So he'll forgive her for her oversight.

"Hm." Jim could imagine the doctor sitting back in his chair, stroking his lip in contemplation. He sounded like the lip-stroking type. "I can see why you're concerned if you're certain that he's had a part in all that."

"I know he has. I think he does it...Well I think he does it because he's bored. That's one thing I've noticed for certain. These things happen more often when school is out or when his course work isn't challenging enough. One day, he'll complain about how dull everything is, and then a few days later something is stolen or broken or burgled."

"Alright. I have one last bit of information I need before I make a decision. Could you just fill out this questionnaire for me? And be sure to answer honestly." The sound of paper being handed over. The click of a pen top.

"Of course."

Jim was extremely irritated that they were no longer talking. It was extremely difficult to discern what was going on based on the scratches of his mother's pen alone. From the sound he gathered that she was checking off boxes, but this didn't really tell him anything.

Pen clicking shut. Paper passed again. "Mm. Hm...And you're sure that you've answered honestly?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, from what you've shown me here, I believe that your son suffers from antisocial personality disorder, or, in layman's terms, psychopathy. As long as I have your word that you've been completely honest, I believe we can move forward with the procedure."

"I swear, I haven't told a single lie."

"Very good. Now, may I meet James?"

"Of course." Footsteps rising and walking through the hall. Door opening. Light streaming in. A not-very-doctorly-looking man walks into the room.

"Hello, James. My name is Doctor Lucio Cerletti. Your mother tells me that you've not been feeling well."

"I would feel a lot better if the bitch would stop drugging me."

"Now, now, James, you mother is under a lot of stress. She's just trying to do what's best for you."

"What kind of a doctor are you?" Jim was already bored of this man's presence. He clearly wasn't hired at any sort of professional institution, or else he wouldn't be wearing such a cheaply tailored suit.

"Well. Very straight-forward, aren't you?"

"There's enough bullshit in the world without me adding to it."

"Quite so. As you have obviously noticed, I'm not a typical psychiatrist. I work in a more specialized area of treatment. Since my methods are rather...controversial, I work on a freelance basis."

"So, in essence, you're a nutter that goes door-to-door selling home shock treatments."

"Your mother was right," the doctor was smiling in that patronizing fashion that all doctors seemed to smile. "You are quite sharp. How did you know about the procedure?"

"Please. It's so obvious I shouldn't have to waste my time explaining. You keep mentioning this "procedure," but your hands don't have any of the tell-tale signs of a surgeon's, nor could you hope to do any sort of actual operation at home due to the likeliness of infection. Since you're here as a consultant to my mental well being, the only available option is electroshock therapy."

"Delightful. Well, since you already know what to expect, why don't we get started, then?"

"Um...no?" Jim scowled at the doctor. If this man thought for one second that he was just going to allow him to fry his brain..."I'd very much like to keep my brain cells in the condition they're in now, thank you very much."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice in the matter. Your mother has already signed the consent forms and paid me." He left the room and returned with a rather sizeable case. He began unloading the device as Jim cursed and spat at him. A strange leather strap with electrodes and wires attached was pulled out of the bag and then wrapped around Jim's head. He writhed and tried to get away from the device, but the straps on his bed prevented him from adequately moving aside. It was clicked into place with a foreboding air of finality.

"There now. You'll want to hold still, James. The treatment can be most unpleasant if the electrodes aren't placed properly. Here you are." A plastic stick was shoved into Jim's mouth, presumably to prevent him from biting through his tongue during the impending seizure. "Now, I believe we're all set. Are you ready?"

Jim gave a little grunt, whether of agreement or derision, he wasn't quite sure himself. The doctor moved out of his line of vision, but his actions were fairly evident by what happened next. The sound of a switch being flipped. A low hum. A burst of static and pain and heat and burning flesh and screaming cables and sparking outlets.

Nothing.

"...didn't quite work..."

"...damage?...Permanent...?"

"...memory loss...headaches...time will tell..."

"...make him better?"

"...unsure...variables...time..."

"Will I at least get a refund for your fuck up?"

Good old mother.