It had been a long time since John was on a locked psychiatric unit. In this case, the secure MI6 facility that was Sherlock's temporary home took "locked" to a whole new level. John had been forced to undergo both a cavity search and a retinal scan to gain entry. He consoled himself with the thought that at least a portion of the stringent security was probably designed to keep the wrong people out, rather than the right ones in.
It had to be said that this didn't look much like a mental hospital either. Much more like an expensive but very secluded hotel; tasteful, comfortable furniture, warm lighting, lovely hardwood floors underfoot. The real purpose didn't become apparent until you noticed the discreet, but visible, cameras that covered every square inch, and the thumbprint-reader locks on every fine wood door. The environment actually made John feel a little better; he knew how poorly Sherlock did in conventional hospital settings, with the non-stop ambient noise, high light levels and chemical odors overwhelming his already sensitive sensory organs.
Sherlock had been here three days now, with no outside visitors allowed. That was fairly standard, John knew, for an emergency admission after a serious attempt at self-harm. Dr. Arquette, the MI6 therapist Sherlock had initially seen on his return from his time Away, had told both John and Mycroft (who had shown up fifteen minutes after John's panicked call with Dr. Arquette in tow) that that time of isolation was essential, much though family and friends hated it. It gave patients the opportunity to focus solely on themselves, as well as time for medication to begin to show some benefit.
They had, of course, received progress reports. According to Dr. Arquette, Sherlock was doing fairly well. The initial diagnosis was severe depression, complicated by anxiety, stress and PTSD. Mycroft told John in confidence, however, that Sherlock had struggled at times with depression for many years; having lived with the man, John found that completely credible, if sad. In retrospect he wished he had been a little less willing to assume that all of Sherlock's black moods were the result of sheer bloody-mindedness, rather than a symptom of something more damaging.
John found himself increasingly anxious as his guide led him down the quiet hallway. He didn't know how he would handle seeing Sherlock looking like some of the patients he had visited in Afghanistan—hollow-eyed, vacant and listless. Knowing that some of that was the result of adapting to psychoactive medication didn't make it any easier to watch. And to see someone as brilliant, as vibrant, as Sherlock like that…
The charming female guide (who John was quite sure could disable him, kill him quietly and hide his body efficiently in a matter of minutes—this was an MI6 facility, after all), led him into a comfortable, warm sitting room. Nice brown corduroy couch, two sensible leather arm chairs—really very pleasant. John's spirits rose again—if the patient rooms were of the same caliber, he felt more assured about how Sherlock would be handling the physical environment, at least.
"I'm afraid I can't offer refreshments," she said apologetically. "You understand."
And yes, John did, though he really could have used some tea. Or maybe something a bit stronger.
After the guide excused herself and left, the door closed softly but with a tell-tale electronic click of the lock. There were probably very few doors in this facility that weren't so equipped. He poked around the room a bit, turning up some surprisingly recent magazines and a small but varied assortment of books on a side table. He was thumbing through a recent psychiatric medical journal when the door clicked again, and the guide came back—and Sherlock was with her.
John's breath left him with a whoosh, and then his face creased in the broadest smile he'd had in weeks. He was happy to see that Sherlock managed to smile as well—smallish, certainly, but definitely there.
"I wondered what time you'd arrive," Sherlock said, after they had looked pleased at each other for a bit. "Mycroft was actually here an hour or so ago. Made me play checkers with him." He paused, and the corners of his mouth lifted a hair. "He cheats."
John gave a crack of laughter, which was obviously what Sherlock had intended. "You mean he beat you," he chuckled.
"Yes. And we both know the only way he could have done so would be to cheat," Sherlock said airily. "He's always been an exceptionally poor loser."
John tapped a finger to his lips. "Hmm. Now who does that remind me of?"
"No one I know," Sherlock sniffed.
They settled into a brief silence while Sherlock settled himself on the couch. His movements were a little slow, a little careful. When he looked back up, John noticed that his eyes were just a bit glassy, and his hands trembled slightly. Predictably enough, Sherlock noticed John's look. He stared thoughtfully at his hands. "A mild side effect of my medication," he said clinically. "I'm told it should recede soon; it is better than it was two days ago, so I'm inclined to believe it." Sherlock looked briefly into John's eyes before his gaze skittered away.
"Yes, I am taking my medication," he said tersely. "No, I do not enjoy the way it makes me feel, but it is better than…" he faltered momentarily, then continued, "it's better." He looked back at John again. "I knew you would ask," he said simply.
"Thank you," John said. He thought for a moment, trying to edit himself to what was appropriate for an emotionally-fragile Sherlock. "Do you like Dr. Arquette? Mycroft said you had seen him before."
Sherlock frowned. "I trust him, which is rather more important." He was once again finding his hands fascinating. Eye contact was difficult, evidently. "We…he has had some similar experiences to mine, though not recently. It's easier to discuss my… these… um, this kind of thing when you don't have to explain a great deal about the circumstances." He looked up again briefly and gave John a curiously defiant look. "Some of it you already know, some of it you don't. And you won't."
John blinked. "That's fine, Sherlock," he said gently. "You don't have to tell me anything you're uncomfortable with, as long as you can share it with your therapist."
Sherlock didn't reply, looking back down at his hands. John thought he looked anxious; perhaps his medication was making it more difficult for him to mask his "tells". Speaking of which- "Have they talked to you at all yet about a treatment plan?" he asked, as much to keep Sherlock from retreating into his own head as anything else.
Sherlock clasped his trembling hands in his lap; definitely anxious, then. "After a fashion," he said, rather tightly. "Dr. Arquette has agreed to a round of medication that I will take for a defined period before tapering off. I told him that continuing any psychoactive drugs past the minimum required effective period would not be acceptable to me. He isn't convinced that this strategy will work long-term, but I've told him what I am willing to do." His eyes flicked to John again, that mildly challenging look.
John was going to regret this. He knew it. But it needed to be said. "Sherlock, don't you think that maybe a low dose of an anti-depressant would help you going forward? You've had some trouble with your moods for—"
"I do not have moods," Sherlock snarled. "I am very well aware that my extended periods of concentration may sometimes appear as, as depression. But that is very rarely truly the case. What is the case, though, is that my brain chemistry is not entirely neuro-typical. I have had an adverse reaction to every type of drug offered me since I was a child. They make me stupid, lethargic and anorexic. I will not subject myself to yet another trial-and-error process of trying to identify something that doesn't exist. I won't be …" He stopped speaking abruptly, his breathing quickly spiraling up. John, alarmed, got out of his chair and went to sit next to Sherlock on the couch. Panic attack, he thought immediately. "OK, it's OK," he crooned, rubbing Sherlock's back and placing his other hand firmly on his abdomen. "You know how this works," he continued. "Breathe with me. Try to match the rhythm. In. Out. In. Out."
Sherlock continued to gasp, hunched over his hands on the couch. When he started to show signs of fainting John quickly stood and hit the discreet call button by the door, then sat down beside Sherlock again, propping the long, bony body against his side. "I'm going to have them give you something to help," he said simply. "Now breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out..."
A male nurse came within a minute, pushing open the door and sizing up the situation in an instant. John asked what sedatives were included in Sherlock's medical orders, and then asked the nurse to get clearance to administer one. Sherlock continued to wheeze at his side, tense and frantic, until the nurse hustled back in with a syringe, flipped up the hem of Sherlock's soft t-shirt and shoved down the waist of his pajama trousers, then injected him with a minimum of fuss. John wasn't even sure if Sherlock was aware of it.
Five minutes later Sherlock was curled in the corner of the couch, head and eyelids both drooping. The nurse came back in; it was obvious it was time for Sherlock to return to his room. "Can I help?" John asked hesitantly. The nurse smiled. "Sure thing," he said, then walked over and gently pulled Sherlock up, lacing Sherlock's left arm over one muscular shoulder. "You can get the other side, Doc." John's head came up at that—apparently someone had told the staff about him. Sherlock, perhaps—but most likely Mycroft. He wasn't sure if he was pleased or annoyed. Pretty typical, with Mycroft.
Between the two of them, John and the nurse easily hauled Sherlock's slight frame down the hallway to one of the polished wood doors. The nurse placed his thumb on the reader and the door swung open, to reveal what seemed to be an up-scale hotel room. They tugged their patient over to the large bed and tucked him in. Sherlock was out like a light within seconds.
John walked with the nurse back to the nurse's station (that looked like a corporate conference room, but for the banks of electronic monitors arrayed along one wall). "I need to update his chart," the nurse said, picking up a small tablet computer and tapping away. He paused momentarily and stuck out his hand for John to shake. "Call me Brian, by the way. Did you need to ask something?"
John felt a bit at sea. "John. 'Doc' isn't necessary. Just…I know you can't tell me a lot. But how's he seem to be doing, really?"
"Better than when he came in," the nurse replied somberly. "It takes a while for the medicine to really kick in, most times. But he was looking forward to you and his brother coming today—that's a change. Didn't say much, of course, but you could tell. And, well, that's the first panic attack he's had in almost 36 hours." He smiled a bit. "Does that help?"
"Yeah," John said gratefully. "It really does."
John wasn't allowed to visit the next day—Dr. Arquette had messaged Mycroft to say that Sherlock should probably have another day of "no visitors" to give his medicine a little more time to work. He was surprised, then, to receive a call that next evening from Dr. Arquette, indicating that Sherlock would like John to come the following day as early as possible.
"Is everything OK?" John asked carefully. He was relieved, then, by the doctor's reply.
"Very much so, I think. This is something of a positive sign." Dr. Arquette paused, then spoke again in a way that indicating he was choosing his words carefully. "I don't want to over-share. But this particular visit is the result of a session Sherlock and I had, and I think he hit on something that may be helpful to his recovery."
It was clear the therapist wasn't going to tell him anything more; John was, perversely, happy that he wouldn't. Good indication of professional ethics, that. He still remembered Mycroft's illicit possession of Ella's therapy notes years ago—he never really had forgiven the man for that. Not that Mycroft cared about that, of course.
John arrived at the facility (via one of Mycroft's luxurious cars again—he wasn't officially permitted to know exactly where the facility was, so he couldn't travel on his own. Not that that was a hardship, under the circumstances) at a little past 9 the next morning; he intentionally left a little later than he had first thought since he wanted to give Sherlock a chance to have breakfast and his morning meds. Today things went a little differently—he still had to have a pat-down and retinal scan, but no cavity search. And he was pleased to be met with a familiar face to act as his guide—Sherlock's nurse, Brian.
"Well, how are things going?" John said, a little apprehensively.
Brian gave a quirky smile. "Now, don't laugh. He's been pretty, well, sulky today, for lack of a better word. I know that wouldn't normally be a good thing, but he seems much more able to kick up a fuss without losing it. Wouldn't eat most of his breakfast this morning, and then complained about being hungry." He furrowed his brows a bit. "Does that make any sense to you?"
John gave a crack of relieved laughter. "God, yes. The man could sulk for Britain under normal circumstances. That's much more like his old self."
Brian beamed. "I thought so! He just doesn't strike me as the 'rainbows and kittens' type, you know?"
John choked on a giggle. "I'll have to quote you to a friend of ours. He'll piss himself laughing."
Brian led John back to the comfy meeting area down the hall from Sherlock's room. "I can't bring any hot beverages," he said apologetically. "But we have all kinds of juices, or water."
John shook his head. "Just had breakfast, thanks. If you have any cider, though, Sherlock would probably drink it." He caught himself. "Only if it's allowed—any special dietary issues that would create?"
Brian laughed. "The only issue with that one is actually getting him to eat. I threatened him with a liquid meal replacement last evening—that's the only way I got him to eat part of his dinner." He paused in the doorway. "I'll bring back some apple juice—close as I can get, I'm afraid. He'll be here shortly."
Five minutes later Brian pushed the door back open. He had two bottles of juice and a bottle of water in his hands, and Sherlock standing beside him. Brian dropped the bottles on the small table next to the leather chairs as Sherlock edged around him to come fully into the room. "I'll be back in an hour or so, unless you need me," Brian said politely, then nodded at John and closed the door.
Sherlock gave John one of his small, real smiles and dropped onto the couch with a slightly-theatrical thump. "Thank you for coming so early," he said. "It was either this or occupational therapy," he continued with a sneer.
"Oh, God," John gasped and then grinned, a sudden memory of his post-injury rehab coming back to him. "Don't tell me—leather work?"
"Even worse. Basketry," Sherlock said darkly.
"Well, good job I came, then. I don't think the world is ready for any basket you might weave," John said with a smirk. "I can see it now—you using different colors to insert rude messages or something."
Sherlock looked much struck. "That's…an interesting idea," he said slowly. "Thank you, John."
"They're going to hate me," John moaned.
"A novel change from hating me," Sherlock sniffed. They gave each other a conspiratorial grin.
Things were off to a much better start than the first visit. John knew, based on what Dr. Arquette had told him, that Sherlock had something he particularly wanted to discuss, but the detective seemed in no hurry to get there, and John wasn't going to rush him. Sherlock drank some of the juice with every indication of enjoyment (after telling John that breakfast had been inedible, and he was "actually hungry, John!"). Apparently porridge without honey was "horrid", and toast with butter rather than jam, well, really.
John suddenly realized he had spent the past ten minutes smiling like an idiot. It was such a relief to see hints of the old Sherlock—snarky, entitled and oddly endearing (though of course John would never mention that last bit). Sherlock noticed his sudden silence and gave him a slightly hesitant smile in return. "Yes, I'm feeling somewhat better," he said suddenly. "You're far too polite to ask directly, though I'm sure you wanted to."
John nodded. "You're right. I did want to know. But," and here he smiled again, "you didn't really need to tell me. I can observe, you know. Trained by the best."
Sherlock's cheeks pinked a bit. He suddenly found his lap interesting. When he spoke, his voice was low and tight.
"I know that Dr. Arquette told you that I asked you to come today for a reason. I've been…I…there's something I think I need to tell you about."
John leaned forward. "Of course. You can tell me anything, Sherlock. You know that. Or not tell me—that's fine too. Whatever you need." He tried to put every ounce of conviction possible in his voice.
Sherlock was staring at his hands again, which were now clasped tightly in his lap. "You didn't…when I…you said you didn't want to know," he finally said in a rush.
"Then I was wrong," John said simply. Sherlock was silent, biting his lips. "Sherlock. Look at me," John said finally, when Sherlock still showed no inclination to speak. Sherlock's head slowly came up, and John was looking into distressed pale eyes. "I want you to listen to me, and believe me," John continued. "There is nothing, absolutely nothing, that you should be afraid of telling me. I mean that."
"I'm not afraid," Sherlock flared briefly. But then the hesitation was back. "I tried. Before. And you said." He ran out of steam abruptly, his breath hitching just a bit. Then he took a wobbling breath and continued. "We need to talk about the roof."