A/N: Hello! Wow it's been a while since I've posted a fanfiction, and even longer since I've written a multi-chapter fic. But this is a story line I've played with since Infinity War came out, and I finally got around to writing it last winter. There should be about twelve chapters if all goes to plan, and I already have the first six almost entirely completed, so hopefully we should stay on schedule!

For the first three chapters I'll post an update every Wednesday (and yes, I've planned the release of this fic in line with the Loki show, cuz why not?). After that though, this fic will only be updated every other Wednesday to give me more time to finish writing this sucker so that *hopefully* I can maintain the updating schedule. Though full disclosure, once we catch up to what I have pre-written everything will be up in the air regarding updating.

Anyways, hope that makes sense! Please be aware that although this is a Loki-centric fix-it fic, it does also have main characters from the Sherlock, Star Wars, Rise of the Guardians, Phantom of the Opera, and the X-Men universes. It'll hopefully make more sense once you start reading it. This is also cross posted on Ao3 under the same name.

All characters belong to their respective universes, though the plot (and all mistakes as this has not been edited) are mine. Please note that nothing in this fic is supposed to be an accurate representation of any actual asylum or mental disorder. Also, while there are no graphic descriptions, there are heavier topics discussed such as substance abuse, death, suicide, and harm. Please read with caution.

That's enough from me though, so please read and review and I hope you enjoy! Until next Wednesday!

-AAG1D

/\\\

A Society of Gentlemen Rejects

Chapter One:

A Courtship with Madness

/\\\

For, to define true madness,

What is't but to be nothing else but mad?

-Hamlet, William Shakespeare

/\\\

[Extract from Dr. Goode's notes about Patient 17.]

25/04/2018

Today was a bad day.

Lukas provoked Ben into a brawl that nearly cost him his life when Ben pinned him to the wall and tried to choke him to death. Ben was sedated and moved into temporary solitary confinement, and Lukas was restrained and treated. His trachea has severe bruising and he will undoubtedly find it difficult to speak for the next few days.

It's all for the better, really. Maybe he'll be able to stay out of trouble with his words out of commission. Although his words are the least of our concern at the moment.

The physical violence exacerbated his mental state, and he has spiraled into a rapidly deteriorating state of madness, ranting about 'Thor' and 'Asgard' again. I fear that this spell is worse than the others, and am recommending an increase to his anti-psychotics and suppressants.

Lukas continues to insist upon existing torn between reality and the fantasy he has concocted in his mind. It has been six years since he began his treatment, and yet while on his better days he is charming and plays along with the 'farce' he calls reality, he still stubbornly claims that he is a thousand-year-old god. If this continues, I fear nothing short of a lobotomy will ever cure his mind.

/\\\

[April 26, 2018. Location: Unknown.]

Loki jolted awake, trying to grasp at his neck, his throat, his life. Only, for some blasted reason, he couldn't raise his arms. He tugged and tugged and tried to fight off the rising panic as he remained immobile – no, restrained. His breathing came in heavy gasps as though trying to compensate for- for-

Images flashed before his eyes. A blur of stars. A dash of green. So much blood, so many bodies. His mind fought for control as he tried to shove the puzzle pieces of his memory together into something coherent. Thanos was coming – no, scratch that, – Thanos had already arrived. They were fighting, they were losing, and Thor – Thor was trapped. Loki had tried to be the hero. Loki had- Loki had-

A sharp gasp as something was jabbed into his arm. Voices shouting. Hands pressing him down once more.

And then the world faded to black.

And the last thing Loki could remember was thinking: What in Helheim was happening?

/\\\

[April 27, 2018. Location: The Gentlemen's Society Asylum.]

Lukas Sigurd blinked awake, his vision focusing first on the dark wood panelling of his bedroom ceiling, before drifting lazily around the familiar room, his eyes lingering for a moment too long in confusion at the window. Something was wrong with the picturesque country view that greeted him, but his mind was so sluggish that he couldn't quite decide what, and so he dismissed the bizarre thought instead.

He went to sit up, only for the all-too-familiar feeling of his bed's leather restraints to tug at his wrists. Suddenly he realized how difficult it was to breath, and his memories slowly trickled back into place. Stupid Ben. It was probably a good thing that Lukas was restrained – otherwise who knew what idiotic thing he might try in the name of revenge.

It was difficult to tell how much time had passed before someone finally came in to check on him. It was one of the usual volunteers, Ms. Ruewen, an unremarkable young woman about his age who looked less than impressed with him. Upon seeing that he was awake she sighed quietly to herself before walking up to his bed and beginning to undo the restraints.

"Good to see you awake," she finished his left arm and moved onto his right.

Lukas immediately used his free hand to feel the damage at his throat, and winced at the pain as he did so. The woman pursed her lips unsympathetically at the action.

"Yes, he nearly crushed your trachea and I dare say you'll be on a liquid diet for the next few days at least. Serves you right for provoking poor Ben like that." His right arm free, Lukas pushed himself up into a sitting position as the woman continued to bustle around him. "You were in such a state yourself that we had to sedate you when you woke up yesterday."

Lukas would've responded, probably with something snarky, but the ache in his throat kept him silent. Ms. Ruewen seemed to surmise as much because she rolled her eyes and gestured for him to scoot further to the edge of the bed. "Come here," she muttered, "I ought to check the swelling."

The moment her fingers reached out to brush against the swollen tissue, Lukas's head exploded. He strangled a scream as his mind was thrust back to the last time someone had touched him there.

But it wasn't Ben's fingers he was imagining.

The image flickered.

Loki clawed at the petite hands as the memory of Thanos invaded every sense. What- Where? He blinked, his eyes refocusing on the now concerned volunteer who had yanked her hands away, only – where was he? – it wasn't a volunteer, but – who was he? – it was-

"Sigyn?"

The word came out in a raspy croak as Loki blinked, two distinct images blurring his vision. His hand came up to press against his throat, and despite the pain that flared, he was tethered by the action.

The young woman's concerned expression morphed into one of displeasure. Loki watched, confused, as she drew back with an eyeroll.

"No Mr. Sigurd, I'm Sage Ruewen. I'm a volunteer here at the asylum. We've been over this countless times."

But Loki could only blink in bewilderment as his mind threatened to split in half due to the ache building behind his eyes.

The volunteer – Sigyn – Ms. Ruewen – pulled away with a resigned sigh, and all Loki could hear was, "I'll fetch Dr. Goode since you seem to be in one of your states again," before the door closed softly and Loki – Lukas – was left alone.

He stared at his hands uncomprehendingly. What was going on? His throat ached but his head was worse as images and sensations assaulted him. He had been fighting, him and Thor, but they had been no match for Thanos and then he- and then he-

His left hand tangled the silk bed sheets as his eyes darted frantically once more around the room.

Was he dead?

He wasn't sure if the thought was a relief or a terror.

Though to be honest, this was not what he expected the afterlife to be like. Since he had been an infant, he had been taught that there were two main places one would end up when they died – Valhalla, for those who died honourably in battle, and Helheim, for the weak and pitiful. As children Thor would always joke that Loki would end up in the latter of the two.

Where he was now though, in a richly decorated room that he had never seen before, seemed more likely a place to be found on Midgard rather than in any of the lands of the dead. And his mind – although he knew for a fact and a certainty that he was Loki – was glitching, because for some reason he was also certain that he was Lukas Sigurd, who had been locked in this room for a good part of his life.

Loki promptly leaned over the side of the bed and vomited.

He couldn't be dead. He had faked his death too many times to be nothing more than intimately familiar with the sensation of living. And as his chest heaved, and his throat screamed, and his fingers twisted further into the silk sheets, and a drop of sweat rolled from his hairline down the back of his neck, Loki knew that against all odds he was alive.

But where was he? And how did he get here?

More importantly, how was Sigyn here? Or Sage Ruewen, whoever she was. It may have been several decades since Loki last saw his wife (he grimaced at the thought of the current state of their marriage. Could he even call it a marriage anymore?), but whether it was a single day or a century of time, Loki would always be able to recognize Sigyn, no matter how rocky their relationship may be.

He just didn't know why she didn't remember him. And more importantly, what they were both doing here in the first place.

His nose crinkled at the smell of the vomit as his eyes darted once more around the room, though this time not in familiarity but in suspicion instead. As his gaze brushed past pictures and trinkets, random thoughts which were not his bumped into his own, insisting that those flowers came from our neighbour, Mrs. Turbedly, or that the photo of him taken as a child in Midgardian clothing was him in Elementary school with his friends, despite the fact that he had never stepped foot in a Midgardian school in his life. Until finally a picture caught his gaze, and the blaze of pain behind his eyes made him blink.

Arthur – Thor – was in the picture with a younger looking Loki. They were mere teenagers, smiling happily at the camera with their arms thrown about each other. Both were in Midgardian jeans and shirts, and were grinning as though they had just got away with murder.

So, Thor was in this reality as well. Or at least, Arthur was. Loki did his best to pull the foreign memories together, to flesh out the details of Lukas Sigurd's life. He knew that he was adopted. But… in this universe he was crazy. Proper delusional. His parents had put him into an institution – this institution – years ago with the hopes of healing his mind, but nothing ever seemed to get better.

Typical. No matter which bizarre parallel universe he seemed to find himself in he had a shoddy life.

Another burst of pain as his thoughts faltered for a moment, and Lukas squinted at the picture, unsure why it had caught his attention in the first place-

"Gah!" Loki brought his hand up and hit his temple as hard as he could, trying to dislodged the foreign personality from his mind. He gritted his teeth as stars burst in front of his vision, but the pain seemed to do the trick as he was able to tether once more into his own mindset.

I am Loki, the phrase repeated as a mantra in his head. God of mischief, adopted brother to Thor, born of Jotunheim, raised on Asgard.

It took several minutes, but when Loki finally allowed his thoughts to relax once more, his chanting seemed to have done the trick, as Lukas's voice was now nothing more than a muted tick in the back of his skull and he didn't seem in any immediate danger of losing himself once more.

He took a deep breath. He had been in worse situations before. No matter where he was or what was going on, Loki would deal with it and get himself back to Thor. He wasn't going to let the big oaf die just because of a slight identity crisis.

Resolved, Loki slid off the bed and decided to do what he did best – stick his nose where it didn't belong. His body ached in a way that he had never felt before, and he wasn't sure if it was due to the realm hopping, or something else. Either way, he pushed it from his mind as he made his way around the room.

The door was unsurprisingly locked, and while Loki was sure he could get out if he had to, it wasn't a pressing matter. Instead, he made his way over to the pictures that had caught his attention earlier, and a book on the dresser that was particularly calling out to him. Flipping it open, he recognized his own script but written in English.

It was a journal – his journal. His eyes skimmed the entries that dated back several years. Most of it was gibberish, the mad scrawl of a lunatic caught between reality and fantasy. Loki swallowed past a lump in his throat. Madness was something that he was all too familiar with, no matter which universe he was in it seemed.

He snapped the book shut. Lukas's memories were bumping too strongly against his consciousness for him to continue browsing. Or at least, that's what he told himself as he put the journal back from where he had grabbed it.

He turned around, intent on returning to bed and hoping that if he went to sleep this god-awful nightmare would be over, but since the Norns apparently hated him, he didn't make it very far.

There was a mirror on the wall behind the bed that he hadn't noticed earlier, but it was all too impossible to miss now that he was standing and facing it. For a moment he blinked in confusion at the image that greeted him, unfamiliar with the gaunt and young features that gawked back at him. It was only when he tilted his head and the image did too, that the world came crashing back into clarity, and he stumbled back in horror as he realized that the image in the mirror was none other than his own reflection.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," he muttered, running forward and vaulting over the bed until he was standing mere inches away from the unfamiliar face. Panic clawed at his throat, and yet he couldn't look away. It couldn't be, but it was.

Staring back at him in the mirror was Loki – or rather, Lukas Sigurd. While the essence of himself was the same, there was no doubting several terrifying differences.

The first, namely, was the black bruising that covered the entirety of his neck. He was wearing some flimsy hospital gown, and the low cut neckline made it all too abundantly clear that someone had almost taken his life. His flesh was a mish mash of purples and blues, and his lip was split as though someone had gotten in a good punch as well.

Second, and possibly the most horrifying thing, was his age.

While Loki was still technically young by Asgardian standards (or Jötnar, but whatever), his physical appearance was not equivalent to his Midgardian counterparts. Generally speaking, all from Asgard looked about the same age from about their thousandth year till their three thousandth year. It was a result of their long life-spans and the constant ardour of training and battle. While he certainly didn't look like the Allfather, both he and Thor looked older than what they knew they would look like if they aged in terms of the Midgardian ratio.

But the boy looking back at him in the mirror was a stark reminder of the differences between Midgardians and himself. He couldn't have been more than twenty, just barely on the cusp of adulthood. His black hair was cut heinously short and curled at the ends in a way he hadn't allowed in nearly four hundred years, and his face was softer and more boyish, as though he hadn't yet lost his grasp on childhood.

Not to mention his body.

While Loki certainly had never looked like Thor, he still knew that he was well-built. Countless centuries of training had assured that his lithe frame was just as deadly as his bull-headed brother's. But the absolute waif in the mirror was a stark contrast to that image. While he had maintained his height (thank the Norns), his limbs were scrawny, and he'd be surprised if a breeze couldn't blow him over.

He brought a shaky hand up to the image, ghosting his fingers against the cool glass.

He was mortal.

Worse than that, he was Midgardian.

He closed his eyes, hoping it was all a dream, choosing instead to focus on reaching deep inside himself where his one constant companion always was, hoping, begging, to feel his seiðr spark in familiarity against his touch.

There was nothing but cold emptiness.

He started to hyperventilate.

This was bad. There was absolutely no way that he was mortal. If he was mortal, then that meant he had no access to his seiðr, and without access to his seiðr he was practically powerless. And that meant that he wouldn't be able to get back to Thor, and Thanos would win, and everyone he ever cared for would be-

The door opened again, cutting off his breakdown. He didn't know whether to be thankful for the distraction or if he should try and murder the person. Taking a deep breath and turning away from the mirror he decided to go with neither option, needing more information before he did anything rash.

Another woman entered, though this one Loki didn't recognize. She was of average height with her blonde hair pulled back into a bun, and thick framed spectacles rested on her nose. Lukas provided the name.

"Dr. Goode."

She smiled at Loki, though the glint in her eyes was hard. He noted how she chose to sit in a plush chair at the far end of the room, well out of murdering range. If he was Loki, it wouldn't be a problem, but he doubted Lukas was athletically fit enough to toss a ball let alone throw a dagger. Not that he had either to begin with.

"Lukas. Ms. Ruewen mentioned that you were in the middle of an episode," her nose crinkled as her eyes darted to the pile of sick beside the bed. "I take it you're not adjusting well to the sedatives."

"Episode?" Loki poked gingerly, unsure of who the doctor was or how much power she held over him in this universe. He ignored her comment about sedatives – he had much bigger concerns at the moment. Namely, the fact that Lukas was definitely terrified of the petite woman in the room with him.

"Playing dumb, Lukas?"

He couldn't help himself. "It's Loki."

A flash of triumph. "Is it?"

"Yes," he rasped, determined to find answers despite the pain in his throat. "Where am I and how did I get here?"

Instead of answering immediately, the Doctor leisurely flipped through her notebook before scrawling on a blank page. She tsked, which made Loki's nerves grate on edge and he felt his body coil in tension. Right before Loki was about to snap and demand answers though, she finally looked up, her eyes sharper than he would've liked.

"You are Lukas Sigurd, and you are in the same place your parents put you six years ago. The Gentlemen's Society Asylum."

His lip curled even as his head threatened to split apart. "What are you talking about?"

For a moment she stared, before she deftly snapped her book shut. "Alright, I'll play along. Your altercation with Ben clearly did a more serious number on you than we'd anticipated. Who are you today, and what is the last thing you remember?"

Her tone was demeaning, but Loki had no choice but to bear it if he wanted answers. All the same, he still found his tone curt, if only to hide his true desperation. "My name is Loki, and I am a Frost Giant of Asgard, the greatest wielder of seiðr to ever walk the branches of Yggdrasill, and brother of Thor. The last thing I can remember is my home realm being blasted to pieces by my insane sister and that insufferable Fire Giant Surtur before our ship full of refugees was attacked on our way to Midgard. That… creature had found me – us – again, and he was, Thor was-"

Hating himself, Loki cut off, reaching for his neck as the memories flashed once more in his mind's eye. He was no stranger to trauma, but the added pressure of not knowing what had happened, not knowing what was going on, was making it all the worse.

What if Thor was dead?

What if that whole universe was? Obliterated out of existence by the mad man known as Thanos?

The thoughts were almost too much to bear, and Loki closed his eyes as he gathered his courage once more. Those questions would be dealt with at the appropriate time. But for now, he would act like there was a way home, a way to fix this. He clung onto that hope as foolish as it seemed, using it to anchor himself in the vast sea of despair that he was currently adrift in.

He looked up and met the cold eyes of the doctor once more.

"The last thing I remember was trying to save my brother. But it went wrong, per usual, and Thanos was choking me to death. I had grasped onto his hand, clawing for freedom, truly believing myself to be dying, and then there was a burst of energy and the next thing I knew I was waking up here, under the pretense of this Lukas Sigurd."

It was the first time he had rode the train of thought out, and it was strangely relieving in a way. He wasn't sure what had happened exactly – the best he could surmise was that possibly the infinity stones played some part in the exchange, perhaps with a strange reaction to his seiðr. It had all been such a blur, but he recalled grasping at anything and everything, both physically and metaphysically in those dire moments between life and death.

Somehow, by some force, he ended up here. In some bizarre alternate universe where he was a mad Midgardian locked up in a loony house.

He felt hysteria begin to tinge the edge of his vision, and it took everything within him to remain upright rather than toppling over.

The doctor looked like she could care less.

"Fascinating," she intoned, in a manner that suggested that she found the story anything but. "However, completely, and utterly fictional."

Loki scowled, his knuckles going white as his fists clenched. "I know madness, my dear, and I assure you I am not crazy."

She merely clucked as she stood once more. "I'd like you to be confined to your room for the rest of the day. I'll send someone in to clean up the mess," she eyed him once more, "and to check on your throat at meal time. Tomorrow you may rejoin your group so long as you are less agitated."

"And so, what?" he couldn't help but spit. "You're going to keep me locked in my room like some wayward child?"

Her smirk was sinister.

"Exactly."

She was gone before Loki could form another coherent thought.

He scowled, considered trying the door once more, but dismissed the thought nearly immediately. It would be locked, both he and Lukas knew that. Better to wait out whatever hell this punishment had concocted rather than to waste whatever feeble strength he still had.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Someone came in to clean his room, just as the doctor said, and around noon a nurse came in with his meal and checked his throat. She didn't say anything, and Loki didn't feel like offering up any conversation, so she was in and out in less than five minutes.

He spent lunch lurking in a cloud of depression and self-pity, slurping pitifully at the broth that had been provided him and turning his nose up at the watery tea. If this was how all the meals were at this god-awful asylum it was no wonder his Midgardian counterpart was so dreadfully weak.

Sigyn didn't come back.

After that, time was spent fitfully dancing back and forth from sleep to wakefulness. He spent what little bit of consciousness he did experience mulling over his predicament and everything that had led him here. But nothing ever seemed to clarify itself – all he could remember was the panic, the pain, and then waking up in his bed.

Idly he wondered if he was in some state of limbo. A sort of twisted punishment for his sins. Then he would scoff and wonder when the Midgardian concept of Christianity started to creep into his mindset.

Sleep was hardly better, often a confusing mish mash of his own memories and Lukas's. At one point in the afternoon, he woke up entirely sure that his name was Lukas and that Loki was nothing more than a mad figment of his broken mind. It wasn't until he had swung out of bed and his feet had landed on the still damp patch of carpet that his own memories flooded back, and with them a sense of terror.

What if he woke up and Loki was gone? Could he truly fade into nothing but a remnant of himself? A shadow that would be assimilated by this nightmarish reality?

After that he started writing.

Everything and anything. He used the journal that was on the dresser, and found a pen in the desk. He wrote in his native tongue originally, but then switched to elvish, then dwarfish, and then back again. Loki was a scholar at heart and had a millennium worth of knowledge in his mind. And he'd be damned if he lost any of it due to his mortal limitations.

He started with the events that led up to his current predicament, but then found himself backpedalling and describing the nightmare the last few years had been. His twisted and berated emotions which had led up to that fateful night at Thor's coronation, which had started this whole mess like a domino effect. Idly he wondered what would've happened if he had never let his jealousy and anger get the better of him. If he had never let the Frost Giants into Asgard.

The pen faltered on the page.

He delved farther, and described the people who meant the most to him. The way his mother's eyes would crinkle as she smiled. Thor's unwavering faith in him. The family that he had betrayed at every turn simply because he no longer knew how not to do so.

Faces of friends and foes danced before his vision and he mentioned all no matter how painful it was. And then he reached back even centuries before that to his misguided youth that was spent chasing after his brother's shadow. Of happy memories, and horrific ones. Ones that he hadn't bothered thinking about in decades such as the woman he loved and lost, and the scars both literal and figurative that he now bore.

By the time Loki finally ran out of pages in his book it was long past dark, and his hand ached from writing all evening. But he couldn't help but smile as he flicked through the pages of the journal, now filled with his elegant script in over two dozen languages.

He was Loki of Asgard, and nothing was going to change that. He would find a way back to his universe, and then everything would be ok. It had to be.

He flicked off the lamp, before crawling into bed, ready and waiting to tackle the new day.

The sun will shine on us again, brother.

Loki would keep that promise, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

/\\\

"And how are we doing today, Mr. Sigurd?"

Loki tried not to wince at the surname. Its meaning was not lost on him, and it was just his luck that his counterpart in this universe would have a name that only seemed to mock him.

All the same, he presented the doctor with a dazzling smile. "I am well, thank you. My throat is still rather sore, but it's easier to breath and I dare say I even sound better than yesterday."

She eyed him coldly.

"I'm sure."

He knew what she wanted – him to break, and continue claiming that he was not Lukas. Despite the fact that he wasn't, Loki knew better than to poke that beast. He had spent centuries pretending he was something he truly wasn't anyways. A few more days wouldn't hurt if it meant he would finally get answers and get out of here.

Schooling his features into a gentle smile, he asked, "So? May I return to the mundane normalcy of the Gentlemen's Society Asylum?"

For a moment Dr. Goode just stared at him. It took everything in his willpower not to flinch and look away (again, another disadvantage of this Midgardian body was that the muscle memory was all wrong), but finally she gave a sharp nod. "Best behavior, Mr. Sigurd. And be sure to take your medication before joining the others in the common area. You are under high scrutiny."

Fighting off a frown, Loki offered a genial smile instead. "Always," he lied through his teeth.

Dr. Goode studied him for a moment longer before standing and moving towards the door. Without a word of goodbye she left, though this time the door was noticeably left unlocked. Loki's eyes darted between it and the cup of pills left on his bedside table.

Screw it.

Tucking the medication into the top of his sock rather than swallowing it, Loki made a beeline to the door. The first thing he would have to rectify in this universe would be his attire. As though the flimsy, shapeless, cotton blue shirt and pants set he had found in his dresser that morning wasn't humiliating enough, it also had the major disadvantage of lacking pockets. Just his luck.

He paused at the doorway, fingers hovering hesitantly over the knob.

This was it.

Setting his shoulders and bracing himself, Loki opened the door.

It was all rather anti-climatic, really. The door opened to an ornately decorated hallway covered in mahogany panelling and oil paintings of pompous looking Midgardians. The floor was covered in a soft, deeply rich red carpet, and Loki found his feet sinking into the plushness. A nurse rushed past him, barely sparing him a glance before continuing to the end of the hallway, where she produced a rather large key before unlocking a door not unsimilar to his own and disappearing within it.

No one else was in the hallway.

Loki counted a total of six doorways lining the long hallway, including his own. For a moment, he briefly wondered what he would find if he opened them one by one.

The security camera hidden inconspicuously in a far corner, plus the niggling sensation in the back of his mind that he was fairly certain was Lukas insisting that would be a horrendous idea, immediately halted that thought in its tracks.

Instead, he opted for heading in the opposite direction than the nurse had gone, towards where the hallway bent and the faint sounds of life beckoned him. His socked feet sunk into the carpeted floor, muffling his arrival as he finally went around the corner. He didn't know what to expect. Didn't know what he would find.

He certainly wasn't expecting to nearly walk into an imposing faceless figure. Faceless, due to the starched pillow case covering its head.

Loki blinked twice.

The figure was unfortunately blocking the entrance to what Loki gathered to be some sort of common area, and so with only the slightest bit of hesitancy he raised his hand to tap the figure on the shoulder, hoping to gain entry.

He had barely opened his mouth to politely inquire as to if the figure could move, when the tips of his fingers only just grazed the pillowcase on the way to their destination of the figure's shoulder. Loki had thought nothing of it.

Except for the fact that the next thing Loki knew was that the figure was across the room from him, wailing like a banshee as he clutched the pillowcase tighter around his head. To say that Loki didn't feel his heart skip up into his throat at the sudden action would be an understatement.

"What-"

"Oh, now you did it," a deep baritone cut through Loki's confusion and the strange figure's incessant wailing. Loki blinked, as the tone of voice tugged on a familiar memory that was just out of reach. He looked over to the sofa where the voice had come from, but as it was faced away from him, and the man must've been lying down, Loki saw nothing other than the matching socked feet that were casually thrown over the side.

"I'm sorry," Loki tried to make heads or tails of the situation, which wasn't an easy feat since the faceless idiot was still screaming and tugging at his pillowcase. Seeing as the feet didn't even twitch, Loki presumed that the annoyed voice on the sofa wasn't about to do anything to rectify the situation either. He glanced around, hoping someone else was there, and was equally startled when he realized there was a boy right beside him.

The boy blinked at Loki, but didn't say anything. Loki winced as the faceless figure hit an all-new high note.

"Is there someone who can help?" he shouted over the screaming, addressing the teenager who couldn't have been more than sixteen at the most.

The boy just blinked at him again.

Loki was getting incredibly fed up.

If he was still himself, he would've been able to silence the whole situation with a mere flick of his hand and a twist of the energy of Yggdrasill. If he was feeling less magnanimous, a swift throw of his daggers would silence the howling buffoon permanently. But unfortunately, Loki was anything but himself at the moment.

He resorted to his last and only defense in this situation – the use of his silver tongue. Though even that would be hindered, he realized, as he tried to raise his voice despite the pain.

"Sir, I am sorry if there's been a misunderstanding," he began, inching closer to the screaming maniac despite his better judgement telling him to flee. He cleared his throat, hoping to project even louder despite the flare of pain the action brought. "I would like to make it clear that I have no intention to-"

"Poor, unfortunate Erik!" The figure's howls suddenly arched into shrill words. "What has Erik done to be so betrayed? I am the Red Death! Beware!"

Loki gaped.

And he probably would've stayed that way if it wasn't for Sigyn – Ms. Ruewen – finally bursting into the room in response to the figure's – Erik's? – antics.

"What did you do?" she shot a scathing look at Loki as she rushed towards where the weirdo had once again reverted to shrieks.

"Me?" Loki gawked, somewhat caught between being offended and embarrassed that even in this world Sigyn could so quickly (and correctly) analyze the situation.

Ignoring his half-hearted protest, and seemingly non-plussed by the silent teenager and the socked twat who still hadn't moved from the couch, the 'volunteer' marched straight up to the wailing banshee, stopping barely a hairsbreadth away.

Notably making no move to touch the stupid pillow case.

"Erik, it's me, Ms. Ruewen. Everything's okay, no one will be taking your mask, your face is still covered," she cooed, and Loki found he could do nothing more than stare in a mix of abject curiosity and horror.

Surprisingly, the howling stopped.

For a moment it seemed like no one even dared to breath, and the figure was clearly sniffling and… crying? No, the sound cut off suddenly. Hiccupping.

"There you go," Ms. Ruewen continued. "I'm sure Mr. Sigurd meant no harm. Right?" She shot Loki a look, and it took him a moment to form a response since the expression mentally shot him back to the first time he had ever seen her on Vanaheim.

He had forgotten how beautiful she was when she was cross with him.

"Um… my apologies?"

The figure sniffed once more, and judging by his body language he was probably trying to murder Loki with his glare. But Sigyn seemed to pick up on that as well.

"Excellent," she slowly reached out and grabbed Erik's elbow, moving very deliberately so as to not freak him out again. And although her words were soft, her eyes were hardened with determination. "And so, there's no need for the Punjab lasso, correct?"

Another moment of shuffling silence. And then the towering faceless figure finally grunted out, "Yes, Erik will not bring out the catgut."

What?

"Good, see?" Sigyn smiled, gently coaxing him away from Loki and back towards the entryway. "You're getting so much better already! Why don't we go and calm down in your room for a little bit though?"

She continued prattling on about "his progress" as they left the common area, and Loki felt so entirely out of his depth that he did no more than watch until their figures retreated around the corner. He blinked, wondering when this bizarre hallucination would finally prove to be too much for his mind to take.

The sudden upright jolting of the man on the couch knocked him out of his head space.

"Finally!" he shouted, tossing what appeared to be a newspaper on the ground before vaulting himself over the back of the sofa in an all too dramatic manner, the housecoat that he was wearing (minus the tie of course), swishing out behind him rather ominously.

Loki could only gape as the familiar and yet intrinsically different person sashayed up to him before suddenly bending down, snatching at Loki's left leg, and pinching the hidden pills in Loki's sock before pocketing them… somewhere.

Whether due to his surprise, or (more likely) as a result of this form's appalling lack of balance, Loki found himself tumbling backwards as none other than the Midgardian wizard attacked his leg.

He couldn't even bring himself to feel humiliated, as his heart was already too busy pumping in time with his confusion. "Strange?" he found himself blurting from the floor before he could think better of it.

The other man wrinkled his nose at him. "What for? I always pinch your pills."

Loki shook his head, propping himself upright and slightly away from the doctor just in case he somehow had managed to maintain his access to the energy of the multiverse. "No, I mean Doctor Strange. That is your moniker, is it not?"

It was amazing how in the span of a moment the doctor's blue eyes could go from utterly disinterested to completely transfixed. And Loki wasn't too sure he like the way that they zeroed in on him in focus. He held his breath.

"You're back, aren't you?"

The words were spoken in such a serious tone that goosebumps crackled upon Loki's flesh in response. For a moment the universe seemed to still and the lights flickered and the world seemed to hum.

Then the doctor blinked, and reality returned with all its expected disappointment.

"Ben really did a number on you, didn't he?" the other man continued on as though his previous question was never posed in the first place.

Loki disregarded the comment. "What do you mean, 'I'm back'?"

The man made a noise in the back of his throat before springing away, and for the first time Loki noted the discrepancies between the man before him and the one that he was familiar with. Whereas Strange was clearly older, in this reality he could be no more than thirty, and he was clean shaven with his curly hair standing out from his head in disarray. And although his eyes had the same cocky intensity that Loki remembered from his own universe, it was impeded by a jitteriness that made Loki stand up with an aching certainty.

"You're not Stephen Strange, are you?"

The man snorted, and then violently twitched his nose, as though he was used to snorting something more than just air. "Obviously."

Loki's mind started racing. "But you recall your life from my universe? Your sanctum? The unfortunate events of our last meeting?" He surged forward, grasping onto the other man's upper arm. "Do you know how to get back to Thor?"

Perhaps the last question came out a tad desperate. But Loki was running out of willpower.

Not-Strange didn't seem to care.

"Um, nope," the response jolted Loki out of his desperation enough that he didn't even offer any resistance when the man peeled his hand away from his arm while making a face as though Loki's hand was the worst possible thing to have touched him.

Loki stepped back, his high emotions shuddering to a halt. "I don't understand."

The man rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, few do. You're hardly alone in your constant state of goldfishery."

Loki's mouth hardened into a line. While he wasn't overly familiar with all Midgardian expressions, he could still pick up on the cockily derogatory tone that pervaded the rushed-out phrase.

"Who are you?"

The man smirked, and despite his annoyance, Loki couldn't help a slight flicker of admiration for the man spark to life. He was after all the God of Mischief, and could recognize the spirit of a fellow trickster a mile away.

"Sherlock Holmes. Though the ninnies in this place will insist that my name's actually William."

For a moment Loki blinked, unsure what to do with that information, before it finally registered what the man had admitted to.

"Wait, you know you've been pulled into this bizarre alternate universe?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes with such gusto that Loki was surprised they managed to stay within his head. "No, don't be ridiculous. I simply hate my first name and loathe that my numbskull of a brother registered me under it rather than my much preferable middle name." His eyes seemed to focus once again (it was rather strange how they kept going out of focus without Loki noticing). "Are you sure the 'Goode'," -at this he made air quotes with his fingers around the word- "Doctor cleared you? Even when you're caught in your delusion of 'Loki,' you're normally more 'with it' as the kids say, than you are now."

"Delusion?" he would've stumbled back if he wasn't already pressed against the back of an arm chair.

The man – Sherlock – squinted at him, and Loki couldn't help but feel absolutely miniscule beneath his searching gaze. The silence thickened and Loki's hand spasmed into a fist, unsure what to do, when suddenly it was like something snapped in Sherlock's mind, and the next thing Loki knew was that the older man was springing around the room, hands flapping, mouth moving a mile a minute.

"Oh well, might as well catch you up to speed since there's nothing else to do in this mediocre cesspool of idiocy," he rattled the words off at a speed that made Loki's head spin, which was impressive seeing as words were usually Loki's specialty. "I am Sherlock, I've been trapped in this inferno hell-hole for little under a year thanks to my gloriously fat and socially inept brother simply because I discovered a much more practical use for my graduate chemist's degree than doing desk work. I think you're pompous and arrogant, but your delusions are mighty fun entertainment, and despite our mutual loathing of one another we have consolidated a pact of sorts whereupon you give me your pills, I work my magic, and we both team up against our common archnemesis."

He said it all in one breath.

It was really quite impressive, actually. But Loki's mind was too busy whirling to catch up and make sense of everything he said to fully appreciate it. The only thing he did get from the snippets of madness was: "Wait, are you high?"

Sherlock huffed petulantly.

It all made sense, actually. Though Loki had to admit that he had never before met someone – let alone a mortal – who was so high-functioning with an addled mind. It would've been fascinating, if it wasn't also wholly terrifying to watch.

"Moving on," Sherlock continued, ignoring the question as he suddenly hopped onto the back of the couch with surprising grace. The furniture must've all been nailed down, because it didn't even wobble at the sudden weight difference. "Your name's Lukas and you were committed at the lovely age of thirteen by your adopted family when your propensity of the fanciful and your obsession with Norse mythology spiralled into a severe case of delusion disorder, resulting in you believing quite ardently that you're the Norse god Loki. Though this is the first time you've ever mentioned alternate universes," he trailed off, seeming to calm for a moment as he stared into some unseen void.

Loki took the opportunity to squeeze in the incredulous question that was clawing at his throat. "How did you even get drugs in here when I can't even find pants with pockets?"

His voice seemed to jolt Sherlock from whatever other place his mind was inhabiting, and in a surprisingly smooth sleight of hand, Loki's pills suddenly rolled over his knuckles before being pinched between his thumb and index and being flashed quickly for the younger man's benefit before returning just as seamlessly to where ever Sherlock had hidden them in the first place. During all of which, of course, the older man's eyes frantically darted every where as his feet carried him aimlessly up and down the back of the sofa.

"Pay attention, I already told you," Sherlock's tone was now annoyed, as he rolled his eyes once again. "I'm a graduate chemist. Of course I can whip something up between all the medications that can be found here in order to make life here a tad more bearable. Now quit interrupting – I can't stand it when my train of thought is derailed by irrelevant questions to which you already know the answers. Now, what was I saying?"

Loki chose to keep his mouth shut.

"Ah, yes, of course! Introductions. You've already met Erik, the wailing banshee who believes he has no face-"

"-what-"

"-which is poppycock really as his face is just as real as yours or mine. I checked – gave his sleeping medication a bit of an extra kick once and snuck into his quarters out of boredom more than anything else, and sure enough underneath that pillowcase he wears his face is perfectly normal and so his delusion is quite unfounded. Though I suppose that's the point of madness. It doesn't make rational sense. But anyways, I digress. He's been here the longest out of all of us, brought in after he was arrested for stalking but the court deemed him mentally unfit to serve his sentence, and the money in his pocket landed him as a permanent resident here at the GSA."

Sherlock suddenly lunged across the room to where the teenager still stood facing them, face slack and brown eyes dull. His brown hair was almost as wild as Sherlock's, though his dead-eye stare was hands-down the most unsettling thing Loki had seen all morning. Which was really saying a lot.

"This is Jackson," Sherlock was suddenly beside the teenager, rocking on the balls of his feet as he (rather patronisingly) patted the kid's head. "He thinks he's dead. He doesn't do much, and he's the newest addition to our motely crew. His mother committed him last winter after he almost died from hypothermia repeatedly due to his thoughtless jaunts through blizzards believing he was immune to the cold."

Jackson swivelled his head and blinked at Sherlock, and then spoke for the first time that morning with a voice surprisingly deep for a kid his age. "You can see me?"

"Yup," Sherlock bent down with a crazed grin on his face as he bopped the teenager's nose. "Because you're not actually dead! Surprise!"

For half a moment Jackson scowled, looking almost annoyed at the older man. But before Loki could determine anything further Sherlock's smile dropped into what Loki was officially doing to dub his I-am-better-than-you-scum-and-already-tire-of-your-presence face, and dramatically vaulted his body back to the sofa. Without the direct confrontation, Jackson's face slipped back into its previous slackness, and his eyes unfocused once more.

Loki turned back to where Sherlock was now pacing back and forth on the coffee table before the sofa, his hands twitching at almost the same speed as the words coming out of his mouth. "And then of course we have the one unspoken, the greatest threat to our existence in this plebian conglomerate. He is evil incarnate, and quite possibly one of the dastardliest foes I have ever faced. Not to mention his inherently atrocious name, and even more ridiculous self-anointed moniker. In other words, Ben Solo, a terrorist with delusions of grandeur and a frankly impressive ailment of anger management issues. Though he's currently in solitary after you provoked him into nearly choking you to death two days ago."

Sherlock ended the one-breath sentence by flopping back onto the couch in the same position he was in when Loki initially entered the room. For half a breath he waited, sure that the unpredictable man would start ranting once more, but as the silence remained unbroken, Loki took that as a sign that the interaction was over.

He looked back over his shoulder at Jackson, who had gone back to staring at the wall. His eyes darted once more to the feet hanging over the arm of the sofa, but they didn't even twitch.

He swallowed, feeling more alone and out of his depth than he had in centuries. And for the first time since waking up in this Norns-damned place, Loki had an undeniable yearning for Thor that drowned out everything else.

Not because it would mean he would be home, or that he could find comfort in the oaf's familiar presence.

But simply because he wanted his big brother.

Fighting an embarrassing burning sensation behind his eyes, Loki steeled himself over, loathing his weakness. Thor hadn't been there as he had fallen through the void. Thor hadn't been there as Thanos had pervaded his mind and tortured his body. Thor hadn't been there when he was locked up like a deranged animal.

And yet Loki had made it through all of that, on his own. Just as he would make it through this. And he would start by analyzing everything he had learned that morning.

Loki blinked out of his reverie, channelling his focus to process all the information that was unceremoniously word-vomited upon him. It was a lot, and most of it didn't make sense. But there was one point above all that was glaringly difficult to understand, and his mind kept oscillating over it until he had no choice but to confront it head on.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't Stephen Strange. Even though they were identical in all the ways that couldn't be altered. What did that mean? If he was working off of the theory that he had been pulled out of his own universe and into some alternate universe, then he had presumed perhaps the others had been as well, which would explain Sigyn and Strange.

Except none of them were even aware that this wasn't their reality. So how come Loki was the only one aware of his original reality and the current one? Were the others even from his reality? For a brief moment he considered that perhaps they were mere figments of his imagination being projected here, but he quickly dismissed that thought. It wouldn't explain the others, or the fact that Strange was Not-Strange.

So… had Loki been pulled into Sherlock's universe? Another parallel universe where life was different from his own? The thought made his head ache, but he couldn't dismiss it. He knew that the energy that coursed through Yggdrasill was endless, and had often toyed with the thought of a multiverse early on in his studies of seiðr. There was no reason why it shouldn't exist – he had just never found any evidence to prove it either.

It would explain Not-Strange. If there was a possibility of endless universes and endless incarnations of every living being, then it would be logical that in this universe he was a drug addict named Sherlock. And somehow, Loki had inhabited the body of this universe's version of himself – a mad-man named Lukas who suffered from a delusional disorder.

But that didn't answer the two most pressing questions.

How did he wind up in this universe to begin with?

And more importantly, how did he get back?