This story was inspired by the commentary during A Study In Pink, in which Gatiss and Moffat are discussing how a teenager sherlock must have been completely mad due to his intellect. Though it has similarities to Girl, Interrupted [apparently], it was never meant to be written so closely towards it. Any similarities are completely coincidental. that is all.
Chapter Two
The 'Black Moods', as Mycroft was fond of calling them, were completely unpredictable, and completely unavoidable, bouts of severe downswings in Sherlock's mood. The best of them would have Sherlock in bed for a day or two, but he would still arrive on time for meals if only to stab at the food with his fork before retreating back to his room. The worst of them would have Sherlock in bed for weeks at a time, and it was a battle just to get him to nibble a bit of bread much less drag himself from the mattress to tend to personal hygiene matters. During all of them, Sherlock would barely speak and communicated only with a series of grunts and eye rolls. The only thing that Mycroft had ever discovered that would even begin to pull his little brother out of the depths of depression, was encouraging him to play the violin.
There was something almost magical about the sweet sounds of the strings being lovingly bowed, even if the melody itself was sad and haunting. When Sherlock played, it didn't matter if the song itself was riddled with stories of death, misery, and loss, because Mycroft knew that it signaled an end to the 'Black Moods' and the rebirth of the brother he knew. It was unfortunate when solitude and the soft notes of a violin were no longer enough to break the vice of despair, heartbreaking for the eldest Holmes when Sherlock turned to far more destructive ways of coping with his own mind.
He still couldn't fathom what he would have done had he not come home early from work that day.The day that he found Sherlock lying in the grass beneath a large oak tree, his eyes glass, his lips blue and his skin ice cold.
'Any later', the doctors said, '…and we wouldn't have been able to save him.' Sherlock's stomach contained sixty four partially digested tablets, a liter of alcohol, and the remains of what they presumed to be a handful of crisps eaten to quell the nausea.
'He tried to prevent vomiting.' They told him, 'Though it would have been inevitable once the medication fully dissolved. His state of unconsciousness would have likely resulted in asphyxiation.'
"Have you considered seeking professional help for your brother?' As if Sherlock wasn't already seeing a therapist nearly every day, 'There is a hospital for boys like him.' Like him, damaged, faulty, broken beyond repair.
'Wellington. I will make sure you get a pamphlet on it before you take him home. As a doctor, I would strongly recommend you consider it, Mr. Holmes, before it is too late.' You've done the best you could, you're out of options. Lock him away, throw away the key.
Mycroft ran a hand through his already thinning hair, his gaze drifting around Sherlock's vacant room with a perpetual frown on his lips. Various chemistry sets sat mid-experiment across the surface of his brother's desk and dresser, his violin lay abandoned across the bed. Framed pictures of Edgar Allen Poe, the Periodic Table, and the rules for The Art of Bartitsu decorating otherwise undecorated walls.
The Holmes household, typically filled with arguing and discontent, had never felt so empty.
It was the screaming that woke Sherlock from his sleep.
A bloodcurdling cry of agony piercing through the silence of the hospital that shook him from even the deepest of drug induced slumbers. He thought, for a moment as he struggled against his heavy limbs and weighted eyelids, that it might have been his imagination. He thought that it might have been the remnant of one of his own nightmares; one of the dark visions that plagued his own mind and slowly tore it to shreds. When he was certain that he was awake and it sounded, yet again, Sherlock pushed himself from the mild comfort of his bed and crept to the doorway.
In the hall, patients had all come out from their rooms. Curiously demented eyes stared down to a room at the very corner, where light pierced the shadows of the hallway and shadows moved rapidly within. Two orderlies he had not yet met and one very tired looking doctor rushed passed, all giving orders for the patients to return to their rooms, yet none seemed willing to comply. Sherlock was included in this, far too curious to simply go back to sleep, despite the lingering effects of narcotics making every moment ghost by him.
"Johnny Boy has seen some bad, bad things." Jim crooned near his ear, though Sherlock was puzzled as to how the other boy had managed to creep so close to him without him noticing. "The screaming never stops at night. The monsters beneath his bed are very, very real."
"Monsters?" Sherlock asked softly, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears as his vision swam and his eyes drooped for a moment. He never received an answer as a cacophony of yelling broke into silence and the shadows shifted to reveal the two orderlies carrying the boy from his room. Johnny Boy, John, the mysterious musician from hours before that had captured and captivated every ounce of Sherlock's attention. A mop of blonde hair plastered against a sweat soaked brow, his eyes closed and mouth parted as he was nearly dragged along the hallway. Rendered completely unconscious from fast acting drugs, Sherlock thought he should look peaceful, but still seemed absolutely tormented by whatever nightmares caused him to scream so dreadfully.
Greg approached with a hand brushing heavily back through his greying hair, his interrupted sleep showing in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the disheveled nature of his clothing. "Alright, you two, get back to your rooms. Jim, you know the rules. No one in the halls after lights out."
"I never miss a good show, Lestrade, not from Johnny Boy. He's so much fun.."
"Leave him be, Jim. I won't warn you again." Greg motioned pointedly towards the open door that was Jim's room and held his hand aloft until he shuffled off, disappearing within. Sherlock did not move from his place against his door frame, anchored by unknown and unseen forces as he stared emptily down towards John's, now vacant, room. "You too, Mr. Holmes. The rules do not bend, even for you."
It took him a long moment between heavy blinks to even bring his gaze up to meet Lestrade's, though the elder man seemed disinclined to follow through on his order. He stood, uneven on his feet, leaning heavily against the door frame as the world became distant and foggy. How long it had been since sleep weighed so firmly on his mind, how long it had been since he thought of nothing other than simply lying down and slipping into unconsciousness! He hardly realized he had moved back into his room, and distantly registered the door clicking closed behind him as he slid back between the scratchy sheets, drifting off once more.
When morning broke, violent in its persistent brightness, Sherlock did little more than grunt his displeasure before pulling the sheets over his head. Every inch of him protested the slightest movement, the worst being his own skull which relentlessly throbbed. The narcotics he swallowed the night before, lingered, but only enough to make his thoughts fuzzy and distant. They did little to quell the oncoming headache and the misery it would beget.
Perhaps it was a foolish notion of hope that had wormed its way into his subconscious as he slept, but Sherlock thought for just a moment that it would be the comfort of his own bed that greeted him as he woke. The smell of familiar fabric softener on his sheets, the plushness of his own pillow, the sounds of the household staff moving about on the wooden floors around his own room. He found, instead, scents of disinfectant, a pillow that was far too firm and the noise of disconcerting madness echoing from the hallway.
With clarity replacing the fuzz of medication, so came the reality of his involuntary situation and it weighed him down so heavily on the uncomfortable mattress that he had little motivation to move at all. Though soft, the knock at his door sounded like a battering ram, and he winced beneath the sheets.
"Breakfast, Sherlock." Greg muttered, and Sherlock could feelhim lingering at the doorway. Seconds ticked by, each one slowly and silently counted as the young boy curled up in bed waited to hear the door click closed once more. "Ten minutes, I will be back to take you down to the showers."
Content to force himself into unconsciousness, Sherlock did not move from his bed and willed himself back to sleep.
His door opened two more times that morning. Nine minutes and forty three seconds brought Lestrade's return and persistent nagging that he remove himself from his sheets and join the others for a meal, when he did not, Greg moved on to someone else. Twenty minutes and fifteen seconds later brought a quiet hum and the weight of someone sitting at the foot of his bed.
"You're not going to be one of thosepeople, are you?" Jim crooned, trailing a finger over the curve of his leg hidden beneath the blanket. "I had rather high hopes for you, Sherlock. I'd prefer it if you didn't disappoint me by turning out to be completely ordinary."
Sherlock listened as Jim moved from the bed and fetched the pack of cigarettes discarded on the desk, clenching his jaw in mild annoyance as he noted the sound of a match being struck. The familiar scent of burning tobacco and sulphur filling his bedroom as the boy helped himself to one of the smokes, sitting back near his feet to take a long drag.
"Upset with your brother for locking you away?" The comment earned a slight shift of limbs as Sherlock's attention was caught and he could almost feel the grin that curled up on Moriarty's lips. "Don't be so surprised. I know all about you. I have friends, you see, in the most convenient places."
When Sherlock did not move again, and refused to answer anything more than a slow exhale of breath to calm his growing agitation, Jim stood with only a slight pat to his thigh. "I will leave you to your brooding, then. When you've snapped out of it, feel free to come out and play. Nighty-night."
Sherlock did finally pull himself from the mattress when his willpower over basic bodily needs finally wore down. Greg tried to converse with him while they walked to the bathroom, and lingered by quietly while he relieved himself, washed his hands, and shuffled back to his room. He barely registered any attempts at communication, not even granting the older man a grunt in response as he moved reflexively through the hallway.
"The dining hall is this way, Sherlock. You need to eat something." Greg frowned as Sherlock turned the opposite way he pointed, taking long strides back to his room where he promptly curled back within his bedding. "Sherlock..."
"The human body can survive up to four weeks without food." He muttered into his pillow, tugging the sheet over his head to block out the searing lights of the hospital and persistent beams of sunlight through the window. "Almost fourteen days without water."
"You won't be allowed to starve yourself, Sherlock." Greg's hand was in his hair again, vaguely tugging at the greying strands at his scalp. "A few bites of a muffin won't kill you."
"Not hungry."
Lestrade sighed heavily, throwing up a hand in defeat as he began to pull the door closed. "Fine. You keep it up for too long and they'll just have you strapped down and hooked to an IV."
The door clicked closed far louder than it needed to, leaving Sherlock to the throbbing in his skull and the growling in his stomach. It would subside, as it always did, once the first terrible pangs of hunger gave way to nothingness. He closed his eyes and silently recounted the periodic table, letting the familiarity of science lull him back to sleep.
Three days.
Three days passed while Sherlock grew more introverted and withdrawn from those around him. He emerged from his room only to shuffle to the bathroom and back, pointedly avoiding Lestrade whenever he approached with some pathetic excuse for food or a glass of water. Jim continued his spontaneous visits when the orderlies were away dealing with one of the others, crooning disconcerting notions of affection and smoking away his pack of cigarettes.
Narcotic filled nights were broken by the screaming from the room at the end of the hall. Clockwork and predictable that Sherlock found himself waking on reflex in the seconds of silence before the howls of a terrified boy broke through the shadows. He didn't need to pull himself from bed to know that John was being carried past his room, the sound of hospital issued sneakers squeaking along the tiled floor as he was dragged to an unknown location.
It was long past the scheduled lunch hour when Lestrade was at his door again, tip-tapping at the framing before Sherlock felt the sheet being pulled away from the bed. He didn't move, not even a twitch of acknowledgement to having lost his coverings before strong hands were on his arms, pulling him away from the pillow. What protest he had planned was thwarted when he realized that he simply lacked the energy to refuse motion, going limp as he was tugged to his feet and nudged towards the door. Walking seemed like a ghostly action, only the warmth of a hand at the small of his back and one wrapped strongly around his forearm kept him moving forward.
"Where..." Sherlock managed, furrowing his brow as he was led down the hallway towards the showers and promptly placed inside one of them. Fully clothed, the stream of water hit him ice cold and shocked his system into full alert. Making a quick move to remove himself from the shower earned him a swift push back into the steady flow, his hair plastered down into his eyes. "Lestrade! This is madness!"
"No, this is necessary."
"It's childish!"
"I am dealing with a child." He took half a step into the shower to adjust the water's temperature, letting his fingers dance slightly within the droplets to confirm its warmth before stepping back out. "Clean yourself up and there are some fresh clothes for you to wear when you're finished. After this, you willgo to the dining hall and eat something. Anything, nibble a biscuit if that's all your stubborn nature can allow."
"I am not hungry." He protested, angrily tugging at the sopping wet clothing and tossing it to the floor at Lestrade's feet. The temperate water quelled the shivering that had begun to shake his fingers and chatter his teeth, but frustration kept his body tense.
"Look, Sherlock." Greg sighed slightly, taking a moment to retrieve the wet clothing that had been thrown at him. "You're not like the others. Whatever you've got going on in your head, it isn't an illness and I believe that maybe... one day... you will find what you need that will let you get it all straightened out. Until then, I am only trying to help. It would be nice if you could manage not to be such a git about it all, even for a moment."
Sherlock wanted to continue to argue with him, but discovered what little energy he had was going entirely to the effort of standing on his own two feet. He settled for a huff and an eye roll, leaning to let the flow of water drench his head completely as the warmth slowly worked out the tense ache in his shoulders. When he finally emerged he smelled less like a boy that had been refusing to get out of his bed and more like the generic soap the hospital provided. A slight improvement, Greg thought, but an improvement nonetheless.
"How do you know I am different?" Sherlock asked after long and mildly awkward silences between the showers and the dining hall. The question earned him an odd little glance from Greg and a click of the older man's tongue as he debated revealing the source of his knowledge. "I don't behave much different. We've never met before."
"I read your file." He admitted, shrugging as if it were perfectly normal for an orderly to have access to things typically only permitted to doctors and family. "You weren't always like this. So...it's not likely anything wrong physically. A bit like John."
"John?" He raised a brow, letting Greg fill a tray with various foods he likely wouldn't eat but avoided protesting against due to the suddenly interesting shift in conversational topic. "The boy who screams?"
"I really shouldn't be telling you anything about him, Sherlock."
"But you will." He nearly grinned, noting Lestrade's hesitation along with the cautious glance his attentive orderly gave to the room around them. "because you think that I may improve somehow because of him."
"Now don't put words in my mouth, I said nothing of the sort. You just have a similar history and you've both ended up here because of it. and..." He paused, setting the tray on an empty table before nudging Sherlock into the seat in front of it. "I saw the two of you together on your first day. John doesn't ...socialize, ever, with anyone. You had an effect on each other, that's all."
"You told me to stay away from him that first day." He commented, picking a small bit off of a slice of bread, vaguely amused at how hopeful Lestrade suddenly looked now that he had food in his hand.
"That was before I read your file."
"Yes... my file. What, exactly, does it say?"
"I can't tell you that, Sherlock."
"Why not? It's my file. I have a right to know."
"Look, I've said far too much already. Just... eat something."
"Hm. I'm not all that hungry, but thank you." Sherlock nudged the tray away from himself, standing with no more than a casual brush of his crumb laden fingers over the fabric of his trousers. He stood and swayed slightly, the room going a bit off kilter for a moment as his equilibrium swam about. "I am.. going back to my room."
"Sherlock..." Greg was at his side, a hand clutching lightly to his arm to keep him from simply falling over. Shrugging off the helpful hand, Sherlock move away from the table and fought back the dizzy spell that consumed him.
"I am fine, Lestrade."
Wellington's inhabitants were all slowly making their way from their own rooms by the time Sherlock shuffled to his own. A few curious glancing between incoherent conversations that they all seemed to be having with themselves, but none approached and he was perfectly alright with that fact. At the end of the hall, a blond mop of hair poked out from the crack between door and frame, and Sherlock paused in his retreat back to solitude to regard the boy with a long stare.
You had an effect on each other. Similar histories.
The door snapped shut behind him as he disappeared within, the definite click of the latch ringing in the sudden silence. Sherlock thought it was unlikely that there was anyone like him, and figured Greg was just an idiot of thinking so. In seventeen years of living, the only one that he ever had anything in common with was Mycroft, and they were nothing alike at all. Sherlock was a troubled genius with far too much on his mind, and Mycroft was a conniving prat who liked to meddle in absolutely everything that didn't concern him.
Within the expanse of the Holmes household, a cell phone trilled as it rang. Falling into silence when no one answered, it sat untouched until it broke, once again, into its persistent tone. Mycroft glanced at it over the edge of his newspaper, eyeing the screen before snapping it up to accept the call.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Holmes, it's Greg Lestrade."
"Ah, Gregory. How is my little brother doing?"
"Not well, Sir. I am having difficulty getting him to eat."
Mycroft fought back a sigh of frustration, lowering the newspaper to the table as he pinched the bridge of his nose and let his eyes close. "Gregory. I had you placed at Wellington specifically to look after Sherlock and so far, you are failing spectacularly at it."
"I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, but.. I am not sure what to do. I thought you may have some advice."
"Gregory, if I knew the secret to taming my brother's mind, I would have had no need to send him away in the first place."
"Anything at all, if there is anything at all that will help?"
The line fell silent for a moment so long, Lestrade was almost certain that the call had been disconnected. "Mr. Holmes?"
"I am sending over a few of Sherlock's things. I want to be assured that he will get them and will not have them confiscated. They'll do no harm to either him or any of the other patients."
"His things?"
"Yes, Gregory. You'll find that he'll improve dramatically after he has them."
"Yes Sir. And the boy..."
"John Watson?"
"Yes, sir. You were right about him, Mr. Holmes. Just mentioning his name brightens Sherlock considerably. He is definitely interested in him. In solving the puzzle, as you put it."
"Good. At least that is something, Gregory. Keep me updated."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I will."
They disconnected without any formalities or goodbyes, Mycroft simply setting down his mobile before he stood from the table to make his way up the long flight of stairs. He waved for one of the servants on his way, pausing just outside of Sherlock's bedroom. "I'd like you to bring up a few of the luggage pieces, the burgundy set, and have Jonah bring around the car. I am taking a little trip."
Sherlock slept far longer than he expected to, no interruptions from Lestrade and very little noise from the hallway. Not even that Moriarty boy had come to bother him or steal more of his cigarettes. He woke of his own accord, stretched out in bed with few thoughts lingering in his mind and the pangs of a migraine slowly fading to something manageable. Almost hesitantly, the door opened, but Sherlock did not move.
He listened, but he did not open his eyes nor twitch a muscle that would alert the sudden visitor that he was awake and very, very aware of the new presence. He listened to the uneven shuffling of hospital issued sneakers, the painfully labored breathing of someone doing something they likely shouldn't, and the faint sound of plastic being slid across the surface of his writing desk. He listened to the silence that followed as his visitor hesitated, and then he listened as the boy turned to leave.
Sherlock opened one eye ever so slightly, catching sight of a hideous jumper as the boy disappeared into the hallway, closing the door behind him. John... but why? He sat up in bed and looked over at the desk, a tray from the dining hall with assorted foods that all looks surprisingly edible. Fresh baked brioche from the smell of it, sliced fruits, and a steaming cup of tea, definitely not from the hospital's kitchen. Out of bed in an instant, Sherlock snatched up the tray and brought it back to his mattress, setting it down carefully to study the contents.
He focused first on the bread. It had cooled but was still considerably moist so it was likely baked the night before, a small bite of it confirmed his previous assumption that it would be edible and surprisingly delicious. He nibbled off another piece, moving to the decorative china bowl that contained bits of fruit. Dumping out the contents, he turned it over in his hands and a slight grin curled his lips at the engraving on the bottom.
Harry Watson
Love, Clara xxx
A careful inspection of the matching tea cup confirmed his thoughts, the engraving found there as well. Looking over the food on the tray, Sherlock sipped idly at the tea as his mind whirled and his thoughts clicked together like the gears hidden within a well-made clock. He knew more about John now than anyone in the hospital could ever tell him, his story unfolding in the back of Sherlock's mind.
He slid a piece of fruit past his lips in time for Greg to step through the door, a look of surprise painted across his features. "Sherlock...you're...eating..."
"Yes? Perhaps if there was something in the kitchen that actually resembled food, I would have done so earlier." He raised a brow, sipping the tea with a satisfied grin at both the quality and soothing effect it had on his aching stomach. Making a point to take another small bite of the bread, Sherlock raised a brow before nudging the tray across his bedding. "Did you need something, Lestrade?"
"Oh yes, you have a visitor."
Mycroft tutted his disapproval at Sherlock the moment the younger Holmes finally emerged from his room, a glance over his gaunt figure and obvious loss of weight earning a slight shake of his head. They regarded each other in tense silence for the longest of moments, each one standing their ground with chins tilted up and eyes narrowed.
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked softly, knowing full well that his elder brother never made simple visits for the sake of hospitality. Certainly not, since Mycroft was the entire reason why he was incarcerated in the first place.
"I am concerned, like always." He shifted his umbrella in his hand slightly, leaning against the handle as he let his gaze drift around to take in the surroundings of the hospital common room and those that inhabited it. "And I've brought some of your things. Gregory has assured me that you'll be allowed to keep them."
"Why am I here, Mycroft." Nearly spitting his name, Sherlock looked down at the burgundy luggage and scoffed.
"You tried to kill yourself, Sherlock."
For once, Sherlock did not deny it. It wouldn't do him any good, regardless, not with his brother. He tensed his jaw, clenched a fist, and side stepped to grab a familiar wooden case leaning up against the wall, but he did not deny it. "Good day, Mycroft."
"Sherlock, I am only trying-"
"To help. Yes, I know. I said good day, Mycroft." He turned quickly and nearly lost the secret battle he was waging against the constant waves of dizziness, managing to only just make it within his room again before everything began spinning. He sat down heavily enough to send the cup of tea sloshing about, resting the case across his legs as he listened for his brother's footsteps to disappear from the hospital floors all together.
At the end of the hall, a mop of blond hair disappeared back within the room the second the eldest Holmes laid eyes on him, the door closing a moment later.
"That's John. He snuck food into Sherlock's room earlier, and Sherlock had been eating it." Greg stated, idly grabbing up a suitcase to have it brought down the hallway. "John rarely comes out of his room and never interacts with the others. It just doesn't happen."
"That John Watson boy will be good for my brother." Mycroft nodded to himself, pulling in a sharp breath as he shifted his umbrella. "Or make him worse than ever. Keep an eye on them, Gregory. And do try not to disappoint me any further?"
Mycroft gave him a glance before he took his leave from the hospital, ever aware of the steel blue eyes burning a hole through the back of his head from Sherlock's window as he slid into the back seat of the waiting car. The younger holmes watched and waited until the vehicle had disappeared out of sight before he moved away from the window, giving Lestrade no more than a glance as the few pieces of luggage were brought in and deposited against the wall.
Left on his own a moment later, Sherlock looked back to the matching china sitting abandoned atop the tray on his bed. He had better things to think about than why his brother felt the need to visit him, or why he was allowed personal belongings from the Holmes household. He had better things to occupy his rampant mind, to quell the storm of thoughts and rein in the chaotic maelstrom of noise that drove him to the brink of madness on a daily basis. Most of the mystery began with questions of why, answers that he could not deduce on his own without more information. Why had John spoken to him on that first day? Why was he bringing him food that was obviously meant for the blond boy to have? Why were they so similar in Lestrade's eyes? And most prominently, why was Sherlock so consumed with him that there was little else he could think about?
He needed to speak to John, to see what was in the other boy's room, to learn more about him before he could begin to unravel the puzzle that was twisting about in front of him. Sherlock picked a bit off the bread again, savoring the sweetness of it as he unlatched the wooden case and freed his violin. Before anything else, Sherlock needed to think, and the best way he could do that, was to play.
A/N: You are all so very lovely for your kind words. I know some of you had mentioned that the first chapter was a bit too much like Girl, Interrupted and I assure you it was completely coincidental. I don't intend for this story to follow any similar pattern to that movie, as fantastic as it was, but hope you still enjoy it. I will try to update bi-weekly, but I have very little free time, feel free to nag at me on twitter if I miss a deadline. Quinnzical_
You'll get a bit more Moriarty in the next chapter, as Sherlock grows a bit closer to John. His absence throughout the last half of this one will be explained as well. Please do leave your comments, critiques, and reviews. They not only help me to plan these things out, but I do take all of your words to heart regarding quality of the story. I don't have an official beta, so you are all doing just that by telling me exactly what you think. Plus, reviews really do prevent Moriarty from turning you into shoes. I promise.