Chapter 4
John found the lunch room fairly easily. He just had to follow his nose to a large room with baby blue walls and tables filled with patients and Doctors. John quickly got his food from the servers and strolled over to the table sitting closest to a bright and beautiful window that Sherlock Holmes had seated himself at. The detective wasn't eating his food, though he was just simply staring out the window, looking down the cobblestone walkway.
"Afternoon," John stated, sitting opposite of his patient.
"He told you, didn't he?" Sherlock stated, turning his gaze from the window to John. John stared at him wide eyed.
"How did you-"
"The same way I know you are a military doctor from Afghanistan and have problems with your brother because of his drinking," Sherlock informed him. John stared at Sherlock wide eyed.
"How could you possibly know all of that?" John gasped. Sherlock smiled at him, pleased for being correct.
"The way you hold yourself and your haircut say military. There are tan lines above your wrists and neck. Your limp is really bad, but not once have you asked for a chair so it is psychosomatic, meaning the happening was traumatizing for you. The only place you can get that type of tan, haircut, and shot in action is Iraq or Afghanistan now days. Now, your brother is a drunk, which I can tell by the scratch marks on your phone, which is sticking out from your pocket at the moment. You are desperate for money (other whys you wouldn't be here) so there is no way you would waste money on something like that. So it was given to you. The engraving on the phone (Harry Watson) says the rest. You have the same last name and it's very unlikely that you have extended family if you are desperate enough to come looking for a job here so then it's a brother. Now you must not be close if you haven't gone to him seeking for help. The scratches on the phone tell me that at night he goes to plug it in with shaking fingers after drinking too much so naturally you dislike him for the drinking," Sherlock stated faster than any deduction John had ever heard. He wanted to applaud the man for his brilliance.
"That was…amazing!" John shouted. Sherlock smiled at him.
"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked, poking at his food.
"Harry's my sister. Harry is short for Harriet," John informed him. Sherlock frowned, pouting slightly.
"It's always something," Sherlock grumbled. John paused, letting the words scramble around his head. Hadn't he heard them before? They sounded so familiar. Shaking his head he brought himself to the present once again and smirked kindly at the dark haired man in front of him.
"How did you know it was Afghanistan and not Iraq? John asked. Sherlock looked at him for a moment; his eyes scanning over John quickly, but he then turned away. John sighed, guessing that not every magic trick can be told and repeated his question on how Sherlock knew what Mr. Darcie had told him.
"I simply observed," Sherlock stated, answering the question. "You look at me differently than before. The question is do you believe me or him?" John smiled at Sherlock, taking a sip of his tea.
"I think you know who I choose, Detective," John stated smugly. Sherlock smiled at him, nodding his thanks to the good doctor. John smiled back, taking another sip of his tea.
"You called me a detective," Sherlock stated, staring at John. John smiled at him.
"Of course, that is your correct title after all."
"Sherlock." Both John and Sherlock looked up to be greeted by the man who John had seen drugged earlier.
"Lestrade," Sherlock stated, moving over so the man could sit. Lestrade looked at John for a moment with slit eyes. "It's fine. Doctor Watson believes us," Sherlock informed Lestrade, stressing out John's name. John chose to ignore this little detail. Lestrade's eyes widened slightly and he sat down next to Sherlock.
"Oh, here," Lestrade said, handing Sherlock a piece of paper. Sherlock took it scanning over the sloppy handwriting. Sherlock sighed deeply and shredded the paper instantly.
"What was that?" John asked, watching as Sherlock tossed the pieces of paper onto the clean floors.
"There's this girl whose room is next to where they take the patients to…well, you know," Lestrade started, shivering slightly, rubbing at a mark on his arm. John paled, covering his mouth with his hand to keep back a gasp.
"So they…oh god," John slurred through his hand.
"Yep," stated Lestrade, bobbing his head up and down. "They shock ya and everything in this place. Ya' should have seen poor Sherlock when he first came here. I'm surprised they didn't kill him after-"
"Anyway," Sherlock interrupted, glaring at Lestrade.
"Sorry," Lestrade whispered turning back to poke at his food.
"Her name is Molly. The walls of her room aren't insulated so she can hear everything they say in there and that's the one place the doctors all speak freely. Out here they speak about caring for patients and all that nonsense, but in there they discuss the truth," Sherlock informed John.
"She's your spy," John stated.
"Exactly," Sherlock stated, glancing around the room cautiously. "She said that they were talking about him again." Sherlock stated in almost a whisper. Lestrade almost dropped his fork as he lifted it to his mouth.
"What for?" Lestrade asked, frowning at Sherlock. "He's dead; long dead!"
"Fingers on lips!" Sherlock shouted at Lestrade, lifting a finger to shush the man. Lestrade glanced around, covering his mouth.
"Sorry…but it is true," Lestrade said through his hand. John frowned at them, piecing everything together.
"You mean, Richard Brook-"
"Don't say that name!" Sherlock snapped. John froze, not understanding. "He was known as Moriarty and always will be." John frowned at him.
"He's dead, though. You…" John trailed off, realizing that maybe that was also a lie that his boss had given to him.
"Don't worry about it, John. Mr. Darcie may be your good for nothing boss who takes pleasure in messing with innocent minds and constantly lies through his teeth, but when it comes to Moriarty…well, all the facts are against me in this case, so it would be no wonder why you would believe that old story." John frowned.
"So you did shoot him?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.
"No, but there are enough facts and information to pin it on me. Moriarty was a clever man. He made sure that when he committed suicide I went down with him," Sherlock stated.
"Suicide?! How…why…why would he want to frame you?" John asked, bewildered by all of this. Sherlock's head fell against his hand and his eyes scanned out the window.
"I don't remember," Sherlock stated, not taking his eyes off the window.
"How do you mean?" John asked. Sherlock remained silent so Lestrade answered swiftly.
"The past lives of the patients in this madhouse are unknown. All we know are small pieces and feelings. All else is forgotten; hidden deep in our minds. I remember a life as a DI and sweet Molly remembers working in a morgue in London. Sherlock here remembers the most, though." Lestrade stated. John's eyes fell back down on Sherlock, who was watching a black bird as it cawed by the gates. John wondered how much Sherlock really remembered. He had a feeling that it was more than what he has shared, but that may be because of this place. The truth may not be the safest thing in such a horrible place as this.
"Dr. Watson?" John looked over to see Henry approaching. Lestrade and Sherlock both tensed instantly.
"Yes?" John replied, setting his cup down.
"Come with me, we're having a meeting and all staff are advised." Henry stated. John glanced at Sherlock, but the detective only picked at his uneaten food.
"Umm, yes, I'll be right with you," John stated. Henry nodded, walking out of the lunch room.
"Get as much information as you can gather," Lestrade stated, taking a spoonful of his food. "The more we know the closer we are at escaping." John nodded, glancing over at Sherlock once more. The detective still refused to look away from the window. With a sigh John got up from the table and began walking away when Sherlock's voice shouted,
"Be careful." John glanced over at the detective and smiled warmly at him before disappearing through the doors.
"Are you certain that's him?" Lestrade asked once he was sure John was surly gone.
"Yes, of course," Sherlock stated, turning his attention back to the bird sitting on the gate.
"He doesn't remember you, though, Sherlock. Who knows, he might be like me; an allusion of your maddened mind."
"He's not like you, Lestrade, he saw you! No one else can see you other than me, Mr. Darcie, the doctors, and Molly," Sherlock hissed. "He is the John Watson I've worked with for years and I'm certain of it!' Sherlock shouted, pounding his fist against the table. Lestrade held up his hands.
"Whatever you say, Mate, but you better try to get him to remember you before it's too late. The only way for you two to get out of here is if you get him to believe," Lestrade stated. Sherlock turned his head to look at the DI, but he only found himself sitting at an empty table, talking to himself. He glanced around, noticing that everyone in the lunch room had left and that the sun was now falling behind the trees of the woods surrounding the Asylum. Sherlock held his head in his hands, shivering in the cool room.
"I'm not mad…I'm not crazy…this is all fake. My dreams are real. John is real," Sherlock repeated to himself over and over again. He had to keep remembering. He could never let himself forget. For if he does both he and John shall be lost forever in this putrid place.