Chapter 6

John walked down the hallway with Sherlock Holmes at his side. John had been assigned to help clean out one of the old storage areas and Sherlock had surprisingly volunteered to help. "It's better than sitting locked up in some dark room," he had said. John didn't fight the man. There wasn't really a point on fighting anyway. If he wanted to help he could help. Anyway, John enjoyed the detectives company. He still had an uneasy feeling, though about Sherlock. Ever since Molly's disappearing act. He hasn't told Sherlock about what he and Molly discussed yet, but he has been meaning to. He wanted to ask what she had meant when she had said: "Even if it is Sherlock Holmes who changes it?" He had not understood what she meant. Why would Sherlock change John's mind about trusting him? It just didn't make any-

"John!" Sherlock repeated roughly breaking out of John out of his reverie. John shook his head, clearing his mind as he realized the detective had been speaking to him the entire time. "Were you listening to me?" Sherlock snapped. John shook his head.

"Sorry," he began apologetically. "I was just…thinking…" Sherlock frowned at him, his eyes focusing on him harder.

"About what?" John opened his mouth, but snapped it shut. The last thing he needed was to sound crazy. Molly's disappearing act was probably nothing.

"Nothing…" John sighed, shaking his head and looking ahead of them. "There's the storage room. Let's go."

The storage room was piled high to the ceiling with boxes filled with everything imaginable; literary. Umbrellas were packed tightly together in a box along with some rotting black leather jackets that actually looked brown from age. Books were stacked up on the floor. Most of them were old medical books, but others looked like old children stories; one of them being a book of Grimm's fairytales. John didn't know why but the book packed neatly in the orange envelope with the red print on it seemed familiar. He suddenly felt a painful shock in his abdomen as he stared at it and a painful knocking in his head. No, wait…the knocking was just Sherlock. John turned his head to see Sherlock knocking at a three-inch dust covered panel on the floor.

"What are you doing?" John grumbled, forgetting about the book completely and the shocking pain vanished like it never occurred. Sherlock waved a hand at him to come over and John knelt down by the detectives side.

"The panel's loose…I think there may be something down here," Sherlock stated. John glanced down at the panel, noticing the echoing sound it made as Sherlock hit it and how it didn't fit right in the floor.

"Do you want me to help you?" John asked. Sherlock paused for a moment, but eventually shook his head no. John let out a long sigh and got back to his feet over to the cluttered boxes. He glanced back at the detective as his fiddled with the panel. His black curls were curving in every direction and falling into his eyes. He was in desperate need of a haircut, which John will have to attempt tonight. His brilliant eyes lighted up the room with their icy blue color. He was wearing a long sleeved white hospital shirt and pants. The clothes were baggy on him and with his scrappy hair it made him look like the part of a madman.

"GOT IT!" Sherlock shouted out in triumph and pulled the panel away, revealing a secret compartment. John strode over excitedly and kneeled down by the detective. They both looked into the box to see that sheets of tattered and half burned papers were sitting in it. They were barely readable, but there were two words that were still recognizable on the old crumbling paper. Sherlock Holmes.

"What are-"

"They're my missing files," Sherlock interrupted, staring at the papers with widened eyes. John's eyes widened just as much and stared down at the papers. "Why would they be here…unless…"

"Unless what?" John asked, feeling his heart pounding. Sherlock looked at him now in the eyes.

"The doctors did this to hide the truth." John's face paled instantly. His eyes drifted back to the demolished papers. If that was true then they did a phenomenal job. There would be no way for them to decipher what had once been on the papers. Sherlock reached out a hand to take the papers, his sleeve pulling up as he did so. That's when John saw it. It looked like nothing at first, but as John looked at it closer he realized that it was far from nothing.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, seizing the detective's wrist. Sherlock flinched and yelped out at the sudden attack.

"What are you-" John blocked out Sherlock's question. Instead he stared at the detectives pale wrist. Right in the middle of his wrist was a deep gash cutting deep into the veins and…ugh…was that the pearly white marble of bone showing through the deep gash. John sucked in a breath, watching as blood pooled out from the wound and stained Sherlock's sleeve. Sherlock didn't even flinch as John pressed at the wound.

"Sherlock, how…how did you get this?!" John shouted. He was mainly wondering how he did not notice it before. Sherlock stared at him in confusion and glanced down to where John was pressing on his wrist.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, pulling his hand away. John went to take Sherlock's hand again, but when he got hold of it the gash was completely gone like it was never there. The blood wasn't even on Sherlock's clothes any longer like it had just seconds ago.

"How-"

"Let go!" Sherlock shouted again. This time John did as he was told and watched as the detective pulled away from him.

"What was that all about?!" Sherlock shouted, looking rather pale. John ran a hand through his hair and stared at the hand that should have been covered in Sherlock's thick red blood. It wasn't. John looked up at Sherlock. He opened his mouth to tell the truth, but then he stared into Sherlock's eyes. They weren't frightened, they weren't angry. No, they were just worried.

"Sorry, just…just a bad flash back." John lied, guessing that the answer would worry the detective less if it wasn't about something that wasn't there. Sherlock relaxed slightly and a small smile curved from the corners of his lips.

"No, it's…fine. I think we should go back to my room though," Sherlock stated, picking up the papers carefully from their hiding spot. John nodded, striding over to the door and opening for Sherlock. Sherlock walked past him, quickly hiding the papers under his shirt. John let out a sigh, glad that the detective had not deduced the truth out of him. He couldn't understand it though. Was he going mad? He glanced back at Sherlock's wrist, which was still unmarked. John shook himself. He had to stay strong. For Sherlock's sake. He couldn't fall to the will of this evil place. Not now, not ever!

Sherlock strode a few steps ahead of John, wanting to walk a little on his own. He lifted his hand, staring at the wrist John had taken. Had John really seen it? Could this be true? But if he did see it then why did he lie about having a flash back? Sherlock puzzled over the idea for a moment. John had just said a flashback, he wasn't specific. Maybe…just maybe he was remembering. Sherlock felt a wave of relief spring through him, covering the throbbing pain in his wrist. He dragged his fingers along the long deep cut in his wrist. Bone was visible through the muscle tissue and blood dribbled everywhere. Something flashed behind Sherlock's eyes. Foggy images lashed out at him, making his head ache and a shocking pain stabbed his body. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them once again the wound was gone along with the shocking pains…hidden by his madness or maybe his madness was why he was seeing it.

"No," Sherlock whispered. "I'm not mad…I'm not crazy," he repeated to himself silently.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John asked, quickening his pace so he could keep up. Sherlock shook himself and smirked at his doctor…no, his friend. His best friend.

"Just wanted to know if you were up for a game of chess," Sherlock lied. John's face fell into a pout.

"Why would you want to play that? You always win," John sighed. Sherlock shrugged casually.

"Exactly," Sherlock said smugly. This earned him a smile.

"Alright then," John sighed, holding up his hands in surrender. Sherlock chuckled at him and then shouted out, sending the words bouncing down the halls throughout the asylum,

"The Game Is on!"