Chapter 7

John sat with Sherlock outside, watching as the dark storm clouds rolled past the Mental Hospital. John had to practically yank Sherlock out of his room, but he succeeded. He figured that is wasn't healthy for Sherlock to be cooped up all day. They weren't bored at least anyway. John had brought out a chess set for them to play while sitting out on the back porch. Sherlock, with great pleasure has beaten the poor doctor ten times in a row now, though.

"Check mate." Correction, eleven times. John let out a heavy sigh and looked out at the dead garden lining the hospital. He wondered how long it's been since the flowers bloomed last. He wondered how long it's been since a patient actually got to see the beauty of the vibrant colors radiating from the pedals. "John?"

"Sorry, what?" John stated, coming back to the present.

"It's starting to rain," Sherlock stated, pointing toward the sky as small beads of water rained down from the sky.

"Want to go back in?" John asked, getting ready to put away the chess game. Sherlock glanced at the doors and then back up at the rumbling sky. His eyes were distant; not like they were when John first met the detective. His eyes were worse now, ever since they found his burned papers…and since John attacked him. John shivered. They never talked about what John thought he saw and John was always glad. He didn't want to think of the idea that he may be going mad as well.

"I think we can tolerate the weather a little longer," Sherlock muttered.

"Alright, I'll be right back. I'm going to get us some rain coats," John informed the detective as he got up to go inside. John was about to open the door when Sherlock asked plainly,

"You're not going to tell me to stay put?" Sherlock asked, holding a chess piece up close to his face. John pushed the door open, smiling a small smile.

"I trust you, Sherlock," john stated before disappearing through the doorway. Sherlock glanced back at the doorway, surprised by John's loyalty toward him. After all, he was just a madman to John at the moment. Sherlock glanced at the cobblestone pathway that led away from the mental hospital. The grass was brown and tall all around the hospital and the forest just ahead. Sitting on a branch on a battered willow tree, cawed an ugly black crow with beady black eyes. It stared right at Sherlock as it ruffled its feathers. Sherlock glowered at it. He hated crows. They were always a sign of something bad and so far this crow was the only living animal outside the hospital that he was allowed to see. He was not blessed with the soft chirp of the bluebirds or the peck of a hungry woodpecker. The soft kiss of a butterfly no longer touched his shoulder. Even the wind felt harsh and icy against his pale skin.

"Pawn to E5," Lestrade said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere like usual. Sherlock set the chess piece he had been fiddling with back on the board and made his move.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, studying the board carefully.

"Can't I come play a simple game with my friend?" Lestrade asked, taking one of Sherlock's pawns.

"You're not even the real Detective Inspector. He's still on his case and I'm stuck here; trapped with you," Sherlock huffed.

"Well, once you and your John Watson get your full memory back and somehow escape the inescapable you'll be back on that bloody case with me then," Lestrade sighed. "Whenever that will be." Sherlock ignored the figment of his imagination, wishing that he would disappear, but also wishing that he would stay. Lestrade had been the only person other than Molly he could speak to without fearing for his life. The doctors were not to be trusted and the other patients…well…they are not what they appear. "You could leave now," Lestrade whispered as Sherlock made his move. Sherlock stiffened, glaring at the figment of his shattered mind. The figment smiled back. His face was creased with wrinkles and lines from both age and sleepless nights. His eyes were bloodshot and lined with dark bruises, adding to the weary patient act.

"What?" Sherlock asked, taking in steady breaths to calm himself.

"John's gone, all you have to do is walk down that road," Lestrade stated, nodding down at the cobblestone path.

"I can't-"

"Why not?"

"John trusts me." Lestrade put his head in his hands and sighed deeply, shaking his head with disappointment.

"Do you really think that he trusts you that much? Tell him who he is to you. Let's see what he thinks of you after that." Sherlock's eyes blazed at the DI.

"Leave me alone," Sherlock hissed.

"Do it, Sherlock, run away."

John walked into the storage unit they had failed cleaning up several days ago, searching for a couple of spare coats. There were two that he was sure would fit him and Sherlock perfectly fine. One would be way to warm for the weather. It was a green parka, but it looked like it would fit himself perfectly fine. The other coat was a fine black coat that might just fit Sherlock's skinny body. John pulled at the coats, accidently knocking over a box with one of the coats. He stopped and stared down at the cardboard box that now lay open on the floor, spilling out a jumper much like the one he wears, a blue scarf and a few other things that seemed to catch his attention. The jumper was old; very old. Moths had already chewed holes through the fabric. The scarf might have been a lovely dark blue, but age and the lack of sunlight had dulled it to almost a grey. It smelt too; not like mothballs or mold, but of something else. A coppery smell with a touch of something heavy. John lifted it up curiously. A dark stain decorated half or it. It was a crusting brown color.

"I will…" John flinched at the sudden whisper. His eyes flew all around, searching for the one who spoke them. It was useless, though. He was all alone. He stared back at the scarf; his eyes staring at it carefully. "Burn…" John's head screamed as the word pounded around inside his skull. He swished his head back and forth, searching once again, but he was still alone. John buried his face in the scarf and inhaled it's sent. The coppery heavy smell choked him instantly, making him gag. A pain shot through John's body as the next word was whispered from nobody. "You." Sweat rolled down John's face, his hands clutching the scarf in a death grip. Blurred images flashed through his mind. Was this…was this…

"Dr. Watson!" Molly shouted from deep inside the hallway. John dropped the coats, completely forgetting about the scarf that now tumbled onto the floor and the whispers. He was too alarmed by the frightened tone in Molly's voice and darted out of the room, forgetting about everything.

"What's wrong, Molly?" John stated, catching her in his arms as she ran into him. Molly pulled herself close to John, burring her face in his shoulder as she sobbed uncontrollably. Her hair was all over the place and her body trembled in…was it fear? "What's wrong?" John asked again, gently rubbing his hand against her back. The girl shivered under his touch and slowly pulled away from him. Her eyes were just as distant as Sherlock's and her fingers picked nervously as each other. Molly took in a big gulp of air and stuttered quickly,

"Sherlock…he…he…" Her tears fell more heavily and John felt a sudden fear lurch through him like a tidal wave. He didn't push her, though. He waited for her, smiling as gently as he could. Molly looked back up at him and what came out of her mouth next made John ill.

"Sherlock's gone."