Chapter 18 – Disruption 2
This is maybe a not as fine-tuned as I try to do normally. I am struggling with an old disk prolapse and I'm in a lot of pain and my fingers are numb. Getting treatment turns out to be harder than expected.
I hope it is not too bad to read. I just can't really type at the moment, it makes things worse. But I didn't want to leave you with that cliffhanger any longer, so I hope you will understand and overlook the mistakes and just be glad I didn't take another week to finalise it.
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Some loud and unknown noise made Sherlock jerk back to awareness.
His heart sank when he found he was still in the padded cell and still confined by a straight jacket.
The screeching noise had come from the door, which was now open and a figure stood there, illuminated by a bright background.
Sherlock blinked, trying to see details. The intense light immediately aggravated his headache.
Whoever the person was, his or her posture displayed self-confidence and authority. When the figure came closer, Sherlock's eyes slowly adjusted to the light and he was able to collect information.
A man.
The clothes were in a mute dark colour and looked like a mixture of a suit and some kind of uniform, he noticed first.
Then his gaze wandered up to the face and it became immediately clear the man was home in the Victorian era.
His hairstyle, the suit and the large key ring on his belt made Sherlock realise he was definitely not incarcerated in a 2016 villain's den.
Which meant he was still in his mind palace, probably in 1867.
This was an institution of some kind, most likely a hospital or a prison.
Slightly dismayed by this turn of events, he tried to figure out what that meant, waited for the pieces to fall into place. This information was supposed to set something in motion, unveil things he should know.
Dumbfounded, he waited for it to happen, but it didn't.
The man came closer and he instinctively moved out of the corner to have an escape route.
When he moved, the man stopped and looked at him with intense scrutiny.
Some long seconds later, Sherlock actively started a deduction process when nothing happened.
This had not been in the files, not even the slightest hint that had – even remotely – anything to do with an institution.
A bit dazed, he tried to search his memories for what had happened last in this setting. He must have overlooked something important.
"Mr Greenberg, if you continue to misbehave it will only cause you to stay in here longer," someone spoke.
He must have closed his eyes because he had to open them to see. He looked around for the addressed person, but they were alone, except for a large muscular man who was waiting outside the door, and who was obviously not the one that had been spoken to.
That only left him.
Good.
Case of mistaken identity then, problem solved.
"My name is Holmes," he stated, his voice hoarse from disuse. "This is a misunderstanding," he continued after he had cleared his throat.
The middle-aged man sternly looked down at him.
"Also, I am not misbehaving," Sherlock added, carefully.
The man looked as if he thought otherwise, "Ignoring me is quite rude, don't you think?"
"Why am I here?" Sherlock asked.
"You were hurt, Mr Greenberg. And others were, too."
"My name is Holmes."
"The blow to your head must be affecting your memories. If you attack me or anyone else you will be chained to a wall. If you stay calm for a few hours, you can return to your room in the evening."
"My room?"
"Yes, we have a spare single room for you. Quite a luxury these days. You seem to have a good friend who is paying for it."
"John?... Where is he?"
"Who?"
"My friend."
"The lean dark-haired man who paid for your treatment?"
Sherlock wondered who he meant, it was obviously not John. Nor Lestrade or Mycroft.
"No. Dr Watson… he is my friend - and my doctor."
"There is no Dr Watson noted in your files," the attendant informed him.
Sherlock lost the connection to reality for a moment, when he tried to find out what exactly was happening here and how to convince the man of his real identity. This was surreal and not making any sense.
In addition, he was not even asking the right questions. It had kind of escaped him.
Where he was should have been his first query.
"Mr Greenberg, can you hear me?" the attendant was touching his shoulder and he hissed in disgust. Trying to get away from the touch instinctively, he made a hasty movement which caused the other man to make a step back.
When Sherlock's and the attendant's gazes met his was still confused and the other man's was alarmed. He was clearly ready to defend himself.
Was he in a prison?
No, the man had said treatment.
Hospital, then.
"Do not hiss at me, or you will stay in here even longer!"
Sherlock deliberately lowered his gaze and relaxed his body, sinking lower down, hoping it would suffice as kind of a peace offer.
If he really was in a Victorian era institution any kind of protest might get him into real trouble. They were probably not handling patients as careful as in modern settings. Sherlock had lived through a lot of bad experiences in hospitals and rehab. Those had taught him how bad things could get when one didn't follow the rules in modern times. He didn't doubt that in this setting there were far worse things that could happen – and a lot more strict rules to follow.
Sherlock started to fear what might be behind the bright light in the door.
The nurse seemed to get annoyed by the lack of reaction he was getting.
What was he expecting?
Sherlock was trying to get onto his knees, it was difficult without the use of his hands.
"Please remove the straight jacket."
"No. Dr Winter ordered it stays on until this evening."
"What time is it? How long have I been here?"
"Several days, according to our files. But you were transferred to my ward yesterday."
"What! Days?" Sherlock was getting louder, his irritation and discomfort rising. "Where am I?" he finally asked.
"West Surrey Hospital."1
Trying to process this, he closed his eyes, sinking back to sit on his calves. He had no recollection of having heard about any hospital with that name. It certainly was not in the files.
It was humiliating to be unable to get up and stand in front of the other man. The attendant looked down on him, his gaze clearly broadcasting he didn't like to be addressed in a tone like that.
"I want to see my doctor," Sherlock said carefully.
"He will see you when he has time."
"When will that be?"
"When he has time."
"I want to see him now," Sherlock urged in a low voice.
Out of reflex, he tried to stand up, get his feet under him, but the moment he put weight on his left leg, he suddenly felt a sharp pain and vertigo hit him hard. He almost fell over sideways. Out of reflex, he tried to lift his arms but couldn't.
Luckily, the other man – who was carefully observing him – reached out to steady him. His grip was firm and his expression hard. The sudden pain the movement and the touch caused made Sherlock grunt.
Without a word, the man lowered him to the ground and the intrusion of his personal space in a vulnerable situation like this made him clench his teeth. The foreign touch and closeness were too much, his body reacted with an alarming amount of alerts. Rising respiratory rate and pulse.
"Your leg is hurt and you have a concussion. Stay calm and rest. Someone will come back later and bring you to your room."
The words were spoken with a finality that made it clear any kind of objections would be no use.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Sherlock saw the men leave and the door closed.
Sherlock crawled back into the corner to sit more comfortable. He needed to think.
Find a way out.
Prepare how to reason, to convince them to re-check his identity.
They needed to contact Watson, call him in to confirm it.
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Exhaustion must have pulled him back to sleep because the second time someone turned the key in the lock, the rude awakening repeated.
He was getting sick of this.
Two male attendants and a bulky man entered the room.
This couldn't mean anything good. Their postures were tense and they looked as if they meant business.
Once more, he tried to get himself out of his own mental creation, but it was futile.
"Mr Greenberg can you hear me?" one of the men asked sternly.
"Yes," Sherlock answered plainly.
"My name is Hughes. I am the head attendant responsible for you. Do you understand?"
This time Sherlock nodded.
"We are here to remove the straight waistcoat. If you behave well we will then escort you to your room for the night. We expect you to eat, prepare for the night, then calmly go to bed and sleep."
Sherlock stared at him in disgust. The man's speech was slow as if he was talking to an imbecile and the tone as if Sherlock was a small child.
"Do you understand?" Hughes repeated when Sherlock didn't react, speechless and overtaxed by the behaviour.
His gaze flickered through the room and he tried to find any kind of escape route.
"Mr Greenberg?"
"Of course I understand," he finally managed, holding back an unnerved comment because he feared the other man wouldn't take it kindly.
Sherlock was well aware that he needed to get out of the padded room to learn more about his situation. Finding out why he couldn't leave his self-made alternate reality had only second priority.
The head attendant waited in front of him while one of the other men walked around him in a wide circle and started to unfasten the buckles that kept his arms behind his back.
"Don't make any sudden movements," the bulky man warned him.
Why were they giving him the mass-murderer-in-a-high-security-prison treatment?
Then he suddenly remembered that the man who had visited him first had uttered that Sherlock and others had been hurt.
Did they think he had done that? Was that why he was here?
The idea unsettled him. He had no recollections of that, but felt that he had been attacked.
For some reason, there was a feeling of a intense… unease/guilt?
He struggled to place the foreign feeling. Nevertheless, he was quite sure he wouldn't attack anybody without being assaulted first.
So maybe it wasn't even guilt he sensed?
He was still not good at identifying his own sentiment and when his logical mind failed to provide a reason or he had never felt that before. It might be as well a queasy stomach or some kind of hunger. Additionally, withdrawal was playing havoc on his feelings, the same things felt different or good things felt bad, soothing things unsettling.
How had this happened?
"I want to speak to my physician, Dr Watson," he demanded again, in a tone he hoped sounded firm but polite.
"You don't have a friend with that name. Your friend promised to visit you in the upcoming days. You have to be patient until then," Hughes announced.
"How do you know who my friends are?"
"Your real friend left us with a list of names of persons close to you."
"And you have memorized them?"
"Wasn't that hard. There were only two names and I just read them a few minutes ago," the head attendant informed him.
"Then I need to send a telegram."
"This is not a hotel," the man answered, a bit gruffly.
The man behind him had finally managed to open all the buckles on the jacket and allowed him to slip out of it. His hands fell towards the ground, heavy and stiff.
Sighing, he rolled his shoulders and straightened his elbow joints that had been in the same position for hours.
The clothes he wore underneath turned out to be a worn hospital issued pyjama made of pure cotton. At least that wasn't as uncomfortable as modern synthetic hospital gowns, though the smell was difficult to handle.
His senses were still acting up and it wasn't making things easier.
With a shiver, he realized that this meant they had undressed him.
No, they hadn't - he was in his mind palace. Everything he didn't remember did not happen!
Nevertheless, he desperately tried to remember how he had arrived here but there weren't even any fragments of memories about that. The same thoughts and attempts circling in his head again and again, it was unnerving.
Why was he unable to organise them?
Part of the answer was clear: withdrawal.
Then suddenly a question occurred to him: why was he struggling so much harder with executive function than usual?
Although he had noticed he was struggling he hadn't seen the connection to this special kind of difficulties. He got stuck so often he rarely completed any thoughts lately. Caught in the same loop over and over again.
His mind was a mess.
"Your shoes are outside, follow the head attendant," the man behind him ordered and yanked him back to reality.
Hughes moved towards the brightly lit door and Sherlock did as told, somehow hoping this might be his way back to the real world.
But he was disappointed.
When he leaned forward to look through the door, he was blinded by the dazzling light. For some reason he hesitated to leave the padded floor. The world outside seemed suddenly even more dangerous. It was absurd and in contradiction to what he so direly needed – to leave that dreadful room.
Through narrowed eyes, he tried to catalogue his surroundings.
He was in a long hallway that was equipped by an equally long row of large windows.
It took a moment until his eyes adjusted and when they did, he saw that it was not bright at all. Quite the opposite. It was raining and dusk had begun. Outside, a park or something could be seen, covered in a few last bits of snow and a lot of mud. He was probably on the second or third floor. The grounds seemed to be quite large, as were the buildings.
Still blinking, he was shown a pair of used slippers waiting next to the door. Sherlock wondered if they had been cleaned after the last patient had used them. The thought of having them on his feet disgusted him and shook his head. It was probably more hygienic to walk bare feet.
The bulky man seemed to think about forcing him but then shook his head and gestured him to follow.
Sherlock did. The moment he stepped over the threshold and his sole hit the cold marble floor he changed his mind. Because a) cold feet were very uncomfortable and b) he was sure they wouldn't provide him with another pair if he left this one behind. So he slipped into them, wondering where his socks had gone.
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His room was as sparse and unwelcoming as a prison cell, not the kind of room a person needed to recuperate.
Bare whitewashed walls, an over used hair mattress on a heavy wooden bed. There was neither a lamp on the nightstand nor on the ceiling.
Apparently, no one had bothered to bring any of his personal items. One more reason Sherlock was sure he was not brought or sent here by Watson.
"Where are my clothes?" he asked.
He must have worn something.
"In store, together will all the belongings you had with you upon arrival. You won't need them here. You might be allowed to have a favourite item in a few weeks, if you proof yourself to be trustworthy."
"Weeks?" Sherlock echoed, a bit panicked by all the circumstances. This had more similarities with a prison than with a hospital.
"Surely my wound won't need weeks to heal," he stated. He needed to check his leg the moment he was alone.
"We'll see," Hughes said dismissively.
"How did I get here?" he tried to get more information.
"Your doctor admitted you."
"Who? When?"
"Don't make a fool of yourself. The whole process can't have escaped you."
"I remember nothing, that is why I am asking," Sherlock replied and saw the two attendants exchange grim looks.
There was something they weren't telling him.
Amnesia? Caused by trauma?
The back of his head hurt fiercely, so there was a chance. But amnesia was overall a quite rare consequence of a blow to the head.
Then the older man stepped over to the window, closed the strong wooden shutters that covered it. It became suddenly a lot darker in the room, the only light shining in from the open door and the corridor.
"We were informed you pretend to not remember anything that doesn't fit into your delusions. So you either remember by yourself or you live without the facts. Decision is yours," the man informed him while he secured the window.
Sherlock stiffened, shocked by the comment.
Then suddenly all the odd pieces fell into place.
This wasn't a normal hospital.
It was an insane asylum.
He fought for breath.
The revelation felt like a kick to the stomach.
A wave of dizziness and nausea engulfed him.
Too shocked to interact or ask anything else, he just stood there, staring into nothingness.
He didn't hear what they said to him.
He didn't notice when they left.
He didn't move, just stood there frozen in place in the middle of the room, shivering and lost.
There was no logical reason why this was happening. He couldn't grasp it, was trapped in asking himself why and how.
There must a reason.
He needed to find it to get out.
But all he found were dead ends.
Lost.
He was lost in his own mind.
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1
Don't bother to look that up. After doing a lot of research which asylum was where, what it looked like, when it was opened and closed, which treatments they did at the time of my story and many more aspects, I decided to use a fictional one.
The main reason for that is that some are still in use today and I didn't want to use those for reasons of respect for patients and staff.
For this story the location needed to be near London and the hospital needed to be a large institution, additionally I needed one that was already in full working condition in 1867. Those specifics narrowed down the number to Zero, so I invented one, which I thought was better than bending actual facts too much to make them fit.
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Sorry again for any mistakes. Hope you enjoyed it nevertheless.