Chapter 19 - Disruption 3
Sherlock was rudely pulled out of sleep and with adrenaline pumping he tried to sit up. The pain in various parts of his body made him gasp.
He found himself in a semi dark room, not knowing where he was for a moment.
When the panic settled and the awareness of where he was came back, he closed his eyes in disbelief.
Still in this institution.
Outside his door, someone was walking down the corridors with a stick bell and another person seemed to follow and unlock doors.
Sherlock had no idea what time it was, but it was still dark outside. His usually very accurate internal clock had seized functioning the moment he had started to take massive amounts of drugs again a few weeks ago. He knew it would happen, it always happened. And it would take some time until it would return to working reliably.
Logic dictated though, that it was somewhere between five and eight in the morning.
He was utterly cold and remembered he had weird dreams of sleeping outside while hunting down Moriarty's web. The dreams had been an unsettling mixture of events that hadn't happened with snippets of true memories.
Although he was slightly shaking from the chills, he was glad to be awake now. His current situation was still better than the vivid nightmares.
He wrapped the blanket tightly around his shoulders, crossed his legs and leaned against the wall.
The fact that he didn't have a lamp was getting more and more annoying. The light shining in from the corridor was enough to manoeuvre through the room but that was it. Not that he had anything particular to do, but if he had it would most likely fail due to the dim light. The reason was probably that suicidal patient's rooms couldn't be illuminated with an open flame. Nevertheless, it was very inconvenient to rely on daylight.
Someone unlocked his door but left it closed; Sherlock couldn't muster the energy to get up and peek into the hall.
De facto, he wanted the world to stay outside. Wanted them to leave him alone. He had no eagerness left to find out what was out there.
"After you completed your morning routine, Miller will bring you down to the dining hall," a booming voice interrupted his thoughts.
A slightly overweight man with a soft face was standing in the now open doorway. He too was wearing a large key ring on his belt.
On one hand, he wanted to be left alone, on the other he needed to find out if Watson was here, too.
Learning about his situation was paramount, he reminded himself.
Contact to other inmates would probably be more helpful than asking an employee.
After a short silence - which the man waited through patiently - he tried to react.
"Thank you."
"Alright. Miller will be here in a minute and show you the facilities."
Sherlock had hoped he'd be allowed to go there himself.
"I don't mean to be demanding, but since I have no clothes, are there any dressing gowns or robes I could borrow? I am really cold," he said in his best imitation of a gentleman in an unfavourable situation.
The man frowned, "You should have arrived with your hospital wardrobe. It was given to you upon arrival - a week ago." He looked though the empty room as if looking for it. "I see. Let me see what I can do."
The man vanished again and Sherlock frowned.
A week ago?
A week he completely failed to remember?
Yesterday, the other man - Hughes - had said something about he had arrived at the ward only a short time ago, hadn't he?
There seemed to be a lot of staff in the asylum but none of them was wearing nametags.
A bit later nurse Miller appeared with a bathrobe, something that appeared to be a toilet bag, and a lavatory table on wheels. He was a young lad and the enthusiasm of youth was conspicuous.
Sherlock was not too enthusiastic to get clean though when he found that the water was cold a few minutes later.
"I expect you to wash," Miller told him when he sheepishly stood there and stared at the basin in front of him.
"I know. I am just not a fan of cold water," he tried to say lightly.
"It is supposed to wake you up."
"I am not sure I want to be more awake than I already am," Sherlock said in a pleasant tone.
Miller smiled carefully.
He dipped both palms into the water one after the other and then rubbed his face with the wetness that clung to his palms.
The other man raised his eyebrows, then held out a face cloth, which made Sherlock realise he had to get out of the shirt to wash his upper body. He wanted to because his own smell annoyed him, but on the other hand, it was way too cold.
He steeled himself for the discomfort and unbuttoned the shirt.
When he was done, Miller offered a shaving kit.
"You want to shave?"
Sherlock brushed his hand over his chin. The stubble was minimal. Which meant he had shaven within the last sixteen hours.
The memory of washing his hair and shaving in the tub, assisted by John, came to the forefront of his mind.
How long ago had that happened?
If he was in his mind palace, that could be from an hour to months ago. The mind palace changed reception of time.
"No. I like this kind of stubble when I'm on vacation," he tried to joke, but his expression must have broadcasting his frustration. Miller had clearly seen it because of his understanding smile. He accepted Sherlock's wish, took the towel back and brought the basin back to the lavatory cart waiting outside.
"Get dressed, evacuation is next," he declared and handed him a heap of day clothes he had also brought.
It turned out that meant a visit to the loo.
Getting there was informative.
The building seemed even bigger than yesterday and they passed twenty-four more rooms that were like his. Apparently, they were all inhibited, some even by two people.
At the end of the hall, there were twelve double doors, all wide open.
He and Miller were walking rather slowly. Besides that, he hurt all over, every step caused quite a bit of pain on his lower left leg. He was shocked to find he still hadn't taken a look at the wound.
He had forgotten. And now he was busy trying to take it all in - as accurate as possible.
When they passed the first large open door, the sight of the rooms behind them horrified him.
The large dormitory was lit by a fair amount of gas-fuelled lamps high on the walls, but that was the only luxury. The room was filled with so many beds there was barely room to walk in between.
Inside, people were in the process of getting up, some sitting on their beds. The distance between them was only an arm's reach. Total strangers sharing the space of his entire bed at 221b, the only thing separating them a two-inch gap between the mattresses.
There were over one hundred beds in the room that looked as if designed as an open ward for about thirty to thirty-five beds. It was so overcrowded there was not even space for personal things. It seemed some kept them under their beds, which made the dorm look even more cluttered.
The second room they passed was equally full, but here three nurses helped people wash and brush their teeth. Some seemed to be severely mentally impaired, others completely passive, just enduring the procedure. Sherlock was sure he spotted at least two people who were sitting in their beds trying to comfort themselves by rocking.
He was painfully aware he had done that as a child, and it had been hard to break himself of the habit. Later, he had found other ways to stim, ways that weren't that obvious. Though John had made him aware that he sometimes still did it when he believed he was alone. Although Sherlock hoped John was not aware it was in fact stimming what he was doing.
He decided to keep his stimming as hidden as possible as long as he was here. It had happened now and then during withdrawal when it all got too much.
Just a few days ago, he had banged his head against a wall. Something like that he should avoid at all costs while here.
Whoever had checked him in here, had paid for the private room, for which he was grateful.
In one of the dormitory rooms he'd really get insane within forty-eight hours or less. The physical closeness was unbearable.
After he had used the facilities they didn't head back to his room, instead, Miller told him they were heading to the dining hall.
After a few more metres, Sherlock finally understood the real reason why he was going so slow and trying to check every face he saw.
He was unconsciously looking for John.
His friend must be somewhere in here, too. However, in such a large complex they could probably stay for years without ever meeting each other.
The hallways seemed to stretch for kilometres. One could see down them for a very long distance. This building was designed to house many people, and obviously it was nevertheless overcrowded.
Was his friend in a similar situation he was in, just in another ward?
He tried to hide his curious gazes from Miller, started to ask for details about the institution after a few more metres.
"We grow our own vegetables on the grounds," Miller explained. "In a few days, you'll have the chance to do some productive things that will speed up your recovery, it is part of the treatment plan. Feeling useful and involved is good, as is the fresh air."
Sherlock wisely kept his mouth shut about what he thought about the 'treatment' a patient would receive in this era. Since he also thought very little of what a patient of a modern facility received, it could only be worse. His memories of his first rehab were bad. So bad, he went through the second detox one on his own.
Then the thought occurred that he might suffer through more issues than the treatment they'd inflict on him, just because he was on his own.
No Watson.
No John.
No way out.
There was little chance he'd receive any help with his real issues here - detox.
His breathing must have sped up because the nurse was suddenly in front of him, blocking his way.
"We will return to your room so you can rest until I pick you up to bring you down to the dining hall."
When he didn't react, Miller asked, "What is the matter?"
"I just…" Miller was a figment of his imagination, but he hesitated to tell him the truth nevertheless. "I have trouble breathing sometimes," he offered. It was not a lie.
"I can see that," the other man deadpanned.
"And spells of joint pains," he added.
"That is not in your file."
"Doesn't surprise me," Sherlock grunted, out of breath. "Only my doctor knows about it. Maybe I can contact him later and ask him to send additional files," Sherlock probed gently.
"That is not the regular procedure. All your files should be here already," Miller frowned.
"The building is huge. How many patient's are here?" Sherlock tried to change topics once more.
"Many," Miller evaded the question.
A moment later Sherlock had to lean against the wall, dizziness and another wave of chills making it hard to walk.
"You need to get back to your bed."
"NO!" Sherlock protested, although every nerve in his body seemed to scream for rest. But the thought of being locked in the dark room was horrifying him.
"Don't get loud. If you get angry they'll put you back in the quiet room," Miller warned.
"I won't," Sherlock said feebly, though for his taste he overacted a bit. "But I really need some company. I feel so lonely and... I just really need some company," he lied.
The real reason he wanted to be in a room full of patients was that he wanted to check every one of them to see if Watson was here, too.
Miller gave him a moment to catch his breath and a few minutes later they continued their way down the hall.
People dressed in bathrobes passed, who seemed to be on their way to public lavatories, carrying toilet supplies and towels.
They had to walk down two flights of stairs and then down another hallway until Sherlock heard the typical ambient noise of a refectory.
The smell hit him like a wall a few moments later. It was unnerving, but finding Watson had priority.
The moment they entered the room the stench intensified and the nausea returned.
Breathing carefully, he let his gaze run over the people in the room. It must be at least 130 men in here - only men. Most of them already seated on benches and long rows of tables.
Sherlock started to check their faces one by one. After a few seconds, he was interrupted by Miller, who gently nudged him to make him go in.
The sudden loud noises and the bustle increased the dizziness again. He had mixed feelings if he wanted to go in or not.
"Go on, you need to have a decent breakfast after the last night."
"I am not sure I can eat."
Miller pointed at a free place on the end of a bench where the room was less busy.
"You better try. You won't like what happens if you don't eat."
With an unpleasant churn in his stomach, Sherlock remembered how force feeding was done in this era. Miller was probably right, he didn't want to try it.
The nurse slowly guided him to the bench and he sat down. The sight of all those people made him feel even more damaged than he already did. With his worn out closes and unhealthy complexion, he probably looked like all the other seedy looking guises around him. Many of them looked as if this was their permanent living place. All of them were wearing hospital issued clothes, though here and there Sherlock spotted a scarf or a hat that obviously weren't.
Nevertheless, the entire situation had more similarities with a prison than with a hospital.
Almost nobody seemed well groomed. Of course, people in hospitals usually looked dishevelled and sick, but this was different.
The tone of the voices was overall depressed and low, there wasn't even a bit of laughter or enthusiastic conversation.
This was a dull place, stuffed with suffering people who were slowly losing their hope to get better or return to their homes… or had already lost it. Asylums in this era were housing all those who couldn't live on their own, whose families couldn't take care of them, even those who were old and had typical issues like dementia, and also those who suffered severe problems. People with all sorts of problems were just stored away in institutions like this; even the 1845 lunacy act had not changed that.
Miller tore him out of his thoughts, "Breakfast time is from 7 to 8. You'll be accompanied here for the first few days, then go down with the others from our ward. Sit down, and stay seated until I come to pick you up again after the meal." Miller waited for his affirmative nod and then left.
This gave him time to continue the scan of the room. When he had checked the last row of benches, without spotting his friend, he restarted at the door.
Sherlock wondered if he had just missed to spot Watson. Outer appearances could be altered fast, he reminded himself. If Watson's moustache was shaved off and he was dressed in the same rags he was, it would be much harder to recognise him, especially with Sherlock's constantly hazy eyesight.
The detective noted that several people looked as if they had recently been given a head shave, probably to prevent a lice epidemic.
Would he recognise John without hair?
He tried to imagine him bald... and failed.
By the time it was almost seven - a large clock on the wall told him the time - most seats where occupied. To his dismay, Sherlock realised that so was the one next to him. By then, he was also sure John was not in the room. But he continued to watch the door anxiously, hoping against hope the doctor would just walk in.
The only familiar face that did walk in was Hughes, the head attendant he had met yesterday. The man immediately started to do rounds of the large hall and talked to people here and there. Other attendants could be spotted to do the same, probably making sure things went smoothly.
To his dismay, Sherlock realised they waited until everyone was seated and ready before beginning. The first step was that grace was spoken. The second that some kind of servers started to use wagons to serve the food.
Sherlock's nervous energy and the waiting made him fidgety and he started to feel slightly sick again. Without being aware of it, his toes where tapping the ground and his fingertips stroking the white tablecloth. Waiting until someone placed the food in front of him was so very inefficient and time wasting he struggled with the concept.
When finally a plate was set before him, it contained four slices of whole wheat bread already coated with butter. After staring at it for a while, he got was nudged by the man who sat beside him.
"Better eat, my friend."
Right, consequences for not eating: bad.
He inspected the bread carefully. The bread looked fresh and smelled eatable, as did the butter. But he didn't have the least desire to try it; still he took a careful bite. At least it didn't taste horrible.
The tea however smelled odd and looked very thin.
No sugar, no milk. It was also not hot enough, probably because it took so long to serve it.
Would they do the same with warm meals? He would make sure to sit in the front if they did.
Overall, it was a paltry breakfast, but at least not adulterated.
"I had hoped to see a friend who was brought here earlier," Sherlock addressed the man beside him.
"What is his name?" the man asked with a Scottish accent.
Sherlock hesitated. Answering 'John Watson' would not help him, he was known here as Greenbaum apparently.
"John," he then said.
The man laughed, "There are probably a few dozen people with the name in here."
Sherlock tried to describe John but the man said he didn't know anyone fitting that description.
The meal ended and Nurse Miller showed up immediately. He brought Sherlock back to his room.
Sherlock realised that he wouldn't have found his way back it on his own, on the way down he had focussed so much on looking for John, he had completely missed to memorise the way. His lacking mental abilities unsettled him and he ran up and down his no longer dark room for half an hour, trying to figure out what was happening.
The fact that his brain was no longer filing every input for him to just recall when he needed it irked him profoundly. There were just snapshots of blurred situations and persons, nothing that was useful.
He had barely been alone for five minutes when Miller returned and explained he was not cleared to take part in work or occupation, which was not just a way of spending the time but a vital part of his treatment.
Miller also told him that once he was fully healed he was expected to contribute to the daily workload and asked him what he would like to do.
The question left Sherlock a bit overwhelmed and unexpected. He was neither happy about working in a kitchen nor as a cleaner, or in the laundry. Not because he was flinching from doing manual labour but because the boredom it would come with would do more harm than good.
"I am a chemist. My experience in manual labour is small," he tried to avoid answering.
"Don't worry. Most work performed by patients is unskilled. It is important labour but doesn't require a lot of talent. Inactivity is a disagreeable habit. But for now, you need a bit of exercise and therefore you will be taken to a tour of the hospitals and the airing courts. Come with me."
Miller brought him to a small group waiting outside one of the larger dormitories and introduced him to another attendant. The man's name was Bennett and he seemed a lot stricter than the younger Miller.
What then followed was kind of an introduction to asylum life for novices.
The small group walked through parts of the buildings, was shown treatment rooms, dayrooms, recreational facilities and in the end they had a stroll through an enclosed airing court. It was not as bad as the one of a modern prison but made Sherlock feel incarcerated. They were explained it was the safer means to enjoy the outside, but once they had proven to be trustworthy they might be allowed to go taking the air around the estate, accompanied by an attendant of course.
Everything Sherlock had seen by then made it quite clear this place was designed to keep people inside, even creative people. There was probably a way out but it would take time to work it out, a lot of time. The insight left him discouraged and tired.
At 12:30, the group was back in the dining hall and dinner was served. The routine didn't differ much from the one presented at breakfast. Just that this time his enamel tin plate was filled with unpeeled potatoes, a bit of cooked meat and cabbage.
To his frustration, his cutlery consisted of a table knife and a spoon – no fork. He assumed it was for security reasons, as so many other things he had seen during the morning. Overall, it was not that different from a modern day closed ward.
Once again, Miller picked him up after the meal and brought him back up to his ward, where he was introduced to the many pleasant activities a patient could enjoy in the dayroom. Sherlock was not that there was anything in this entire institution he would find enjoyable.
The dayroom featured newspapers, periodicals, books, board games, and a lot of comfortable furniture. There were only three other patients in the room, accompanied by another carer. Miller told him he was now under that person's supervision and could address him if he had any questions, otherwise he would be picked up again in time for supper. Before Miller left, he also informed Sherlock that he was not supposed to leave the new attendant's sight.
Suddenly, he was left relatively alone and found himself quite dazed. He briefly wondered if the food had been tempered with, laced with something to keep the patient's pliant.
He hurried over to a large armchair. There were three of them, grouped around a fire stove, it was the centre of the room and surrounded by a wooden mantelpiece.
Happy to sit somewhere soft and warm, Sherlock tried to collect his thoughts. The past hours had been debilitating. The walking left him beaten, his stamina seemed to have completely abandoned him since he had been in Culverton's hospital.
Without wanting to, he drifted off immediately.
.
.
A/N:
All facts about daily routine and all the tiny details about asylums mentioned in this chapter were carefully researched, none was made up. I read three books about Victorian asylums and most information is from 'Life in the Victorian Asylum: The World of Nineteenth Century Mental Health Care'.